An Officer's Room in Belem

Padstowe placed a hand over Stephen's, and felt the tremble than ran through the doctor's thin frame.

"How many?" he asked calmly, hoping that the impression of rationality would help.

"Two dead. That I know of. But that is only from the list." He took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes closed. "At least four."

"And how many did you save?" Padstowe asked, still calmly. He did notwish Maturin to dwell on the deaths more than was necessary.

"One. But how do I know? I do not even know if he made it outside the city. Carneiro was still alive when I left her in the morning-" He put his hand over his mouth, his eyes still closed, and he gripped Padstowe's hand with the other.

Her. That was undoubtedly what made it ten times worse.

"One is better than none."

He paused a moment, apply his own pressure to Stephen's hand.

"Caneiro. Who was she?"

Stephen looked up, meeting Padstowe's eyes, his calm tone of voice soothing. "A widow. But young, in her early twenties, possibly. She did cleaning and mending at British headquarters - she took scraps of paper from among waste paper, or from drawers. She could not read - she thought it was a jealous husband." He gritted his teeth, looking down. "I told her that I would return for her at sunset, and would bring her safely from the city. She needed some time to prepare, because of her baby-"

"-And you returned to find that sunset was too late?"

Padstowe had a dreadful feeling he knew what was coming. He swallowed.

"The baby as well?"

"Presumably because she would not stop crying. And her friend, another woman."

I was horrible. Too horrible. But Padstowe had not witnessed it, and so knew he must not fold under such news.

"How many others are on the list?"

"There- there are thirteen," said Stephen, struggling to bring his mind away from that room. "Two confirmed dead, one was out - I shall visit him again tomorrow, one I told to flee, two French spies, and one suspected assassin. There is a nobleman's name also - I suspect he will be killed last, for his death will evoke the most outrage and effort."

"Then perhaps," Padstowe said carefully. "It may be wise to cal on the nobleman first? If the assassin works quickly, then perhaps a protestation from this aristocrat may slow him down? Make him more cautious, perhaps?"

"But if he does not listen to reason, or is a believer, then I will have to threaten him or even kill him myself."

"So long as it gives the assassin something to think about..."

Padstowe trailed off. Part of him, the part that was still an infantry officer, was appalled with what he was saying; but as each month in his new profession passed the captain had been finding hidden parts of him that he would have not even dared speculate had been there before. Yet it no longer surprised him; Prideux, Ickx, others last year and now this man... But he had known it would never be an easy ride, and he had been drepressed enough before he started not to care.

"But to kill a Portuguese nobleman? It might set them after me instead. There are too many people - if I could get to them all tomorrow..." Stephen gripped his hair. "I do not know anymore. I promised Carneiro that I would help her, and then- I do not even know how many of the are alive. I cannot think!"

"Then don't," Padstowe said firmly. "Don't think. You are too tired to think properly, and any decision you make now will most likely be the worst course of action. It pains me to say it, Stephen, but you must remember to be objective, especially in such a situation as this."

"But what else can I do?" Stephen asked imploringly. "I cannot sleep, for all I will see is that room, and I cannot take my dose, for I am so tired I will sleep too long, and by the time I am back in the city more people will be dead!"

It was a miserable conundrum, but then such was life a series of miserable conundrums.

"You must sleep," he said. "I cannot advise you beyond that; butthere are times in which we must choose the lesser of two evils."

Stephen shook his head, his face wet. "I cannot see which one that is. It seems that whatever I do, whatever I try, people end up dead."

Padstowe gave a bland smile in the moonlit darkness.

"Welcome to the life of a soldier," he said quietly.

"The normal rules do not apply," Stephen said wearily. "The unspoken rules of how this should be done - no bystanders, no blood shed unless- caution, and silence, and watching. He does not know them or he does not care. There is a ruthlessness-"

"Rape, murder, mindless slaughter of the innocent?"

Padstowe shook his head.

"I am no innocent, doctor. I have seen such behaviour many times before - and often I am pained to say by our own men. My first battle was in Egypt, I was barely seventeen. It was a wondrous, but terrible land. Things I saw there will stay with me to my grave. Along with other atrocities that I have witnessed closer to home. But whatever you have seen, whatever has happened, you mustrecouperate and live to fight on."

He let a very small sigh. The speech had cost him a lot of effort.

"If it shall make it easier you may take half of the bed. It shall be better than a chair."

"And how many times have you been responsible, Captain?" Stephen stood up, unsteady on his feet. "There will be at least one spare bed in the ward. I will sleep there."

"Too many times," Padstowe said quietly. Perhaps it was time for a confession of his own. He breathed a deep sigh, steadying himself.

"I was responsible for the death of my best friend."

He had told no one, had never uttered the feeling aloud - and now he had done it. Whether Maturin would ignore it or not he did not know, but perhaps his sorrow may prove diverting. For a moment, he thought bitterly. Before he tries to outdo my guilt.

Stephen stood still, swaying. The thought of causing Jack's death - it caused a physical pain, in his abdomen and his head and his heart. He sat down.

Padstowe looked down to the blanket, saying nothing.