An Officer's Room in Belem

Raoul met his gaze without changing his expression. "Indeed you may win. But you will not expect me to accept that with complaisance, as you would not welcome the sight of the tricoleur flying over London." He shook his head. "I think we need some solution beyond outright victory or defeat, in which we can visit as friends, not ..." He remembered conversations with Dr Maturin and finished, quietly "... not as hated invaders."

"Quite. I do not think we intend to conquer France," Padstowe said thoughtfully. "Heaven forbid we should wish to claim it for our own! That would just be wrong. We want to stop Bonaparte - clip his wings, bring down his regieme and support one that would be far less willing to make war on all Europe."

Which, Padstowe knew very well, is what Bonaparte would not do to Britain. The Corsican wanted to conquer his home isle and make it property of France; which was unthinkable in every conceivable way.

"I do not know what the intentions of the British are," Raoul said quietly, "but you may be right. I am much less sure about the intentions of the Austrians, or the Prussians or your other allies. Do you think they will not wish to march through Paris as conquerors? And should we not be able to choose our own rulers, not have it done for us by a committee of our enemies? Perhaps if Europe were less inclined to make war on France, we would not have to ..." He shrugged and said: "We are back to politics, and I think it best that I go."

[OOC: and I go swimming]

"Yes."

Well done, Jonathan boy...

"I apologise for any offence I cause. I hope that Doctor Maturin shall return soon."

Raoul smiled sadly. "You have not caused offence. We cannot always pretend that we are just friends on different sides of a cricket match. Dr Maturin has said much, much worse to me. I know he - Doctor Maturin - plans to return to you later today - when he has dealt with whatever pressing business brought him into Lisbon without breaking his fast."

He stood up and held out a hand. "I do pray for your recovery, Captain, and that one day things are such that we may meet again in peacetime."

Padstowe smiled weakly, raising his hand a fraction off the sheet in an attempt to take the Frenchman's hand.

"Thank you, and the same."

Raoul leaned over and took Padstowe's hand in a way that he hoped did not hurt him, and bid him adieu. He returned to the courtyard to make his way to the prison within Belem, with his note from Dr Maturin and his gift of cards and dice.

To here

[From here.]

It was terribly late when Stephen arrived back in Belem, and he did not even have the energy to see Bethany properly stabled - he entrusted her to one of Mr. Whiting's orderlies, and then threaded his way through the wards, asking another for a mirror, candle, needle, thread and hot water to be brought into Captain Padstowe's room. Even if he did not need to stitch up his side, he wanted to read the scrap of paper his attacker had dropped. And then more codes, Jesus, Mary and Joseph...

The door of which he was swaying in front of now; he quietly opened the door in case Padstowe should be asleep.

Padstowe was sleeping, despite the fact that he was still sitting up, his chin sunk onto his breast and head to one side. The fractured moonlight filtered down through the window to make his unbruised skin seem deathly pale, contrasting starkly with the dark patches and his brown hair ruffled against the pillow. In fact, save the sound of his gentle breathing and the shallow rise and fall of his chest there seemed to be more of the dead about him than the living.

Stephen sagged against the doorframe in pain and relief. He was tempted to go to Whiting to be stitched up instead, but his coming and going at all hours of the day and night was already suspicious, and the man was clever. An orderly came in carryin the tray of things that Stephen had requested, who was silent when he saw Padstowe, and placed it on the table. Stephen ran a hand through his hair - he would much rather do what he had to without questions, but it was unfair to leave Padstowe in such a position while he slept - he would be sorer for it in the morning. He whispered to the orderly to bring a couple of fellows to move the captain into a more comfortable position, if he would.

He was being manhandled and Padstowe murmured a somnolent protest, before waking suddenly, somewhat disorientated and panicked.

"Wha'?" he croaked, his throat dry. "No, don't!"

Stephen gripped the table for support. "You are just being laid down, Captain, so that you will be more comfortable. Never fear, now."

Maturin. It was only Maturin. He was back. Padstowe forced himself to calm again, submitting to the orderlies as the lowered back down onto the bed so that he once more lay on his back.

"I was sleeping," he grumbled quietly.

"I apologise, but had you spent the whole night thus, you would have been terribly stiff and sore in the morning, and probably not able to bear sitting up at all - thank you," he said as an aside to the departing orderlies. His voice was wavering; he watched as the last orderly left the room and shut the door behind him, before sitting down with a pained sigh.

The sigh did not escape Padstowe, tired and drowsy though he was, and his looked up, trying to locate Maturin's outline in the moonlight.

"Stephen, is something wrong?"

"It is, I am afraid," Stephen said as he shakily undid the buttons of his waistcoat. "I shall need more light." He pulled his waistcoat off and moved across the room to pick up the candlestick from Padstowe's bedside.

"Why?" Padstowe tried to prop himself up to see the doctor better as he retrieved the candle. "What is the matter?"

"A man was following des Sablières a little after sunset - I saw him off, but he was waiting for me when I left his lodgings." Stephen lit the second candle off the first, then pulled his shirt off over his head, hissing as he peeled away where the blood had dried and stuck the material to the cut. "There was a fight, and he tried to stab me, but the knife found more fabric than flesh, thank the Dear; it is only a scratch."

Padstowe gave a low moan.

"Oh, Stephen, why do you not take care of yourself? Why was the man following des Sablières? What has he to hide?"

"It was not my intention to be attacked, Jonathan," Stephen said, trying to still his hand long enough to thread the needle. "I do not know - I think it might be connected to some French naval officers on parole. I shall ask him tomorrow..."

"Could they be planning to escape?" Padstowe asked. It was the only reason he could think of involving French Naval officers. "Perhaps they have taken him into their confidence and are watching to see where he goes? Was the man who followed you French?"

All this he was missing whilst he lay here inactive! Had he been with Stephen the other would have dared not attack the physician...

"Possibly - he spoke Portuguese - I do not know - I have not thought it through."

"Who did he claim to be - if he claimed to be anything at all?"

Stephen's breathing was audible now, and ragged; he put the needle down in frustration, glancing down at his body and seeing the now-familiar, massive scar across his chest, and then the gash along his left side. "Working for Scott, with the navy parole office."

"Well that is complete rubbish for a start," Padstowe said. "One of Scott's men would not have attacked you; plus they tend to carry pistols and canes, not knives."