The Passengers' Cabins

Raoul remembered the two at supper, and - after a slight pause - shrugged. "I must hope that one can be found, who is not of the mind of those I have encountered so far. But I can be on my guard. I am not defenceless." Unarmed, perhaps, and cowards would encourage each other.

He straightened himself up and gave a slight smile. "For you, I think, the sea voyage is having an entirely beneficial effect, as Dr Maturin hoped."

Padstowe smiled, perhaps a little self-consciously.

"I find that it is. I am starting to think that the sickness was as much in my mind as my body; that city was weighing down on us all. Now I am out of it, the half that was in my brain has vanished, leaving only the physical half of my illness to heal; which it seems to be doing. By the time we reach the army I should be well enough again to complete a day's ride."

"That is ... Sea air is notoriously bracing, I believe, and sea bathing is recommended. It may be too cold for swimming, even if the ship would stop. Perhaps at Figueira..." Raoul smiled. "We shall not leave the ship there, I believe. Dr Maturin will stay with his patient."

Padstowe shook his head.

"Cold or not I could not trust myself to do the breast stroke with one arm," he said, a trace of amusement showing. He then became serious again. "But even if the doctor were to leave his patient it would be very difficult to link up with the army at Foz. It is better that we stay on to Oporto."

Raoul raised an eyebrow. "It depends which army you wish to link up with. When I left Oporto, it was quite definitely under the control of the French army."

Padstowe gave des Sablières a thin smile.

"It may not be by the time we get there."

"I assumed that was the hope, but ... I do not wish to remain at sea indefinitely, even if not under restraint. It might be no easy matter to dislodge Soult, you know."

"It might not be," Padstowe said. "But either way there is going to be a battle, and whoever wins there is going to be an exchange of prisoners afterwards. Do not worry on that account, capitaine; you will not remain afloat forever."

He pulled an expression of distaste.

"And nor do I intend to remain so. Sea air may be beneficial, but I much prefer to feel dry land beneath my feet."

Raoul regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, and then nodded. "I too will be glad to get to land again. And we shall see what happens."

Padstowe gave a infinitesimnal nod of agreement.

"We shall see."

"I think you are convinced that you know ... that your General Wellesley and your army will defeat ..." Raoul lifted one hand. "But we do not know. Perhaps this ship will have to sail back to Lisbon... But you think that the battle will be soon?"

"General Wellesley was in a hurry," Padstowe said, not choosing to reply to the first part of Raoul's statement. "And when he gets moving he does not like to hang around. It will be soon."

Raoul looked at Padstowe, and saw that he was truly convinced. "Then we will soon know, and ... as you say, after the battle there may be exchanges." He had friends in Oporto, and even some pride in the army he had served for four years. Whatever Dr Maturin had shown him as the truth he could not wish for their defeat. He felt rootless, and uncertain. If the Terpsichore's captain insisted on withdrawing his parole... An exchange would be better than being sent to imprisonment in England, even with Brissac at large.

"There usually are," Padstowe repeated. "One way or another."

That was the matte settled then in his mind. He knew he could not talk more of the upcoming battle without upsettingt the Frenchman further, which he had no reason to do.

"I suggest that you stay in here for the rest of the day," he said apologetically. "Maddening though it might prove."

"Yes," Raoul said dully. "Maddening it will certainly be. But better that than... Thank you. You will let me know when the Captain has reached his decision?"

"I hope he shall allow you to be present when he reaches it," Padstowe said, gtetting up from the chair. "Is there anything you would like to be brought? I think the steward shall remain within earshot."

Raoul stood too, and gave a small tight smile. "A cup of tea, or coffee, so that I am at my best should the Captain ask for me. And I find I tire of Rousseau - if there is anything else to read? It will indeed be maddening to stare at the walls for long."

"I shall ask for a pot of coffee to be sent in," Padstowe said, crossing to the door. He hesitated, thinking of the book.

"Do you mind mythology?" he asked after a brief pause.

"I would not mind a book on navigation," said Raoul frankly. "Mythology sounds much more promising."

"I shall ask," Padstowe said, before nodding his head and exiting the cabin hurriedly, closing the door behind him.

Raoul sat down again, the cot swinging. The rumble above him reminded him that gunnery practice was in progress, even if they were not going to fire live rounds. He shivered. It might be May, but it was chill and damp down here, however warm it was on deck.

In the empty wardroom Padstowe asked Markham to bring the French Capitaine a pot of coffee. Once back inside his own cabin he stowed des Sablières' knife and sword under the table, then picked up his saddle bag and extracted the two books he had in there; a copy of Mallory's Morte d'Arthur and The Iliad. On further reflection he replaced the Morte d'Arthur, and placed the other on the table, where he sat and waited patiently. He would return in a few minutes so that it would look as if he had asked around. He would enquire after a navigation book later - after he had seen Captain Bolitho and learnt what his verdict would be.

After a few minutes, he slung his feet up onto the cot, wrapped the blanket round him, and tried, despite the grinding roar of the wheels inches about his head, to close his eyes and catch up on some sleep. His eyes stung as if he had been crying...

Markham knocked softly on the door, the book Captain Padstowe had given him balanced precariously on the tray.

"Monsewer? I have your coffee."

[OOC: And I am going to bed now too. Goodnight. xx.]

Raoul opened the door and let Markham carry the tray in, tilting his head to read the title. Not quite a peak in Darien, but he could be silent enough in here. "Thank you, Markham," he smiled, and before the door closed behind the steward, he saw the red bulk of a Marine, on a chair facing the door.