An Officer's Room in Belem

Stephen nodded at the sight of the empty bowl, sighing with relief. He looked over the paper briefly, checking it quite objectively for any calligraphic evidence of more severe head trauma, and finding it clean if laboured, he put it on the bedside table, allowing himself to subjectively almost feel moved. He went to the door, and beckoned an orderly to him to lay Padstowe down in a more comfortable sleeping position.

Within his mind Padstowe was still writing on his paper, but it had now turned into a letter - a letter to Sir Arthur trying to explain why he couldn't continue with his job, and that he wanted to go back to the 50th and stay an ensign forever. Somehow he could see the General in his mind's eye as he wrote; but Sir Arthur was dressed in a coat of purple velvet and gold braid, the embroidered collar higher than usual, framing the general's cold, grim face, making it appear longer and thinner than ever. And he wasn't writing anymore, but on his knees before the general, crying, pleading, begging to go home like a little boy who was miserable at school. But the general looked on angrily at him, told him that it was too late, that he already belonged to him and he should of thought of that before he killed Harry.

He then turned to Sharpe (who had been there all the time), and told him to take the prisoner away. Sharpe - his hair longer, wilder, his face severely scarred - some of the cuts across his face bearing stitches.

"No! Richard, please!"

Sharpe shook his head sadly.

"'M sorry, Jon, but somebody got to slay the dragon..."

Once they had positioned Padstowe on the bed, the orderly left; Stephen looked at Padstowe for a moment, noting his eyes moving rapidly beneath his eyelids - probably why they had been able to move him without his waking, despite some pain. That boded well for a move back to Lisbon.

He moved away, sitting down at the room's desk with a pained sigh, pressing his hand to his side. A moment's respite, and then he lit the candle, pulling the coded documents from his knapsack and spreading them over the table, watching the letters swim for a moment as he sharpened the pencil Padstowe have been holding, and then squinted down at the pages.

Yes, someboy had to... but why him? Why him? He didn't want to, hadn't been thinking straight when he said he would do it...! But it was too late now. Wellesley was holding out the sword to him - a great big broadsword - and Hogan, dressed as a cardinal, was holding Bethany's head. She looked as frightened as he felt, and he patted her head sympathetically.

"I'm sorry, my girl, I didn't mean to get you mixed up in this."

"Enough," Wellesley sneered imperiously. "Saddle up and get on with it - and don't come back until you've slain the dragon."

Sharpe gave him another sad look, shaking his shaggy head. He reminded him something of an older wolf, and now seemed to have the teeth to match.

"Should've married, Jon. Now you won't stick your prick in any girl now."

Hogan merely mumbled something in what Padstowe assumed must be Latin.

His head was strangely clear as he began decoding the first line - a vicious stabbing pain along the fracture, above his left ear, but an icy lucidity despite it; the code was unravelling before his eyes faster than he could write out the clean copy. Padstowe tossed in his sleep, and Stephen looked over at the bed, but the captain was still again, and Stephen turned back to the paper, the letters dancing in the candlelight.

He mounted up and rode away across the field, his sword drawn as the land grew darker. Bethany was nerbvous, nervous as he as they drew nearer to the dragon's lair. Around him on the wasted ground he saw skeletons, then the bodies of redcoats, their eye blank, their skin pale, blood congealed on their backs flayed by th dragon's claws.

Suddenly the cave came in sight, smoke rolling from its entrance. He swallowed, and Bethany whinnied pitifully.

The which a great roar the dragon emerged from the cave - a great scaley beast which twitched and shuddered as it walked, lumbering across the valley towards him - a dragon with the lumpy face and mad, child-like eyes of Hakeswill.

Padstowelifted the sword, urged Bethany on into the charge and he raced to meet the dragon - the stench of its poisonous breath filled the air. But then he saw Maturin. Maturin! He was wandering across the plain, picking the strange, scraggly flowers that grew there, accompanied by private Willaims, who was strolling beside him as if it were a pleasant summer's day. Both seemed completely oblivious to the dragon closingin on them, its great claws ploughing up the barren earth.

He had killed a man; he should be feeling something. He remembered the state he had been in after killing Prideaux, but all the emotion had been wrung from him, and he felt grey and numb. He finished the page, writing so quickly the ink splattered, and pulled the next sheet towards him, which presented itself as a bill of sale.

"Stephen!" Padstowe screamed out to them, panic surging through his breast. "Stephen, look out! The dragon!"

Maturin looked up, smiled and waved at him.

"Stephen!"

"Jonathan, my dear! Look at these flowers, aren't they curious?"

"Stephen, get out of the way! It'll kill you!"

"A new species! I shall name them Iavantaclu damdifynoe - in honour of my confusion."

Despairing, Padstowe kicked his heels back again to make Bethany go faster - but it was no longer Bethany he was riding but Cotton, the rifleman with a bridge between his teeth and Padstowe saddled on his flayed back.

"Hurry, Cotton, hurry! We have to save them!"

Cotton did his best to run, blood streaming down his back and onto Padstowe's white breeeches, but they were so far away, too far and they could only stay in horror as the dragon reared over the two of them, its sulpherous breath swirling in the sky and Padstowe screamed his despair, shielding his eyes. He could not bear to watch...!

Padstowe was tossing, making noises of distress - he put his pen down and crossed the room. "Jonathan," Stephen said, touching his shoulder. "Jonathan, soul, it is all right. It is only a dream; never fear."

Padstowe saw Stephen's face up above him. He blinked in confusion, mouth open.

Where was the dragon?

Stephen took a cloth from the basin on the side table, and pressed it to Padstowe's forehead. Unable to find a smile he made his voice as reassuring as possible. "Only a dream. Would you like some water?"

A dream. Of course it was. A dream...

"Yes, if you please," he said. He was lying down again, even though he did not remember lying down, or going to sleep. He did remember he had been writing, though, and he looked around to see where his paper was - suddenly remembering a couple of lines he had written in frustration and a fit of self-pity; not to mention the silly little doodles he had tried... Perhaps it had fallen on the floor?

Stephen poured water into a cup, and put it in Padstowe's hand. "Grip it, now."

Padstowe did so, complying but not understanding why he was being told to do so quite so insistantly.

"Raise it up; take a sip. Handsomely."

He did so again. The captain's hand shook a little as he bent his elbow, but he managed to take a few sips without spilling it. The elbow was always awkward, but earlier when he had been eating it had become increasingly easy to mobilise it.

"That is good," Stephen said without expression, taking the cup and putting it to the side, within reach. "I am delighted to see that you ate as well."

"I did promise," the captain said, his tone slightly hurt.

It had cost him a great exertion of will to do so, but he had done so for Maturin's sake, not his.

"You did, soul," Stephen agreed, sitting back down at the desk. "How did you find moving today? How much pain was there?"

"It hurt at first," he said, considering. "The chest... it still pains if I move to much. It jarred the shoulder slightly and I admit, to my shame, that I screamed. I found it hard to hold the pencil for any length of time, but as I did more the feeling just became more one of exhaustion and soreness."

Padstowe hoped that was the sort of answer the doctor was looking for.

Stephen nodded thoughtfully. "If that is the case then I think it will be too soon to move you tomorrow, but I will keep Monday in mind. When writing, was the difficulty only in moving the implement? Was there any confusion of forgetfulness - you knew how to form all the letters?"

"No, I don;t think so... although I suppose you could say there was some delay between my thinking a word and writing it. Only a short delay, mind," he added hurriedly.

"I had that myself, on the day we arrived in Lisbon - it is a common sequaelum of a head injury such as you sustained. I wold not worry myself about it," Stephen said, dipping his pen in the inkpot and beginning the next page.

"That is well then." Though the other news was not. "You are certain you would not consider moving me tomorrow?"

"If you scream in pain at being sat up in bed, then you will not be able to cope with being carried out to the wagon, let alone the six mile journey or being moved at the other end."