The Great Cabin

"Ah, that reminds me," said Stephen. "Jonathan, that food for the wardroom is still with your dunnage, is it not?"

And their pets, Padstowe thought as well, discerning the twinkle in des Sablières' eyes and returning it with a smile. Now he had spent more time with des Sablières since Lisbon, Padstowe was starting to find that, actually, the Frenchman was not on the whole a bad fellow. He had seemed to have made his peace with Maturin some time ago - a perhaps strained peace at times, yet it was there. It was just a shame that such a decent young man was in the pay of Bonaparte... then Padstowe blinked, perplexed by Stephen's statement.

"I suppose so," he said, wondering what he could mean. "Though the Senhora must have repacked my case three times before I left."

"I told you, Jonathan," Stephen said patiently in Portuguese. "I thought we should bring some gifts of food for the wardroom. What did you think was in that white... did I tell you?"

Padstowe looked back at the doctor blankly.

"No."

"I am sure I did - after we had finished talking about buffalo. You must remember - you asked what the difference between a buffalo and a bison was, and then I thought, I must remind Jonathan about the food- no, wait, that was somebody else entirely. I am mixing up conversations, I fear. I really did not tell you?"

"No," Padstowe raised an eyebrow. "And you certainly did not talk to me about bison or buffalo - whatever the difference may be between them."

"But we were talking, the night we left... In any case, food for the wardroom is in that white sack-like bag we brought we with us."

"Then it is still in my chest," Padstowe acknowledged, taking another bite of his supper. "I thought it must be yours, so I did not touch it."

"Thank you, thank you," said Stephen distractedly, prodding at his fish. "I must go to see the armourer..."

"Finish your fish first."

"I will, but I do not know how long it will take to heat the anvil..."

"So ask him after you have finished eating - which, if you will stop fussing, will be a matter of minutes."

"I was not fussing," said Stephen sulkily, eating a piece of fish.

Padstowe shot him a grin.

"Were so."

"I was not, captain; I was merely pondering aloud. Rid yourself of that grin, Capitaine."

Raoul sat up, drew his mouth into a straight line, and opened his eyes wide. "I do not grin," he said severely. "I listen in interest to the discussion of my elders, as I have been taught."

"Not that much older, thank you, Capitaine," Padstowe said primly, even though he was aware there must be several years between the young Frenchman and himself.

"Of course," Raoul said, shifting the skeleton of the herring to one side - again that wide-eyed, concentrated stare from the cat. "I do not feel so much younger..."

"Very decent of you," Padstowe said, smiling a little. "Though in truth I have often been told that I am a little on the old side for a captain."

He dropped another piece of meat on the floor for the cat.

Raoul remembered Padstowe telling him that he could not, or at least would not, go back to his regiment. That must hinder promotion, since rank, as he understood it was given by or purchased from the Regiment. Money, and influence could push one up much more swiftly than seniority, and even merit meant little against patronage.

He concentrated on mopping up the remaining flakes of fish with his piece of bread, glanced across at Dr Maturin with the faintest flicker of his eyelid, and said: "Of course, under Bonaparte there is much more attention paid to merit. Although it does help to survive when others die..."

Padstowe knew the remark was aimed more to goad Maturin, yet he gave des Sablières a bland smile of his own.

"Merit does not go entirely unnoticed here, monsieur," he said lightly. "And under the regieme of Bonaparte, I do not believe I would find my current employment so appealing."

The glint in the grey eyes hardened slightly. "Would it be so different, Captain?"

"It would be, for me now," Padstowe said quietly. "Yet were I still with my regiment, I doubt it would be so."

He smiled thinly.

"A friend of mine once told me that he believed if he had been born in France he would fight as zealously for Bonaparte as he does now for Wellesley; that in essence all soldiers are the same regardless of country. Perhaps the same could be said for me, capitaine, were I still in my regiment."

"I am glad that I am not a solider, then," Stephen said simply, looking impassively at des Sablières. He was confused; he was trying to provoke him, he was sure, but just a few hours ago... He stared down at his plate, rolling a bread pill despondently.

The bread crumbled, and Raoul dropped it back onto the plate. The glass of wine had been refilled and he looked at it for a moment. "Birth matters, of course, but ... If there are differences, it is because the English are not French. If you were French, you would of course be at home in our Army." He looked across at Maturin, and saw the question in his eyes. He knew the answer, but the day had been strange, since the first talk, and he could not easily answer that confused look. His brows drew together and he reached for the wine glass. "But it is not a matter of decision: you would fight for the country that held your loyalty. Perhaps just as you do now."