An Officer's Room in Belem

"Right, so, handsomely now..." Stephen kept an eye on Padstowe's face and he and the orderly lifted him back onto the bed.

Padstowe remained curled up even as he was lifted, finding that he did not want to move out of that position. He had been feeling so much better, so much stronger, but now that seemed to have gone. He kept his head bowed, his mousey-brown hair falling over his eyes as he could not bear to look up at either the doctor of the orderly.

The orderly left while Stephen arranged the sheets over Padstowe, adding an extra blanket. "Are you warmer?" At the sight of Padstowe's expression, his voice softened further. "It is a minor setback, my dear, the very smallest of setbacks; convalescence is marked by them. Be of good heart."

Be of good heart. How could he be?? The advance had been so minor in the first place that it hardly took him beyond being able to sit upright again. There was no way he would be allowed out of here on Monday, not now!

"I want to go home..." he whispered, barely above a breath it was so quiet.

Home, thought Stephen, and it was with a shock that his mind immediately went to Jack, and not to Catalonia, as it had for so many years. An idea came to him, and he gently gripped Padstowe's shoulder. "I shall be back soon, soul, as soon as I can." He left, going at a pace as close to a trot as his side would allow.

Stephen left, and then somehow all the disappointments and failures of the last year seemed to pile up and rain down on top of him. Memories of home, Sarah, his parents, the dogs, the woods up at Gilridge, the 50th, Jemmet, Sharpe, Hogan... Then all of a sudden he had thought of Sergeant Armstrong. Dillon Armstrong, who had the physique to match his surname; the one who had dragged him back at the end of Vimeiro, who had shouted in his ear that it was over, that Jemmet was dead, had carried him back up the hill because his legs had been shaking so much that they would not have bourne his weight.

He wept. He buried his face in the pillow, not heeding the pain it caused his chest and shoulders. He felt broken.

Stephen entered without knocking, passing the tin mug of boiling tea, begged off Whiting's assistant, from hand to hand so that it would not burn him, but his triumphant, hopeful smile faded when he recognised the sound Padstowe was making.

Padstowe did not hear Maturin's return, nor did he look up at all. The sound he made was muffled by the pillow, and he was having difficulty in breathing as it was, each sob alternating with a choking cough.

He had been beaten, bruised, shot, left for dead, ignored and sneered at; but he had sworn, sworn that he never would cry. And now he had.

Stephen carefully put the mug down, closing his eyes and clenching his fists for a self-indulgent moment. Then he moved to the bed, and gently pulled Padstowe up and away from the pillow. "You shall do yourself an injury like that, my dear..."

"Good!" Padstowe choked. He wanted Harry back, wanted Richard, wanted anyone he could talk to and would understand...

"You do not mean that," Stephen said soothingly, gently pressing him down. "I know it is frustrating, but you will be well soon. See, I have brought you some tea."

Padstowe opened his eyes to look speculatively at the tin mug Maturin held. He sniffed.

"Tea?"

Stephen forced a smile. "It is. If I cannot bring you back to England, then I can at least bring some measure of Englishness to you."

Padstowe forced himself to calm, swallowing and cuffing his tears away with his right wrist. He had to get control of himself again. He was in company again now, it would not do.

"I'm sorry," he said hoarsely. He took in a deep breath. "I'm sorry; it will pass..."

"It is quite all right," Stephen said, gingerly perching on the edge of the bed. "Here is your tea - be careful, it is hot. No, it is quite usual; I have been unusually lachrymose since my own head injury, and a certain depression is often seen in desanguinated patients. Do you..." Stephen, in his capacity as a medical man, often acted as a confessor to Protestants, but he rarely welcomed or invited a confidence. "Do you wish to talk about it?"

Padstowe took hold on the mug carefully, his hand was still shaking a little. He wanted to talk, he desperately wanted to talk, but he could not ask it of Maturin.

"You have enough sorrows of your own," he said shortly. "You do not need mine."

"One of my sorrows is seeing a man I would consider a friend in pain, Jonathan. Do me the kindness of relieving it; talk, if you would feel better for it."

Padstowe trembled, though whether from cold or emotion he did not know.

"There is too much to tell," he said. "And... should I start I don't know if I shall be able to stop."

Stephen noticed the shiver and laid the spare blanket over Padstowe's injured shoulder, so that he might draw it about himself if he wished to. "The beginning is generally the accepted point. If you go on into the small hours, I shall decode while I listen," Stephen said with a smile.

Padstowe shivered again, then took a swallow of tea. The feel of the hot liquid running down his throat into his stomach did something to calm him. He took another breath.

"You... I suppose Hogan did not tell you the circumstances that brought me into his service?" he asked tentatively. It was one way of starting.

"He did not," Stephen said, wincing as he tucked one leg beneath him.

"I am glad. He promised not to say."

Padstowe took another sip and raised his head to look at the doctor. He began in a flat, factual tone;

"Eight months ago I was the captain of a centre company in a Line regiment; the 50th, the West Kents, also known as the Dirty Half Hundred. I have told you of them before. I had been with them since I first entered the army at sixteen. To be a soldier in a red coat was all I ever wanted from life."

Well, to be an officer in a red coat like General Wolfe, to be exact; but such a youthful fancy had died very quickly after his first battle.

"Unlike others I did not move around regiments purchasing ranks. I was happy with my men and stayed, despite other openings coming my way. Eight months ago we came with General Wellesley across to Portugal, before the Convention of Cintra. We fought at Rolica. We fought hard - took a bloody great hill from the French. Still don't know how. From thence we went to Vimeiro. We had the hill that time, and my men, my regiment, was at the top of it. We charged down and as a result of our charge we broke a French column."

Stephen nodded. "Were you in command of the charge?"

"Yes, in the end. I do no know if you could say 'in charge', but I led it."

Padstowe's face darkened.

"I lost my best friend that day, Captain Henry Jemmet. We had known each other since we were children -"

A lump rose in his throat and he choked on his words. He swallowed, forcing it back down again. He took a couple of breaths.

"Major Hill was killed as well, along with a lot of good men and officers. We lost our Light Company commander."

His eyes went suddenly hard.

"But our colonel did not die. He didn't even get scratched. Do you know why? He hid, he ran and hid! Behind General Stevenson's horse!"

"I assume from your voice that there was no reason for him to have done so, other than cowardice? Had he orders to preserve himself for some reason - information to deliver, or something of that kind?"