An Officer's Room in Belem

Stephen found his boots in the bottom drawer of the desk, where he vaguely remembered putting them so that he might not trip over them if Padstowe needed urgent attention, and pulled them on, lacing them quickly. "Are you sure you need nothing before I go? Water? The utensil? Are you hungry?"

"No, no I am quite fine, thank you."

"Very well - I will return later in the day, Jonathan; with a book, if I am able. Rest well, now."

"Good day."

The doctor departed, and Padstowe was once more left alone in the room.

From here

"You're the French gennelman who was here the other day - wi' the doctor." The orderly sounded accusing, as if Raoul had tried to deceive him by not wearing his hussar's uniform. But Raoul could merely agree, and asked to see Mr Whiting.

The paper written by Maturin had secured his access to the Torre, and Mr Whiting had been perfectly at ease with the idea of his visiting Thierry, now his only remaining French patient, in honour of which he had been moved to a room on his own, freeing the larger room for the expected British patients. "Though we've fewer of those, now that most of the soldiers are out of Lisbon - some sailors, of course, and disease - there's always disease," said Whiting, although diseases did not strictly speaking fall under the surgeon's remit. "But now that your man is conscious - at least part of the time - I thought it better. They wouldn't do it deliberately, not to a wounded man," he said, as if trying to convince himself, "but their company would not be - not be conducive to his recovery." Raoul looked into the room - a smaller room than that in which he had sat with Maturin, but clean and airy. Thierry was asleep, a much better colour on his face, visible between the pillow and the moustache, which had been cleaned and combed and wafted gently in his breath. "He sleeps in short naps," said Whiting, closing the door gently. "His position is not comfortable and he wakes himself, coughing, and can find it difficult to sleep again - but he is doing well, very well. We dressed his arm this morning, and that too - I am as happy as I can be, at this stage, that we have seen the back of the infection." Raoul explained that he had to see his men in the prison - Whiting smiled and said he missed the cheerful one, and the boy - and that he had a package to give to Captain Padstowe. "Then do that first," the surgeon suggested. "Visit your man after seeing the others - he will has been asking me for news of them, and it will be better from you. But first, let us see if Captain Padstowe will receive you. A package from Dr Maturin," he said, eyeing the canvas bag Raoul had carried from Lisbon.

Whiting pushed open the door to a room further along, and looked in. "Captain Padstowe," he said. "There is a visitor for you, from Dr Maturin."

"Visitor?"

Padstowe frowned in confusion, trying to sit up, a sudden pang of fear in his bosom. Maturin had not mentioned anything about 'visitors', and in his weakened state he could do nothing to protect himself or the papers he knew were hidden under his bed.

"Who is it?"

"Captain des Sablières, Captain Padstowe. Dr Maturin asked me to visit you."

Raoul stuck his head round the door. Padstowe did not sound like a bored patient eager for any sort of diversion. But he had only to deliver the books...

Padstowe gave a little jolt of surprise as he saw the French captain stick his head around the door. He did not know why Maturin would ask him to visit, nor why Raoul would agree to...

"Oh," he said faintly.

Raoul stepped into the room, nodding in dismissal to Whiting. He did not however approach the bed, remaining by the door. "Dr Maturin - He visited me this morning, and asked me to bring you some books. I've come to visit my men here." He held out the canvas bag, and then drew one of the books from it, as if that proved his good intentions.

Ah, that made sense.

"That is very kind of you," Padstowe said, still somewhat faintly but managing to kick his manners back into play. "You did not have to bring them."

"It was no trouble. As I said, I was coming here. The books belong to the man I am billetted on, an Englishman. I hope - I do not know you well enough. No poetry, or philosophy, or romance, though I am not sure what you mean by Romance. So:"

He reached into the bag. "The Courtier, by Castiglione - but forgive me, I do not think you need lessons in manners, but it is amusing in its way; Tom Jones: have you read it? I did, but have not been able to find it in France; and - not quite Philosophy, and quite short: Rasselas by Dictionary Johnson." He set each one on the table as he brought them out, and then held out the last. "Most suitable for a soldier: Xenophon's Anabasis. In English of course." He studied Padstowe for a moment, waiting for a response.

The titles did not really mean anything to him, but Padstowe did not wish to appear rude.

"Thank you, monsieur," he said. He made a half gesture to the chair beside him, wincing a little as helifted his arm. "Will you sit down?"

Raoul sat down, still holding the Xenophon. Padstowe looked like a man who had been beaten almost to death only a couple of days previously, all bruises and bandages with a tight painful look on his face.

"Dr Maturin has told me that you are much better," he said, and smiled. "I was glad to hear it."

Padstowe gave a watery smile.

"I am glad to hear that is the good doctor's opinion; though to be honest I believe that his 'better' may be understood as 'conscious'."

He briefly glanced up to the ceiling. The brief expression of shock on the captain's face as he had entered the room had not escaped Padstowe's attention, and it occured to him that he had no idea at all how extensive his external injuries were. He took a steadying breath, then turned his head back to Raoul.

"Monsieur, I know this may sound something of an eccentric request, but... do you have pocket a mirror about your person that I might use? Or is there one nearby - one of the orderlies may have one."

Raoul looked at him and smiled. "Is that what you think of French Hussars, that we are forever preening and ... No, I joke. One moment."

It was perhaps unwise, and the Captain might be upset to see himself, but Raoul went out into the corridor and tiptoed back into Thierry's room. The small hand mirror still lay on the table, and Thierry still breathed heavily. The orderly nodded as Raoul took it back to Padstowe.

Padstowe thanked des Sablières as he handed him the mirror, taking a few seconds to steel himself before raising it. He winced at the sight presented before him, suddenly feeling very sick in his guts. The eyes that stared back at him in horror were red-rimmed and stood out against deatly-pale skin, black bruising surrounding both. His right cheek had taken much punishment, was somewhat mishapen with livid cuts and deep purple bruising along the bone, his lips cracked and swollen - his suspiscions of a tooth missing conformed - and there was evidence that his nose had been bleeding heavily.

His fingers trembled, and the small mirror slid from his grasp onto the blankets, and he turned his bandaged head away from the captain, screwing his eyes shut and killing a sob that threatened to rise in his throat.

Raoul picked the mirror up from the bed, and stood for a moment, wondering if perhaps he had not done the right thing. But he was not an unsympathetic man, and sat down, still holding the mirror.

"It is bruising," he said gently. "You can talk, so I am sure that there is little deep damage beyond that. You are still weak, and your pain does not let you sleep?" He continued after a brief pause, "So you are pale and your eyes are red - you should have seen mine after you -" Punched me in the face, he was going to say, but decided against it. It would have sounded as if he thought Padstowe deserved what had happened - a kind of quid pro quo

"It will fade, but first it will probably look worse. Did you never bruise yourself as a child? The pain, then the swelling and then the bright colours." He looked down at the mirror - his own bruising had faded by now. "Dr Maturin will have told you the truth. And he believes you are recovering."

It was easy for des Sablières to say such things, Padstowe thought; but the Frenchman did not have to lie here incapacitated, active in mind not able to do the smallest of things physically - unable to eat, drink or piss by himself, or even look out the window for a change of scenery!

He schooled his anger, forcing himself to calm down and slow his breathing, which was hurting his chest.

"I am sorry, monsieur, I must present a ghastly sight," he said, his voice somewhat gravelly and not daring to meet des Sablières' gaze. "Do not think me to be vain."

"No, I do not think that! It is natural - you have been hurt and ..." He remembered how worried he had been that his nose might have been broken, more by Maturin's head than Padstowe's fist. "It must have been a fearsome assault, though, and I hope that they catch the men who did it."

"I do not remember any of if clearly," Padstowe said, a little gloomily. He had thought this through a lot in the past few days. "And I did not see who did it. Most likely as not they shall not catch whoever did it."

"If it was your own men..." Raoul stopped and said: "I mean the British soldiers. There was trouble elsewhere that night, I know. They will be gone from Lisbon, and almost impossible to investigate. Where would they start among so many men. Forgive me - it does seem most likely to be drunken soldiers. They are the same in any nation - I do not criticise the English."

He looked down at his own hands. "In Oporto, we would have blamed the Portuguese, and seen men punished for it."

"Can't afford to do that here," Padstowe said. "The General knows it."

He gave a small smile.

"Besides, the Portugese like us - or have always seemed to give that impression."

Raoul turned the mirror over to lie face down on his lap. "The two go together," he said quietly.

"Perhaps," Padstowe said. "If your Army had treated them better you would not have such problems as you do now."

Because that was what he could never understand about the French; they claimed to bring Liberty, Equality, Fraternity and all the benefits of Enlightenment to the people they conquered - and yet they stood by and let their soldiers steal, torture and rape whilst the fortunate population was bled dry, as they viewed as their given right.

Raoul lifted his head to look at Padstowe. That was, of course, what he had meant...

"Would it matter? Would you allow a conqueror who treated you well to rule you? Or would you fight back anyway, and ... Or the other way round, of course. How do the English treat those who do not like to be ruled by the English?"