An Officer's Room in Belem

Stephen looked at Padstowe, shocked. "Despise you? God love you, Jonathan, of course not. Men - people, forsooth - react to grief in different ways, and your reaction was not so very terrible, for God's love. I have myself reacted to grief in ways which man or the Church might not condone - sympathy alone, let alone experience and good sense and a human heart would never permit me."

Padstowe's cheek flushed and he stared down into his mug again.

"You are too kind to me, andfar more forgiving than most men. I do not know what I have done to deserve it."

Stephen smiled, and realised that it came unforced. "You did save my life, Jonathan. But if you had not, I would still understand. You are a man, and my patient, and even my friend, if I might so presume. You committed no great crime, and every man has his past."

An answering smile curled at the corners of Padstowe's mouth.

"I am sorry for the trouble I have caused you, for being so impatient and a hastle. I know you have your work to do and so I try to do things for myself so as not to inconvenience you... but it seems it just makes things worse."

"Just recover, Jonathan. Try, certainly - your recovery must become an active process now, rather than a passive one - but pray do not do yourself and injury."

The captain nodded solemnly.

"I will try not to."

Stephen nodded, sitting down at the desk. "Do you feel any better? Would you like some more tea?"

"A little better, thank you."

Padstowe looked hopefully at the cup in his hand.

"Is there any more to be had?"

Stephen stood up and took the mug. "Mister Whiting's assistant had some tea; I could go and beg some more of him."

"If it would not be too great an inconveniance..."

That was one thing that Padstowe missed in here as well; Mr Whiting did not think to offer tea to his patients, and nor did the ordelies, and for someone so fond of tea as Padstowe that had been a misery in itself.

"Not at all; I will be back in a short while."

Padstowe waited whilst Maturin left the room, but this time he did not break down. Perhaps this was the worst of it? He felt he could sink no lower in his self-esteem or that of anyone else, so perhaps things would start improving again? His life over the past eight months, though active and productive, had seemed at times almost unreal, or the actions of another man.

Perhaps now he might ground himself again.

Stephen came back a while later, holding the tin mug. "There, now. Be careful not to scald yourself."

"Thank you."

The captain took hold of the cup and rested it on the blanket.

"You are welcome." Stephen sat down at the desk, and spread out his papers again, sharpening his pencil and brushing the shavings from his breeches.

The sight of the pencil prompted Padstowe to remember his embarrassing page of scribbles.

"Ah, Stephen... Did you perchance find a piece of paper with that pencil? Nothing important; I just wondered where it might have gone..."

Stephen picked up a sheet, stared at it for a long moment, and then began to do his workings in the margin. "It is folded on the bedside table there, caught under the candlestick."

Padstowe's eyes flickered to the bedside table, where indeed the paper was, and swiftly disappeared it under the pillow.

Stephen saw Padstowe spirit the paper away out of the corner of his eyes, but said nothing; the man seemed embarrassed by it, and Stephen did not want to cause him any more. He began to scribble down his decoding.

The doctor continued with his work, not seeming to have noticed his stashing of the paper. Somewhat relieved, Padstowe took a long drink from the tea mug, feeling somewhat more human now that he had some of the warm liquid inside him. He also, perhaps, felt better for talking. The past eight months had been spent in a state of being with emotional and mental torment just bubbling below the surface. It had been a horrible experiance; yet he had no one he could confide in. He had hoped, vaguely, once he had got to know Sharpe better, that he might take the gruff, scruffy rifleman into his confidence; but it seemed the barrier he had built for himself had broken too soon. Now, out of necessity, he had told Maturin... and he was not exactly sure where that left him.

The captain thought again of Sharpe. Their acquaintance had only begun by chance - by the simple act of a dusty and exhausted officer entering the Lisbon Officers' Mess and sitting down with the only other man present. They had talked, found they had seemed to like each other, and then Sharpe had offered to lend him a bed.

It had been a simple, almost carelessly kind gesture, but it had meant the world to the tired captain without a bed for the night. Somehow he wished that Sharpe was here - he would not be short of engaging conversation, or news then...

"Tomorrow is Sunday," Stephen said without looking up from his papers. "I will need to go to Mass before I begin my work, so I shall leave earlier than usual; I will not wake you before I go."

"Of course," Padstowe acknowledged, then took another drink of tea. He wondered if he dare ask Maturin for something; but being Sunday tomorrow it could wait another day.

"Can you sleep with the candlelight? Or shall I find another room?"

"No, no it does not bother me at all."

Were he tired enough bright sunlight would not bother Padstowe, so a single candle would not trouble him in the slightest.

Stephen nodded, finishing a sheet and pulling a blank one towards him. They really had captured a wealth of information from Prideaux, and he knew that Sir Joseph at least would appreciate the names of several double agents scattered throughout the Peninsula. Another night after this one, he thought, and he might have finished decoding the fat parcel - then would come further coding, and copying, and writing reports... He yawned.