Under guard in Lisbon

Stephen shaved the hairs from his forearm and was satisfied with the edge, while Whiting tied the ligature. The cauter was heating on a brazier than one of Whiting's apprentices had brought to them, and Stephen has laid his own instruments out. He moved over to Thierry and began to cut, while Whiting prepared the needle and thread to suture the flap of skin Stephen was to leave.

He was used to all manner of noise while he worked - such stoic silence was unusual, and Stephen found himself respecting Thierry more and more. He put the saw to the side and held his hand out. "Cauter, if you please." There was the sizzling, the familiar smell, not unlike roasted pork, and the blood ceased flowing so strongly, beginning to coagulate. He held the flap down, closing the wound while Whiting quickly sewed the seams of skin together.

Thierry's eyes remained closed, but there was a line between them that said that he was not unconscious. Raoul remained where he was, watching the men finish their work. Abruptly Thierry's grip on his hand relaxed and the frown was smoothed away. Raoul did not know if it were sleep, or the long resisted faint, but he withdrew his hand gently. Thierry's good hand lay on the bed, fingers lightly curled, the thumb at rest. On the other side...

Raoul swallowed and raised his eyes from the arm to Maturin's face. "All went well?" he asked

"Very well," said Stephen, as Whiting assistant carried the severed arm away. "I was sure to cut through healthy flesh - no trace of infection at all. I shall wait here for a while, if Mr Whiting will permit me, and check on him again before I leave for the city." He suspected that des Sablières might wish to spend some time with his men. "Now that the primary risk of infection is dealt with, with the blessing, he should heal." Stephen was much less sure than he showed, but there was no need to give des Sablières any extra grief, and he himself wished for Thierry's recovery with all his heart.

Raoul stood and drew Maturin to one side, speaking softly. "Then I will stay here, until you are ready to leave. I will walk back to the city with you, if you permit. ALthough..." He hesitated and continued. "Do you have any influence with the prison part of this place? I do not know if my pass will allow me to see Broussard and to check... Are they to be in cells, or all together. Dr Maturin, Corbeille will burst if he is to be confined separately, with no one to talk to. It would be best if he were to be with Broussard, of course. I shall warn him that they will be under British discipline." He then thought of another problem and, dropping his voice still further added. "I do not like to do this - he too is one of my men - but it might be best for the others if Moreau were not with them. He would be disruptive, and all might be punished for his fault: I think that he would be happy to cause that to happen."

"I have no influence at all, Capitaine, save as a medical man," said Stephen, with a warning glint in his eye. "But I will accompany you to the prison quarter. Moreau's presence will have a negative effect on my patients, and indeed on the overall security of the Torre - a solitary confinement would be best, you will agree - and Broussard's a positive one. That might be influence enough."

In truth, he had considered poisoning Moreau and being rid of one problem altogether, for he had in his bag a minute bottle of sudden death, but in his capacity as a physician he had never harmed a man, and he doubted he could.

Raoul nodded his acceptance of the unspoken reproof. "That was what I meant, doctor. Your recommendation as a medical man would be received positively, where mine -" He shrugged. "If they listened to me at all, they would be inclined to do the opposite of anything I suggested." His smile was tired. "The realities of my situation are sometimes hard to remember. If I may, I will stay here for a while, to say au revoir, at least. And then before we leave you can ... speak to the prison authorities on behalf of your patients, and I can reassure Broussard as to his friend's health. They have been friends for many years - since they first joined the Hussars, I understand."

"A man needs friends, to be sure," Stephen said tonelessly.

Half an hour later the two men walked back along the cloister, silent and successful. The warden had, after a heart-hearted reluctance, given in to Stephen's harsh, grating nagging, and agreed to put Aucoin with Broussard, with room for Corbeille to join them, and have Moreau placed in solitary confinement. It was not so very unusual, but the warden had felt he ought to make his own authority in the area known, with a lack of a British military officer present - but he had never met Stephen Maturin, who would use any weapon available to him to ensure proper care for his patients, and who had a great store of ammunition in the form of whiny, petulant, severely annoying philanthropy.

Raoul felt less oppressed as he re-entered the room where his men were. This was the best he could do - even for Moreau, whose anger at him would vent itself on those whose loyalty he retained, and undoubtedly cause trouble for all. But he had to admit that he had not been considering Moreau's well-being at all. The trooper was leaning against the opposite wall where he could glower at Aucoin and Corbeille. He spun a cup in his hands, taken from the table under the window. Young Aucoin was sitting on his heels beside Corbeille - pointedly not sitting on Moreau's bed - and talking softly. Corbeille was nodding encouragingly, concentrating on the youngster. Beyond them, Mr Whiting and an orderly were at Thierry's side.

Dr Maturin crossed over to them, for a final check on the arm, and on the wound. Raoul realized that they had discussed the tranfer of Aucoin and Moreau, and of Corbeille, but Dr Maturin had made no mention of arrangements for Thierry to be moved to the prison. Were his hopes of survival that slim? Or would the loss of his arm mean that he would be sent home, rather than treated as a prisoner of war?

Corbeille lifted his head and saw him, and made a hushing motion to the youngster. For once though he did not start talking, but waited, his question in his eyes.

Raoul joined the two men. "I have seen Broussard, and he is very well, and delighted to learn that he will soon have the company of our young Aucoin here. The cell is - not as big as this, but it is light and airy, and will hold you all - you too, Corbeille, when the doctors permit."

Corbeille's face lit up. "I thought we'd all be down in the cellars, where it floods when it rains and freezes at night." He glowered back at Moreau. "And David is well? Yes, you said... That is..." He screwed up his eyes and brushed at his face. "No one would say, Captain. No one..." His breath caught and he coughed, wincing.

Aucoin stood up. "I will get some water, Captain." Raoul was left patting at Corbeille's shoulder. "It will be all right," he said.

"It's nothing, Captain." Corbeille gasped, then drew another deep breath. A crash behind him, and Corbeille was shaken by another rasping cough.

Aucoin was slumped on the floor by the table, having brought down the earthenware jug, which lay about him. Moreau was lifting him to his feet. As Raoul stepped towards them, he snarled: "I've got him, Captain. He just collapsed!" He took a couple of steps towards the bed, Aucoin's feet trailing, and then added, begrudingly. "Give us a hand and get him onto his bed."

Raoul moved round the foot of Moreau's bed and took Aucoin's other arm. Just as Moreau released his hold on the boy. Raoul took the whole weight for a moment and then was knocked backward by a blow across the face, falling onto the bed. Corbeille was shouting, but all Raoul could see was Moreau's hand with a sharp fragment of earthenware. He brought up an arm to keep it from his face, and felt it scrape against his wrist and then come to rest against his neck.

Stephen trusted Moreau about as far as he could spit a live rat - he had watched Moreau as Aucoin stood up, and he has seen what des Sablières had not. "No!" He dropped his crutch, and ran to the men, ignoring the pain in his leg as Moreau pinned the captain to the bed, shouting, "Traitor! You treacherous bastard!" The guard fired his musket, but the shot went wide, lodging itself into the stone a foot above Moreau's head.

The man had smashed his cup, giving him a makeshift weapon, a jagged edge that would cut des Sablières' throat as easily as any knife. Stephen did not hesitate, but leapt, grabbing Moreau's wrist with both of his hands, wrenching the shard up from des Sablières, leaving a shallow cut.

Raoul was aware of Maturin's presence only as the doctor pulled Moreau's hand with its jagged shard of pottery away from him. Moreau however was not going to submit easily - even the musket shot had failed to stop his assault and now, as swiftly and surely as if he were a prize-fighter he brought his left hand round in a sweeping blow to catch Maturin on the side of the head.

The force of the blow sent him flying, sliding across the stone floor. The world exploded in a blaze of white, and then everything went black. He heard shouting, incredibly loud for an instant, and then there was nothing.

As Maturin fell away, Raoul managed to get his hands up and caught at Moreau's arm. The man was swearing and threatening, both him and the others. For a second, lying on his back on the bed he struggled to hold the enraged Hussar away from him. Then the guard came, in a blur of red seen over Moreau's shoulder, using the butt of his musket against the Frenchman, striking him on the back, and then on the head, until Moreau turned and slid to the floor at Raoul's feet.

More guards came into the room, and seized Moreau. Raoul ignored them as he stood up and went to Maturin. Whiting was already there, kneeling beside him. Whatever else lay between them, Maturin had - quite probably - saved his life just now. Surely not at the cost of his own? It had been a hard blow, to a man already suffering from the effects of a concussion. Raoul crouched down beside them, only then noticing that Moreau's blow had started his nose bleeding again. "Dr Maturin?" His voice sounded strange, and he looked at Whiting. "How - how is he?"

Moreau was being dragged away by the new guards, and Aucoin was stirring on the floor, the orderly crouched beside him. Whiting gently pressed the side of Maturin's head - he spasmed violently. "Unconscious. There was a fracture there already, but it's not depressed." The surgeon rubbed his chin, nervous. "We'll know depending on how it takes for him to wake. It might only be a few minutes, or never." Whiting's hands shook; he had not been expecting violence in his own ward. "Let's see your throat. And your nose, Christ alive. Put your head back."

Raoul lifted his hand to his neck. He had not realized he'd been cut, but it was not serious. And the nosebleed would stop soon. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tilted his head back. "See to him," he said. "I'll be all right in a minute." Never? That was not possible. He had to recover. Maturin had made him aware of his own faults, and it seemed to Raoul as if only Maturin could help him come to terms with them. If Maturin died - if he died because he had come to help Raoul - then he would be left with a double weight of guilt.

But he turned and smiled at Corbeille, to show that despite the blood he was well. "You can't leave him here. on the floor! Is there nowhere else to take him?" He should be allowed to regain his senses in private, not in a ward with prisoners of war.

Whiting was rubbing at the back of his neck now; an anxious gesture. "I do not know if we should move him. If his brain is shaken-" Stephen spasmed again. Whiting looked anguished. "Yes. All right. Christ alive. We can't do any more damage than that is doing."

Aucoin was sitting up now, trying to shake off the orderly's grasp. "Capitaine! What happened? Is the Capitaine all right?" Corbeille, now that he knew Raoul was safe, was trying to quiet him, reaching out from his bed.

Raoul looked from Maturin to Aucoin. "I will - " The guard was regarding him with suspicion. He might not have been the one who assaulted the doctor, but prisoners brawling with visitors - particularly visitors who were clearly French officers, and therefore ought to be prisoners - was not something that should be treated lightly. But Raoul ignored that, and went over to speak to Aucoin. "I am well, Aucoin. Do not worry - it's only the nose again." He smiled and added: "I must go with the doctor, but let the orderly see to you. Moreau hit you very hard." "I'm sorry." "Not your fault. Now, sit back and let them care for you."

Whiting was organizing a stretcher to take Maturin from the room. Raoul shrugged off the attempt of the guard to question him, and followed them. He was not, after all, going far, nor attempting to escape.

Stephen woke up. He could not hear, and he could not open his eyes, but the terrible pain shooting through his head was enough to tell him that he was alive, and he was awake. He was moving, but not under his own power. His blindness and deafness panicked him, and he tried to move, jerkily, but someone pressed him down, his body feeling separate from him in some strange way, as though there were miles between him and his skin.

Maturin began to move as the men carried him from the room. It was frighteningly unco-ordinated, and made the man at the head stagger as the doctor twisted. Raoul gripped his arms, as he tried to push himself up, holding him still against the stretcher. "Be still, doctor. We will be there in a moment." Whiting was opening a door into a smaller room, with just one bare bedstead. "Put him down on the bed," he said, and then, as the men did so: "Keep him still, monsieur. I will return in a moment." He hurried the men out to fetch linen, water, bedclothes. Raoul caught Maturin's arms again. The doctor's head turned as if he were looking for the person restraining him, but his eyes were closed.

A jerk, more motion, and then stillness, but was someone still pressing him down. Stephen hated to be restrained, but Mahon had added an element of panic and terror to his dislike. He bucked violently, once, and then could not struggle - exhaustion flooded him, leaving him shaking. He concentrated on opening his eyes, and he succeeded for a split second, before they closed against the harsh light. But even with the blurring, there had been a shadow above him, a torso and a head - a man. If Stephen was injured, and the pain must lead him to that conclusion for the moment, then there was one man he could count on being there. "Jack?"

The doctor had ceased to struggle, and for a moment his eyes flickered then closed again. His voice was cracked as he spoke. "Jacques?" No, probably "Jack?".

"No, it's me, Capitaine des Sablières."

Only the first word registered. "Where is Jack? Is he safe? Where is he?" He tried to push himself up.

"Easy, monsieur." Raoul had been relaxing his grip as the doctor regained consiousness, but now he tightened it again. The doctor's mind was obviously wandering to some other time, some other place. "Do not try to move. All is well. Everyone is safe." Which was not a lie.

"Everyone? The ship is safe?" They were still, he realised - he could hear waves, but he could not feel them. "Are we run aground? Jack?"

"You are not in a ship, doctor. You are in the tower of Belem, in Lisbon?" This confusion should pass, it was not uncommon, but sometimes... At least he remembered something, even if not the immediate past. "You were hit on the head, doctor." Twice. "I am Raoul des Sablières. Do you not remember?"

"Then where is Jack?" Lisbon - he remembered Lisbon. There were other men in Lisbon, men who he... He sunk back onto the bed. "I do not... I cannot... des Sablières..." He brought his forearm up to cover his eyes. "That poor boy. That poor, stupid boy."

The waves were gone - there were bells now. Not cathedral bells, nor church bells: the tiny silver bells that the straight-backed altar boy rang at the Consecration. Stephen was bending his head, a poor, stupid boy, and his grandfather twisted his fingers in his hair, hissing venomously in the yet-unknown Catalan. "Did they teach you nothing in that pigsty? Look up, look up! That is God." Déu, he knew that word, Déu, and he looked up at the elevated host until his eyes watered, and then his grandfather was forcing him down into the profound bow.

"Déu. I remember that. Déu."