Under guard in Lisbon

"If you are not well enough to eat, you are not well enough to be moved. Be of good heart; the danger for the moment is not extraordinary." Stephen looked at the black sky through the windows. He thought he might even see a star, if he squinted, and put his head on his shoulder. He turned back to Padstowe. "Do you need anything else? A utensil?"

Padstowe frowned, not immediately getting Maturin's meaning, but when he did he found that now it had been mentioned he desperately did.

"If you would be so good."

Though Lord knew how he would manage. He hardly felt as if he could move to sit up...

There was a pot beneath the bed, and Stephen brought it out. "Can you sit up at all?" he asked, stripping the sheets away with absolutely no ceremony. "No matter if not, though I doubt I would be able to lift you on your own, so I may call for an orderly."

Oh God, this was embarrasssing! Padstowe's pale cheeks flushed, one hand weakly seeking to preserve his modesty for as long as possible.

"I... I don't think I can sit," he stuttered. This was another reason why an officers' room would have been hugely preferable.

"You do not need to; I can manage. Oh, for God's love, Jonathan Padstowe," said Stephen impatiently. "I doubt you have anything too extraordinary under there. Do not be embarrassed at all - this is an action of myriad repetitions. Here, if I just slide this..."

After a few minutes, with his hands washed and the pot emptied outside, Stephen sat down in his chair again. "Now, that was not so very bad, was it?"

Padstowe gave a non-committal whimper now he was back under the sheets.

Stephen did not notice. "Now, it was dark, but I looked closely, and no blood at all, which is a very good sign - I had worried about damage to your kidneys, but, thanks be to God, it looks like you escaped that." He smiled at Padstowe, hoping that he would be just as relieved by this news.

"That's good," the captain said faintly. The doctor seemed indecently cheerful.

"Internal injury was my primary concern; far more so than your shoulder." Stephen nodded to himself, and then stopped when he noticed the expression on Padstowe's face. "Now, you understand that the more you eat, the faster you might be moved to your own room? Will you have this, or would you prefer it if I asked for something more than lukewarm?"

"No. No, thank you."

Padstowe dreaded any more attention, and now only wished to be left in peace.

"It is late. If you leave it near the bed, I will help myself to some. Later."

"You wish to sleep?"

"Yes, if that would be alright?"

"Of course," said Stephen, wounded by the implication. "The orderly brought a cot in; I shall be there. Call me if you need anything." Normally with a patient he would wait beside the bed, but Padstowe obviously wished to be left alone even a little, and the cot was only a couple of yards away.

"Yes, thank you."

Padstowe settled back on the pillow, hoping that sleep would claim him swiftly. All the occurances and conversation of the day had exhausted him.

"Thank you for... for your care, doctor."

Stephen turned away sadly. "You are welcome. I am sorry that my negligence necessitated it." He sat on the cot, swung his left leg and eased his right leg up, and patted his chest in a check that had now become a habit. He was tempted, so tempted to take laudanum, for he had no idea how he would sleep without it, with the guilt and the worry and the morning's images in front of his eyes, but he needed to be able to wake quickly if Padstowe needed him.

He heard Stephen's assertion of guilt, but did not reply. He was fast discovering that the doctor seemed to have an inbuilt need to lay blame at his door, though it may not have anything to do with him. How could he convince the man that he would have been no better off had he been found sooner of later after Hakeswill's attack? But it was useless to try tonight, and so he said nothing, closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep.

His body felt like lead, but he could not sleep. Stephen lay in the cot, staring up at the ceiling, his hatred for the sight of it growing, directly proportionate the amount of time he lay without rest. He looked over to the bed, and was eased slightly to see Padstowe sleeping peacefully.

His own cure for the intenser form of unhappiness barred from him, he decided that he would try the more traditional one. Sitting up, he shrugged his coat off, lifted his shirt, and unwound the cingulum around his chest. The long ward was dark, a single candle by each bed illuminating each patient in a sphere of warmth light, but Stephen was no more than a movement in the shadows until he silently lit his candle from Padstowe's, and held it above the first sheet.

On the face of it Padstowe was sleeping peacefully, but he was also dreaming. In the black unconsciousness after his attack he had been beseiged by uncertain sounds, half-memories and fractured images which made no sense; but this time there was continuity.

After four deciphered papers, Stephen's head nodded; he stuffed the uncoded pages into the middle of the sheath and clutched them tightly, lying back. Now that he would be staying in Lisbon for a time, he would not only have ample opportunity to decode and copy all the papers, sending some on the fastest clipper to Sir Joseph, but he would be able to confirm the intelligence that Prideaux had a small network of spies and informers in the city itself. As soon as he came to the sheet detailing them, he would be able to act. There would not be a very great number, he thought as he fell into sleep, but enough...