An Officer's Room in Belem

"Nothing!" The hurt of it ran deep. "He was a disciplinarian, a Tartar, yet he was yellow through to the bone. Thank God we acquitted ourselves nobly that day, else we would have been disgraced forever!"

That was what upset him most; that the colonel would have been willing to let them all be shamed just to save his own skin...

"A hypocrite then, as well as a coward." He knew as well as any man that the conduct of a leader had a bearing on the honour and self-esteem of the men he led; his mind immediately leapt to Jack. "Cowardice is easier to forgive, it being primarily a weakness rather than an evil; a passive element as opposed to an active, if you follow me. But coupled with hypocrisy..."

Padstowe shook his head in despair at Maturin's words.

"He was the worst of cowards! Afterwards I just felt sick. I did not know the battle had ended - one of the sergeants had to grab hold of me and shout into my face before I stopped. I was so drained, so sickened and grieved that my legs would not bear me. He carried me back up to our lines."

He shivered again, the blanket slipping from his shoulders, but he did not notice it go. He had fought battles before, many bloodier than Vimeiro, but none had left him with such a feeling of personal loss. For the few hours that constitued that night he had counted himself among the dead.

"There were promotions open after that. They gave me command of the Light Company, but I did not want it. I had lost my taste for soldiering, and the news of the Convention made it worse. I stopped caring for myself; drank, whored my evenings away. Never gambled, though. I existed in that state for a month; ran foul of Major Napier, saw the looks of pity and disgust on the faces of my men and fellow officers, but I didn't care. I wanted to destroy myself and I wanted to do it slowly."

His grip had unconsciously tightened on the tin mug, and his hand was shaking, the liquid inside slopping dangerously.

"It was in such a state that Hogan found me when he came to see me." Padstowe grimaced. "He said that he'd been 'keeping an eye on me'."

A tried and tested recruitment strategy, as old as espionage itself. He wondered if he should speak of what he had been like after the Irish rebellion - after the second of May - what he felt like now - but decided against it; what might be intended as sympathy often seemed something more selfish. "He asked if you would become involved in his work?"

Padstowe gave a small nod of confirmation.

"In a fashion."

Stephen was silent, waiting for Padstowe to continue.

The captain drew another breath, drinking from the cup again. He had done his best to forget that black hole in his life, but it still came back to hurt him - in his dreams as well as awake.

"I was in an inn at the time. It was early evening and I was already drunk. The other officers were at dinner in the Mess, but I did not waste time eating when I could be pouring the contents of a bottle down my throat. He came in and sat down opposite me, a smile on his face and greeting me cheerfully. I called him an Irish whoreson and told him to piss off."

Padstowe gave an involuntary flinch, hoping that Maturin would not take the insult badly. He had nothing against the Irish personally, but at the time it had been an insult designed to make the Engineer go away. It had not worked.

"He just laughed, then ordered himself a brandy. He started talking at me; just nonsense at first, cheerful nonsense that I was in no mood to hear. But he kept talking and talking until I told him to say what he meant to or go find himself another table."

He gave a half-smile.

"I have good memory, you see. Very good. So good that I can remember things even when drunk and recall them the next morning."

Stephen had been friends with Jack Aubrey too long for such a thing to insult him in the least - he had recognised Padstowe's intention even without the explanatory comment, and waved his hand, indicating that he was not at all offended.

Stephen gave a clever imitation of a smile. "I have one myself - they are a necessity in our line of work."

"It was then that he said he had been 'keeping an eye on me'. He said that I had done well at Vimeiro, that Wellesley himself had been impressed by my efforts and thought that it was a shame for a 'fine young man' as myself to be wasting his life away. Then he made the offer. If I were sick of my regiment, then why not leave it altogether? Why not come and work for the Intelligence service, become an Exploring Officer? I said that I didn't want to be a soldier anymore. He smiled and said that if I really didn't want to be a soldier anymore I'd have resigned my commission and gone home."

Padstowe shook his head.

"Truth was I didn't want to go home; couldn't face the prospect. Hogan talked some more though, explained a little about the job, and though drunk I began to take some interest. In the end what clinched it for me was that it was highly dangerous work with the prospect that I might not come back."

Stephen found Padstowe's initial attitude towards intelligence work, so different to his own, understandable but dangerous; he let no evidence of his thoughts show on his face, but nodded instead. "But now you wish to go home, you said. To your family? Or to your regiment? I understand something of military loyalties."

"To the Army," Padstowe said simply. "I'm cut adrift here with no information and nothing to do. I don't know where I stand. And I have not heard anything from Hogan or any of the others - nothing at all!"

He looked up at Maturin, his face concerned.

"They do know that I will recover, don't they? You went to see them before I woke..."

It wounded Stephen; he looked aside so that Padstowe would not see how deeply the implications of what he had said hurt him. "I did; I saw them before you awoke, not knowing if you would. But I have since corresponded with Wellesley - I told him that I expected a full and fast recovery." He forced a smile. "So pray do not make me a liar, Jonathan."

"I did not mean to imply that you were - merely that they may not know simply because nobody did..."

"I am not a liar, Captain - I still expect a full recovery, and, with the blessing, a fast one also. Did you receive no other message this morning than from Captain Vickery?"

"None."

The captain shook his head, then took another couple of mouthfuls of tea. Now he had confided what he had wanted to say for so long he felt strangely hollow, and also regret that he had said so much that until now had been intimately private - and to someone who was almost a stranger.

"I said that I was afraid I would not stop talking," he whispered.

"It was shorter than many confidences I have heard, to be sure," Stephen said kindly. "Do you feel better for having said it though?"

"I don't know." That was the honest answer. "Just... empty."

"You were weeping from pain of it earlier - perhaps it is better to be numb."

"Both are pretty awful," Padstowe said quietly.

"I disagree: I think pain is the worse, save where numbness indicates a site of infection - why else would people numb themselves with drink, or opiates, or whatever they choose?"

"I did not drink so I could be numb, but because I knew it was harmful." Padstowe raised his head to look at the doctor. "I felt numb anyway, so I needed a way to stop being myself, and the easiest way to do that was drink."

He swallowed again as he took in Maturin's expression, shivering once more.

"But I've said to much."

Stephen sighed quietly, standing up. "If it was a help to you, then you have not. I should hope that you would not regret telling me something, Jonathan. As a doctor, if not as a friend."

Padstowe stared down at the blankets in silence.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"For what, soul? For listening? Sure, I was happy to - not happy due to your story, but happy to oblige if it should offer you some relief, some burden shared."

Padstowe looked up at the doctor, his blue eyes gazing at him speculatively.

"You... you do not despise me for it? For my behaviour?"