Leaving Terpsy.

"He recognizes the uniform, no doubt," Raoul responded with an assumption of calm and reason. "Capitaine Cazeleon was posted here - from the same regiment, so the same grey uniform." He met the boy's gaze without flinching, and asked: "Do they say when the soldiers - the French soldiers - left?" Do they say why the French soldiers left Senhor Perry, English or American, unarrested, he wanted to ask, but did not. He wondered, as he was no doubt meant to, about the fate of the village's priest.

"Four days ago," Barnthorp replied. "Word has is they were ordered back to the city - no one knows particularly why, and there is all sort of speculation."

"Eat, Mister Yates," Stephen whispered to the boy next to him. "You do not know when you will next have the chance."

Peter looked up at the doctor. He had kept silent: he had nothing helpful to say, and although the various tensions since they had come ashore had made him almost regret his decision to leave Terpsichore, he did not do so. In the pocket of his blue uniform coat the pistol knocked painfully but reassuringly against his thigh. "I'll eat as much as I can, of course," he murmured back. "It's always a good idea. But... Are we going to join the Army tonight?"

Padstowe, although he was not all that hungry, took some of the chicken and started eating, just in case the boy were intimidated and felt insecure of starting to eat before senior officers - even though his own rank was only the equivalent of a naval lieutenant. You forgot, sometimes, with age and rank what it was once like to have the least precedence; the worry of offending, of putting a foot wrong and being brought to ill notice because of it. He pushed the plate closer to the Midshipman in encouragement.

"If we are all fit for the journey, I hope so. Can you ride, Mr. Yates?"

"I have ridden," Peter said, without much confidence. "But only on our old horse, and never far or fast. I usually fell off, but with a saddle I expect it would be easier."

"If we can get some horses itwill be best to ride," Padstowe said. "I do not know if we can risk taking the cart in the dark - the roads around here are not the best made or the most reliable."

"If we had horses..." To get somewhere safer than this place, where they could all rest. The final traces of his headache lingered, and the doctor should be in a bed, and allowed to sleep until he recovered.

"If there are horses, the boy can ride with me," he said, and smiled. "It will be quicker than giving a riding lesson in the dark."

"If Mister Yates agrees to do so," Padstowe said, stoping Barthorp from making the comment that he had opened his mouth to make. "But what about you, doctor; are you fit to ride? We must needs move at speed, and I do not know whether your leg..."

"My leg is fine - or as fine as the rest of me is," grumbled Stephen. "I can ride."

"I am glad," Padstowe said, not unkindly. He then turned to Barnthorp again. "Do we have horses?"

"We do," Barnthorp replied, taking a slice of chicken for himself and tearing it to smaller pieces with his fingers. "There are four, including my Philip, but the cart belongs to the baggage train also - my lieutenant and a couple of his men are nearby somewhere- Don't look at me like that, Jon, did you really think I'd be here on my own? His name's Hainsworth, and he's out seeing if there is anything we can scrounge. The cart has to return to the army anyway, so should anyman feel under-strength for the journey back and could afford a slower pace there is space available..."

He let the offer hang, hoping that the scrawny strange doctor would not take potential kindness as an insult - as some medical men tended to do.

"I will stay with my comrades," Stephen said simply.

There was an awkward pause before Barnthorp gave his ascent.

"Very well. They are stabled out the back here; another hour and you can be on your way - unless of course you wish to rest for the night?"

Stephen thought of the woman on the beach and what she would have to say about them, and he did not look at Raoul. "I think it would be wiser if we were to reach the rest of the army as soon as possible, sir."

Barnthorp nodded.

"Very well," he said again.

"Will you be accompanying us, sir?" Padstowe asked, taking up one of the bottles and filling Barnthorp's cup. The major half-smiled in return.

"I should remain with my men in all propriety and send my lieutenant, but in this case I am inclined to overlook priopriety. Call it a favour to an old friend."

Padstowe smiled.

"We're grateful to you, Andrew."

Barnthorp waved his hand in dismissal.

"Give me dinner in Oporto - or better still get me onto one of the Generals' tables for an evening. I can do a lot in an evening."

Padstowe could not help it; he had to laugh.

"Never miss a trick, do you? Alright, I'll see what I can do."

Stephen picked a small piece of chicken and shredded it, listening to the conversation.

Barnthorp raised his glass is acknowledgement.

"Much obliged. Hill for first choice, if you please, Cotton as a second reserve."

Padstowe quirked an eyebrow over his cup.

"Don't get too picky. I may only be able to get you Picton."

That visibly wiped the smile off Barnthorp's face.

"I'll go and order the horses ready," Barnthorp said, rising and leaving the room. Padstowe hid his own smile by taking a swig of the wine. Lord, how he had missed the army...

Stephen tried not to read anything into Padstowe's very noticeable good mood; he was smiling and joking with the major, referring to men whom Stephen did not know. He looked down at the tiny pile of chicken shreds.

Padstowe turned back to Stephen and his smile faded, seeing him staring down at the small heap of shredded meat.

"Are you not hungry, Stephen?" he asked quietly.

"No, no, I am fine," said Stephen, managing a smile. Padstowe had looked so much happier for a moment - at least one of their little band was - and he did not want to ruin it for him.

"You must be; you have not eaten since breakfast. We still have a journey ahead of us. Please, try and eat something."

The doctor was not eating. Possibly he, like Raoul, was uncomfortable in this inn. Raoul could not eat here - they knew he was French, and even if they had not been opposed to the French while the French were in occupation, they would definitely take their revenge on a single Frenchman. Displaying their courage and manhood. The young midshipman was sitting quietly. As if taking his cue from the others, he had left the plate almost untouched, and sat, the corners of his mouth turned down, no doubt feeling just as out of place as Raoul did.

"Thank you, Jonathan, but I am not hungry at all," Stephen said truthfully. "Mister Yates, clear your plate, please."

Padstowe put down his mug and cast his gaze around the table; he was met by three expressions of equal misery, though the misery in itself was a different sort to each individual. He had blithely imagined during the long days confined aboard the Terpsy that finding land would put an end to all their current difficulties; not so it seemed, and it was incredibly naive of him that he ever imagined it would. If anything Raoul's troubles were only going to get worse from hereon, and as for poor Mister Yates...

"I am sorry," he said, nursingt his mug in his hand. "It is not ideal, I am afraid. "The journey should not be long, though."

"We will be on our way soon," Stephen said gently.