An Officer's Room in Belem

Raoul moved back to the chair, the glass still in his hand. "You do not need to apologize. If you want some more, please say. And if it hurts you to talk, I will not demand that you talk."

"I would prefer to talk," Padstowe looked up at the captain and forced a smile. "It is either that or be condemned to silent contemplation of the ceiling - and I am already sick of looking at the plaster!"

Not that he could even really turn his head to the side or be sat up to look at what view there may be out of the window.

Raoul tilted his head back. "It is a good ceiling," he commented. "There are wonders to see in it. Maps of entire countries, and faces, which will all change as the light moves."

He looked at the Captain, and felt sympathy for him again. "But perhaps you do not like such imaginings, as too close to poetry. You scorned my idea to write as a captive, I remember.

Padstowe pulled a face.

"The world is too full of poetry for my taste," he said flatly. "Should you wish to write poetry I suppose it your own affair; but I beg you not to unleash it on an unsuspecting public."

"There may be too much bad poetry, but - there is not enough good poetry. But I doubt if I would add to it. I do not think my talents lie in that direction." He smiled. "What about music? Is there too much of that also?"

"Music?"

He raised his eyebrows, in the absence of the ability to shrug.

"It is alright to listen to. I like to sit at a concert now and again; but I have no skills in that direction. Not at all."

And from the sound of it, Raoul thought, he did not think much of men who had such skills. Or rather, he was proud of his own lack of skill, and of his failure to appreciate poetry. Or was he? For some men, music and poetry cut too deep, too close to those hidden places. His bar on romance and philosophy might be seen in the same light - as risking thinking about himself. It would tie in with his clearly ambivalent attitude to the job he had, and the sacrifice he had made to achieve it.

But such insights, even if true, were not for discussion with a stranger, and Raoul just simled at the man, and said: "My sister was taught to play the piano, but like you I had no interest in the skill. You know about my sister, of course?" He hesitated only briefly to continue, "Do you have family?" If the man wanted to talk about anything other than the war, and rejected this, then Raoul would leave it to him to find a subject.

"Yes, a sister three years my junior; married, with two children of her own."

Somehow it seemed easier to talk about Sarah than himself.

"She plays pianoforte as well. She was the one who has the gift for music out of the two of us."

Raoul settled back. Padstowe looked much happier talking about his family, though Raoul thought he should not actually question him - an exchange of information would allow the British officer to rest, while also seeming less threatening.

"My sister is not yet married. She is older than me by less than an hour, and - I hope one day she will marry, but she stays with my parents. Like you, though, there are just the two of us. And our parents."

Padstowe gave a half smile.

"There are only the three of us at home now; myself, when I am there, mother and father - though you wouldn't usually suspect his presence, for all he ever steps outside his study. Fortunately though I am usually able to put enough rooms between myself and mother to prevent her from talking to me too often."

"Have you been home recently? Or did you not ..." Raoul stopped and said: "I have not been home for more than a year, since before your troops came to the Peninsula to support the Spanish against us. But perhaps I shall be home sooner than I might have expected."

"Perhaps," Padstowe said, non-committedly. "But yes, I was home not that long ago - August last year. It was not by choice, though; I was given false information that my presence was urgently required at home."

His face darkened a little. The stupidity of the act still smarted even now.

"Though I discovered on my arrival just how false that information was. I immediately came out to rejoin my regiment. I have not felt a shred of desire to return home since then."

It occured to him how bitter he was sounding, and he turned his attention back to the Frenchman.

"But it sounds as if you are blessed with a better relationship with your family than I."

Raoul smiled rather ruefully. "As a family, yes, I love them dearly. But my father - we did not always agree on politics. But he sees that I must fight for France, as I do, so I have his blessing, if not his full approval. He remains something of a royalist, I think." Raoul's father had begun to lose faith over the years since he had brought his family back to France full of hope for the future. He had chided Raoul for his enthusiasm, on his last visit home. Raoul could understand that: France had been through so many changes in his father's lifetime, it was natural that he would complain about each new thing.

"I can understand how that could be difficult."

Politics, beside an overbearing mother, was the one thing guaranteed to upset a household. Not that it really did affect him in particular; his views had never really conflicted with his father's; but then again he had hardly seen enough of the gentleman over his lifetime to really have much chance to disagree should he have wished to.

Raoul shrugged. "Not difficult really. There was too little time to quarrel, and no wish to do so." There was no bitterness, as there clearly was in Padstowe's relatinship with his family. Even without the attack, it was clear that Padstowe was an unhappy man, at odds with his family, and separated from his Regiment, that second family.

But it did make further conversation about families difficult. Padstowe was clearly already regretting his earlier remarks, and was unlikely to wish to expand upon them to a stranger.

"Are you married at all, monsieur?"

It was a question of pure curiousity; seeing as des Sablières was like him an only son, and wondered when he had received similar pressure to secure the family line.

Raoul shook his head. "Not yet. I would hate to think that there was a wife at home, waiting for my letters, as my parents and sister must wait, not knowing what is become of me. It must be worse for a wife, possibly with children even. And perhaps news never comes - must she wait for ever? No, when the war is over will be soon enough to think of a wife and family. When I can enjoy their company."

He dropped his eyes from Padstowe as he finished his own thoughts, and asked: "Is it not the same for you? An exploring officer must be more at risk of disappearing than a cavalry officer with his regiment."

"Yes," Padstowe himself lowered his eyes. "But some would think that is more a reason for marrying; so that I can secure a family sooner, or otherwise later I may not have the chance."

"How ... unromantic," Raoul responded. "Oh, I have heard that - from those who think that we should breed more brave sons of France to fight on in 20 years' time, as if the war were never to end. But I do not want my children to grow up in such a world, and - although I love France dearly, and will give my own life, I should not wish to dedicate my children to her defence, before they are even born."

Padstowe turned his eyes away, looking away to where he knew the window to be, but could not see out of it.

"The war, the army or romance does not matter to people with such an opinion," he said, somewhat blankly. "Only that the family name and estate shall live on for years to come."

There was a tightening sensation in his breast, but it was not caused by his injuries.

"But of course such people fail to take into account my own or the potential lady in question's feeling on the matter."

Raoul looked sharply at the man in the bed, but he was staring up towards the window embrasure. "It would be most unfair of our parents to lay such a burden on us," he said lightly, not wishing to probe, "when they failed to supply us with brothers enough to share it. We could have died of illness at any time in our childhood, fallen down stairs or drowned in the garden pond..." He continued more seriously, "I do not know if my parents think of that, but I was too young to be thinking of marriage before I joined the army, and since then..."

The capitaine's words faded on his ears as Padstowe wondered why of earth he was choosing to confide so much about his private life and grievances to this man. It may have been because he was lonely, had long been without a confident since the death of Jemmet, that the doctor would not understand if he tried to tel him. Only Sharpe might have listened - his new friend of which he had been growing increasingly fond - but Sharpe was now miles away and he was here; stuck between four walls and unable to see even the world outside. Suddenly his emotions seemed to overwhelm him and he stifled a sob in his throat, screwing his eyes shut as if in pain and turning his head away from des Sablières.

Raoul was intensely embarrassed by Padstowe's reaction. Clearly it was his own revelations, not Raoul's words, that caused it, and it meant that he, Raoul, had heard things that Padstowe would never have wished to say. His hands clasped between his knees, he said, as gently as he could: "Monsieur, you are still weak from your injuries. I shall not remember what you have said, if that is what you wish."

"No, no - forgive me, I..."

Padstowe swallowed, forcing himself to steady him nerves and his breathing, though his throat felt so tight it might choke him. He could not disgrace himself in front of this man, or any man. He could not afford to be more degraded than he already was.

"I, I was hoping," he said steadily, a great effort going into keeping his voice even. "That perhaps you might help me up? Arrange the pillows such that I might see out of the window?"

Raoul felt a laugh welling up inside. Was this why Dr Maturin had sent him here, so that he could put into practice his new vocation as a nursemaid? But he stilled it. It was no easy thing to be so weak and incapable that you could not even lift yourself, or turn over.

"Of course," he said, contritely, "I ... " He stopped and looked at Padstowe in concern. He knew there were broken bones - quite how many, and where, no one had told him, but the idea of him, a French prisoner, manhandling a British officer, so that knitting bones opened, and broken ribs pierced lungs, terrified him. Perhaps only lying down would Padstowe heal. "I shall fetch Mr Whiting, and an orderly," he said. And went to find him.