Under guard in Lisbon

Padstowe did not know how long he had been lying here in the darkness. The memories were all jumbled and meaningless - a swirl of voices and half-images that confused him and hurt his head.

He tried opening his eyes again, and once more the white haze formed across his vision, but this time he was determined to try and see through it. He blinked, forcing himself to bear the throbbing pain in his head, and slowly the haze began to clear, the light becoming less bright. It took a while for him to realise that he was looking up at a ceiling. An old, cracked ceiling with peeling whitewash. A strange ceiling; one that he had not seen before.

He vaguely wondered where he was.

Whiting saw the man in the end bed open his eyes and look around, the patient who had so concerned Doctor Maturin. He walked over, and waved a hand in front of the man's face. "Captain Padstowe? Are you awake, and in your senses? How do you feel?"

There was a movement above him in his gaze, and his eyes flickered back and forth as hetried to follow it, but it made his vision swim and go hazy again, so he swapped his focus back to the ceiling. It was a very old ceiling, that was for sure; but then again everything in Lisbon seemed old - yes, he was in Lisbon - all except a few select of the grander, newer houses...

"Captain Padstowe?" Whiting placed an outstretched finger in front of Padstowe's eyes, praying he would focus on it.

There was something there above him again, staying still this time and he tried to see what it was. A finger? A finger attached to a hand. What was that doing there?

Whiting was pleased, but not yet satisfied - he moved his fingers slowly across Padstowe's field of vision.

It was moving now, and he followed its slow progress back and forth. It made him feel dizzy, and once more everything slid out of focus; although this time when he blinked the world became sharper again more quickly. Although that hand was still there. Perhaps he was not imagining its existance?

"Good lad, good lad." Whiting straightened up. "Can you hear me, Captain Padstowe?"

It was gone again. He had imagined it then... but the hand was replaced by a larger shape; a form, a face... Somebody was looking down at him, getting in the way of his view of the ceiling, and he looked at it with a fairly blank expression; trying to see if he recognised the features as well as wishing it to withdraw so he could see the ceiling again.

"Captain Padstowe, you are in the hospital at Belem. My name is Whiting, and I am the surgeon here. Do you understand?"

The face was speaking, but he could not hear any noise. This fact succeeded in bringing Padstowe's full attention to the face above him, as he started to feel a small sense of panic. He had been able to hear before; of course he had! He listened hard, looking up at the face almost pleadingly.

He then noticed what he had thought was a fuzzy background noise. If he listened harder to it, thought about the sound it became louder, some distinct shaps of sound within the noise, but no words. He opened his mouth, his throat feeling suddenly very dry, his lips stinging, but nothing but a croak emerged. Don't tell him he had become mute as well as deaf!

Whiting gently patted Padstowe's right shoulder - he saw consciousness, and then panic in the man's eyes. All sorts of things happened after a head injury, and he was obviously not hearing what Whiting was saying, or not understanding. He smiled reassuringly, saying nothing in case the lack of comprehension was upsetting him.

The man, whoever he was, smiled at him reassuringly and patted his uninjured shoulder gently. It was probably the only part of him at the moment that did not hurt like the devil. He still could not hear, but the man did not seem to be worried about his lack of reply, and he forced himself to calm. Perhaps, perhps it would just take a while for his hearing to return after... after... after whatever had happened. He did not remember clearly either what had occured to make him confused and hurt so much. Dear God, what had happened to him?

Whiting fetched a cup of water - the rest of the ward was quiet, and he did not want the captain to be distressed by having other orderlies come and fuss over him. Besides, the Captain's injuries were the worst in this ward of drunken, last-night-in-Lisbon riot victims, and there was such a thing as rank even here.

He did not want to lift Padstowe's head for fear of causing pain to the trauma site, so he put his arm beneath his pillow as well, and lifted him up slowly, very, very slowly, in case it caused the man too much pain.

The man had briefly gone away and then returned again with what looked like a mug of something. Carefully he placed his arm under the pillow and raised his head a fraction, enough so he could put the cup to his lips and the captain would not choke. Even this small movement caused Padstowe some pain, but he had enough presence of mind to know what the man was about, and as soon as he felt water moisten his dry and cracked lips it ceased to matter, as he realised just how thirsty he was and drank greedily from the cup.

Well, he had the sense and presence of mind to drink, and to drink without complaining - a temporary deafness was then the greatest probability. Once Padstowe had emptied the mug, Whiting shook it, his eyebrows high in a question.

He was lowered back down again, and a small sigh escaped the captain's lips. He felt better for having taken a drink, and somehow it seemed as if his brain was working faster now. He was in a strange room, in Lisbon, being looked after by a man he had not seen before, but wholooked to be British. He had registered these facts previously, but before they had not been put together or seemed to bear any significance.

His eyes moved back over to the man, and he seemed to be looking at him oddly. Padstowe frowned slightly.

Whiting made a gesture of pouring more water into the cup.

The captain nodded, although he flinched as he did so, groaning softly as a stab of pain shot across the inside of his skull.

Whiting filled up the cup , and again helped Padstowe to drink. This time he tried speaking. "More?"

The man spoke again, and this time he distinctly heard the shape and sound of the word, but still not the word itself. It had sounded like a question though - albeit a rather short question - and he looked up at the man somewhat apologetically, licking his now moistened lips and trying again to speak.

"What...?"

Within his head he could hear his own voice; somewhat fuzzy and deadened, and a little hoarse, but it seemed he was not mute. Silently he continued to pray that it all indicated a temporary deafness...

Whiting sighed in relief. "Good man, good man," he said, patting Padstowe's uninjured shoulder. He tugged at his ear lobe, and smiled reassuringly. "Right as rain in no time," he said, more for his benefit than his patient's.

He patted his shoulder again, but Padstowe was only more confused. He had met a question with another question; yet this man seemed happy as though he had given him an answer. He had said something else - a pleased tone to the voice - but he was still none the wiser as to what he had actually said.

"Please... I ..."

Whiting looked down, but was distracted by the doors to the ward crashing open - Stephen Maturin, white-faced and covered in dust, holding his wig in one hand, with a dire expression on his face. He tried to look a little more amiable when he saw the surgeon. "Mr. Whiting?"

Whiting walked over and smiled. "He is awake, in his senses, and is able to speak. I think there is some temporary deafness, however."

Stephen sagged, and looked up at the ceiling. "Oh, thank God. It is not uncommon, with a parietal fracture-" He shook Whiting's hand. "I am indebted to you, sir, for looking after him"

Whiting smiled, and gripped the doctor's hand. "You needn't be - he woke only a short time ago. Now, I will see to my other patients, and I will have a chair brought out so that you can sit with him."

Stephen nodded, and walked to the bed, his leg stiff after his long ride. "Jonathan?" he said softly, and then remembered that Whiting had diagnosed a temporary loss of hearing. Instead, he touched Padstowe's hand, and leaned over the bed.

There was a dull thud from one end of the room and the man looked up, then walked off that way. Padstowe tried to see where he went, but when he tried to turn his head he got another shot of pain and he moaned, closing his eyes briefly and turning back to laying his head still on the pillow.

He felt another hand touching his and a different voice - still indistinct. He opened his eyes and there staring down at him, his face pale and fraught, was Stephen Maturin. A great flood of relief rushed through him. If Maturin were here, then he must be alright; he had not been captured and his superiors must know where he was, even if he did not. But he was still worried.

"I... cannot hear..."