Under guard in Lisbon

Raoul crossed back to the bedside. "If that were so, you would not have fainted. I shall sit here, and if you attempt to move, I shall ... Surely there is nothing so urgent that a few hours' rest will hurt it. You said you had been all over town since... You should have been resting, not rushing around."

Presumably the others - the men who seemed to be friends, not enemies: the Portuguese, the Captain,even the Rifle Lieutenant - all had their own concerns. Well, the doctor was not Raoul's concern, but the strange confused relationship made demands on the Frenchman. He could not just shrug his shoulders and watch Maturin destroy himself when someone ought to say "Stop, and take care of yourself."

Stephen's glare increased in intensity as des Sablières sat down. "I fainted-" Even the word was embarrassing. "The syncope was not entirely coincidental, I will admit, but I am marching out of Lisbon today, and I think that I am already late. How long was I unconscious?"

"You are in no fit state to march anywhere! The army does not need you..." Does not at this moment need your surgical skills, Raoul had meant, but his other skills, the information he had, would be needed immediately. But even that did not require that he move with the Army.

He met the glare with a quick smile. "You cannot frighten me like that. As for the time, it must now be after noon - some time after noon, I should say." There had been bells, though he was not sure where they came from, nor what they signified. The sun was bright and high - shining in through the high windows in the outer wall. "And by the time you recover enough to walk, we may well be returning to Lisbon in the dark. You cannot set out to join the Division at that time. So stop agitating yourself and relax. Does your head ache?"

"Yes," Stephen snapped. "But that does not change the fact that it is imperative that I join them." After Padstowe had missed the rendez-vous last night he could not trust him to deliver any of the military papers to Hogan - even if he didn't march, that would have to be done. Why was he even considering this? Of course he would march! "I will ask for the loan of a mule," he compromised sulkily, sitting up.

Raoul put out an arm to support him. "You must not blame me if I do not see it the same way. You cannot ride a mule in the dark. And if you can have a mule, then why not a horse? You could leave tomorrow - after a rest! - and still catch them up. Even on a mule."

"A mule as far as Lisbon. How else would I return it? And if you say I cannot ride a mule at night - tush, by the by - then I should take it as soon as possible." He made no further move from the bed though - instead he swayed, dizzy. Perhaps he should stay for a few minutes.

The door opened, and he was saved from having to humiliate himself by acquiescing to des Sablières by Whiting coming into the room.

Raoul stood up. "Now I will leave you in your colleague's hands. I shall be happy to walk beside your mule on the way back to Lisbon, and ensure that you do not fall off. If you can obtain a mule. But not for some time."

He stepped aside to allow Whiting to reach Maturin. At the door he turned to say: "You are too stubborn, sir. But I shall not argue with you. I shall be with my men."

Whiting looked disapproving. "Not for some time indeed, Capitaine. You must lie down, doctor. What is this about a mule? You can't think to be riding back yet; you shouldn't even be sitting up. Lie down," he said, pushing Stephen back, but he twisted his shoulder so that Whiting lost his grip. He called to des Sablières, who was about to close the door behind him.

"Please to tell me if they are well, Capitaine. Your men. Thierry and Aucoin especially. Where is Moreau?"

Raoul hesitated with his hand on the door, but it was Whiting who answered the last question. "Moreau has been taken to the prison, and placed in a cell there - that had been arranged. I have seen him - I did wonder if he were mad, but I think not. There is talk of charging him with his attack on you, doctor." He glanced across at Raoul and shrugged. Attacking another Frenchman apparently was not worthy of a charge. "He is subject to Army Discipline in this place."

Stephen sank back onto the bed, frowning at the ceiling. "Is he, now?"

Raoul stepped back into the room. "Doctor - you cannot..." He was shocked at the thought. "He was angry - bitterly angry at me, not at you. You just - got in his way. This cannot be settled by your Army!"

Stephen switched to French. "He tried to kill you, Capitaine. He was for the mutiny. If more men are to be injured, or even killed, simply because he gets angry, or if they 'get in his way', then he is dangerous. If you were with your own army, and Moreau had tried to cut your throat, what would happen?"

Raoul replied in the same language. "He would be judged by his own people. Not by the enemy." Raoul shook his head in denial of his own words. "What you say is true. I know that. But ..." He drew a deep breath. "If he is to be charged, then presumably there will be a trial. I shall have to defend him. Even if I do not, he must be allowed to make a defence. That is a principle of British justice, is it not?" His eyes met Maturin's with an appeal and behind that a warning.

Worry shot through Stephen. He was powerless in this - if Moreau were found guilty, then that would be a problem gone, but in his anger des Sablières might unleash a greater one. He tried to make his voice calm and soothing. "My experience of British justice has not been a pleasant one, Capitaine, but I have been reprimanded before for attempting to interfere in military discipline. I now have even less power than I did then - if he is charged, there is nothing I can do. And if I remained in Lisbon long enough to be present at a trial - which I shall not - then I can only tell the truth. Moreau tried to kill you."

"Yes." Raoul gave a twisted smile. "I do not want to save him either. But how can I abandon him? The position he is in - it is because of me." He sighed. "Perhaps if you are not here, they will delay and wait for you to come back and in the end nothing will happen. There will be time to work out some kind of solution, perhaps."

He turned back to the door. "I shall tell you, when we leave, how my other men are. And I think one point will be that they are happier without Moreau."

Stephen stared at des Sablières as he turned to go, and then looked away. Whiting stood up, not having understood any of the French. "Now, you're to stay in bed, do you hear? You're not to get up, Doctor Maturin, or I shall be forced to have you tied down, and we don't want that. Please, try to rest. I will check on you in an hour - there are other patients who need my attention." Stephen glared and nodded petulantly, before looking away again.

Aucoin was asleep, with a damp pad on his jaw where Moreau had struck him. Next to Corbeille's bed, Thierry lay dreaming. His face flickering with changing thoughts, he made low sounds, half-words, a laugh, a strangled groan, all part muffled in the pillow. Nothing made sense, and although he responded to Raoul's voice, lying more quietly and looking from dark troubled eyes, the eyes closed again and the dream noises returned.

Corbeille was philosophical about it. "It's not too bad. It was the silence that worried me when we first came here, and the surgeon-chap, he dressed our wounds and ... and poor Thierry just lay there, breathing like a saw. It would go on, and then stop - just for a few beats, and take up again. But that's easier now. And - well, it's a shame about his arm, but it will be a blessing if they send him home." He cocked his head and looked at Raoul. "The rest of us will be going back to the Troisième, I suppose. Me and David, and Aucoin."

Raoul smiled tightly. "I hope we will all be exchanged. I think so." Corbeille had not mentioned Moreau, and Raoul did not either. Somehow he did not think that the British would see that sending Moreau back to the French Army would rid them of one problem without appreciably changing the odds against them!

Corbeille was beginning to doze himself when Whiting came into the room and beckoned to Raoul.

"Dr Maturin is restless. He is demanding a mule, and to be allowed to leave. I am concerned... I cannot stay with him, and he would overrule any orderly I placed there. I have removed his shoes, but that will not hold him for long. You at least will not... Just make him lie down for at least another hour. His head spins."

Raoul smiled. "I'll do what I can, and willingly." Someone should look after the man.

He returned to the room, pausing in the door so as not to startle the doctor.

Stephen saw a head appear in the doorway, and threw the pillow at it - the only thing to hand with which to even begin to illustrate his indignation. "Charlatan! Return my shoes to me at once!"

Raoul picked up the pillow, and came across to the bed, smiling down at Maturin. "I do not have your shoes, and there is no cause to throw pillows at me. It would be of more under your head than thrown at mine." He offered the pillow back. "Mr Whiting does not keep you here for his own good. He says you should stay for another hour - at least another hour, and I am to make sure that you do."

Stephen snarled, ignoring the pillow. "I have already sat here for a whole hour, as patient as Job - I will not waste another." He paused for a moment, and then forced a cheerful smile to his face. "But now you are here, my dear Capitaine, you will help me find my shoes and make a sedate way back to the city, will you not?"

"No," Raoul said. "I have my orders, monsieur, and you will not persuade me to disobey them. You will lie down and not become irritated because you must rest." He sat down by the bed, and said: "Your friend Jack would tell you that, I suppose."

The smile dropped away. "Minion of tyrants! I will do no such thing, monsieur. You do not need to follow any of Whiting's instructions- nay, suggestions only - I am well enough to walk, forsooth, though it might take me a little time, but I will bow to your fussing and ride instead. My friend Jack knows the importance of punctuality, and has lectured me on it many times."

Presumably the tyrant in question this time was Whiting, Raoul thought. It was an emotional rant, not a political thrust. "If I thought Mr Whiting was wrong, I should of course bow to your superior qualifications, doctor. But I am sure he is right. You will feel so much better soon. And not grow enraged at me. You will recover in good time - better time if you rest now. Why did no one ensure that you were looked after when you reached Lisbon? More care was taken of my men than of you."

Stephen crossed his arms across his chest, looking furiously at des Sablières. "I took perfectly good care of myself when we reached Lisbon."

"Then do so again now. And do not glare at me, I am not impressed." That was true - compared with the true anger that Maturin had felt against him, this had no effect. "Come now, we can sit here - well, you can lie there and I sit here - and talk sensibly, or you can grow angry, and your headache will just get worse."

He sat back and said, conversationally. "Aucoin has a very nasty bruise forming but no other injuries, Thierry sleeps and Corbeille sends his best wishes. You have grown in his estimation."