The Passengers' Cabins

The smile faded from Stephen's face - the idea of entering a war to emerge as a hero in the public eye displeased him - but he was forced to nod, remembering the Cacafuego. "It does." Jack had that talent for public heroism, that all-important baraka, for all his flaws, though it was tempered with many instances of private heroism, and he did not thoughtlessly sacrifice his men's lives to win it. He had once said to him that he would rather have a dozen ships burnt to the waterline than the life of one ship's boy lost, but that was not war, and that was not the Royal Navy - in all of Jack's public acts of heroism he thought about the reputation of the navy first, and of himself second.

Raoul saw the change of expression, and wondered quite which sensitive area he had prodded this time. "They say that Hussars are mad for glory - that we are reckless to the point of suicide. In a battle, one must accept that some die, and sometimes it is necessary to throw a troop into the breach to make a way for others, or to silence the guns. When one is on one's own, though, such heroics are..."

Stephen was interested in how des Sablières was going to finish that sentence. "Are what, Capitaine?"

Raoul thought of his own surrender, when he could have fought on until all were dead, including himself. "As you say, Doctor, it is murder, or suicide, to fight on when death for yourself and your men is the only possible outcome, and there is nothing to be gained except everlasting glory. And even that doubtful, if no one knows about it."

Stephen nodded, thoughtfully sipping his coffee. His own war was so very different... The table shook a little at the vibrations caused by the recoiling guns. It was difficult to talk in a public place - he was darkly amused by the fact that des Sablières, an officer of the enemy, knew more about his secret activities than his allies on the ship did.

Raoul held onto the cup as the whole ship seemed to shudder. "Do they do this every day?" he asked. "I thought a sea voyage would be restful."

"Usually," said Stephen, "if there is not a chase or repairs or a storm or a real battle." He looked at des Sablières quizzically. "Is it not?"

"Compared to life with the Hussars, or even being in Lisbon... I suppose it is. But rather noisier." He returned the look with a small smile. "I suppose I will get used to this too. I do not know - I imagined sitting on deck, reading a book and watching the sea. I am sure you promised me that."

Stephen smiled again. "If it is not inconvenient for us to do so, would you like to? As for books, I have a couple in Latin - or will you take your Rosseau?"

Raoul grinned. "I will take Rousseau for now, though ... No, I will not pretend to be a Latin scholar. You read it for pleasure?" Another shudder through the ship. "When they have finished, I think. I would like some fresh air. I suppose the ship leaves the cloud of gunpowder behind..."

Stephen made a dismissive noise at the mention of Rosseau. "I was planning to smoke, if we go above, but if you are in desperate need of fresh air I can postpone my cheroot. As for Latin, yes, I read in it for pleasure. Apart from anything else, it is always preferable to read what is written in its original language, and I was fluent in Latin long before I was in English. It helps to think in a different language - common ideas become inarticulable, while other, new, concepts emerge. Do you not find that your pattern of thinking in English differs to the pattern in French?"

"Your cheroot will not trouble me... " He thought for a moment. "I had not considered it, but it might explain something..." His face lighened briefly. "It is very difficult to sound enthusiastic about cricket in French, so perhaps we should talk in that language - but it is much easier for me to ..."

"I like to speak in French," Stephen said gently. " Catalan is the most familiar to me - for a long time I did my calculations in Catalan, and it is the closest... but of all the languages I know, despite everything that has happened, I am happiest when I am speaking French."

Raoul looked at him. They had almost always spoken in English, although he knew the doctor's French was perfect - better even than his English, as far as accent went. What he could not explain, and what had only just occurred to him, was that the arguments he had accepted in English - about tyranny and torture and Bonaparte's involvement - seemed to fade as he thought about them in French. He did not reject the facts the doctor had told him, but his loyalty to France and the emperor was strengthened. Treasonable thoughts were more unthinkable...

"When I talk English, I think in English - and somehow, perhaps, like an Englishman. My thoughts in French are quite different, I can see."

"I think that I think like a Frenchman even when I speak in English," replied Stephen in French, lest what he said be misconstrued by any listening sailors as treason. "Of all the countries of the world, I love France the most - I love its people, its way of living. Which is why I abhor this war, and hate Bonaparte above all people, the damned Corsican tyrant."

Raoul stared down at the cup. "Yes," he replied, also in French. "It is perhaps so for you. It is my country, and yet I only know it under Bonaparte. Without him... I do not know."

"Without him... France will not be perfect. The Revolution proved that. But I don't not think it could be worse. The secret police operating in Paris: Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Raoul, you would not believe it. When I was last there I saw a silk merchant in the street protesting his innocence - he was not a traitor, never! - but one of his customers had heard him refer to a gold coin as a 'louis."

"This is what the Terror has led to," Raoul suggested. "People are afraid. And it makes for stupidity like that. Getting rid of Bonaparte will not cure that - we need time, and a chance..." He looked at the doctor with something like an appeal. "Or we go round and round, forever changing one tyrant for another, worse one."

"No - secret forces of police rewarding informers has led to it, instituted and supported by a tyrant. There is always a risk that his replacement will worse - there is always that risk - but that fear is no excuse for not doing away with a tyrant when he presents himself. The country I love has become a country of informers, conscripts and torturers, and I cannot bear it."

"That is not all..." Raoul began to protest, then fell silent. He drew a deep breath. "I do believe you, Dr Maturin. But I cannot turn traitor that easily - and that is what you want, I think."

"No, Capitaine," Stephen said simply, setting his empty cup down. "But I certainly do not want you to travel along the path you were on when we first met."

Raoul met the doctor's pale gaze. "I know," he said. "I would like to think that..." His mouth twitched and he looked down again at his hand on the cup, and then at Stephen's hand. "I do not know if I could have turned back in time."

"I know," Stephen said softly. "Which is why I want to... which is why I am expending this effort. I want what has happened in the past to not be the precedent set for the future."

"If I go back," Raoul began, and again stopped. "I want to go back to being the captain of Hussars - when I was first promoted. But I think I cannot."

"It is strange how the points on which ours elves turn can sometimes be so momentous, and sometimes so small," Stephen began hesitantly, "but we cannot return to the self we were before that moment." Such moments presented themselves in his mond with alarming alacrity: his grandfather's death, his godfather, Father Curtis, his first duel, his first patient, the Terror, Scullabogue, meeting Jack, his recruitment, that fateful hunt, the first time he... "I think that you cannot, my Capitaine."