Leaving Terpsy.

"I believe so; I will sail with none but him," said Stephen. "I think it is a relief for him also; unquestionable authority can become very lonely, I understand."

Padstowe gave a half-smile at this.

"I gather that it can be," he said. "I have often heard a colonel or a general say that the higher their rank the fewer their friends become; Admiral Chantry said as much when he called to take tea with mother one afternoon. Captain Aubrey is fortunate to have you as well."

"I think I am more fortunate to have him," Stephen said softly.

Padstowe did not know what exactly to say in reply to this. To ignore it would be graceless in all degrees.

"A good friend is highly prized by everyone," he settled for in the end. He had lost what Maturin still had, be it in an abstract sense. "I should like to have the pleasure of meeting Captain Aubrey someday. Maybe I shall be fortunate enough to do so."

"I would like that of all things," said Stephen, looking away from the sea.

Padstowe smiled; a genuine smile, though in all probability circumstance would never permit such a meeting, especially if Captain Aubrey by some great ill-fortune was left languishing on the Beach for the duration of the war.

Raoul followed the unfriendly back of Captain Padstowe's friend, and for a while conversed with the boy behind him. But Yates fell silent, and Raoul could just hear the soft voices of Padstowe and the doctor.

The track was uneven, with deep grooves where water could run from the olive groves to their right in the region's sudden downpours. The mare stumbled in one of these, unseen in the darkness, and Raoul felt Yates jerk, as if he had been half asleep. But he said, in a choked voice. "Captain, could we stop, do you think? I feel.."

Stephen saw Yates twitch, and he urged his horse forward. "Mister Yates, are you well?"

Peter turned towards him, his face glistening with sweat. "I have to get down - just ... " If he had not been so pale to begin with, embarrassment would h ave made him red. As it was, he looked blotchy and frightened. "I think I am ..."

Raoul reached round to offer him a hand down, and followed him to the ground where the boy fell to his knees, retching.

Stephen immediately stopped and nimbly dismounted. He had filled his canteen before leaving the ship; this he handed to Raoul as he opened his leather bag.

Padstowe urged his own mount forward, keeping up with Stephen as they closed the gap between them and horses in front.

"Andrew," he called. "We need to stop a moment."

Barnthorp complied, turning his horse and walking up to the others.

"What is the matter?" he asked, not unkindly, but then he saw Yates dismount and start to retch on the ground. "Oh."

His mug hung from his backpack, tied with a hitch; Stephen pulled it off, and tapped a generous amount of powder into it. He took the canteen from Raoul and poured some water into it, swirling it in his hand as Yates vomited. "Drink this," he said firmly when the boy stopped, handing him the emetic. "Swallow it all."

Peter glanced up, tears glimmering in his eyes. He took the mug, and sipped at it, throwing an accusing look at the doctor, but he drank it all, with an expression of complete distaste.

"I need.." he said, wiping his mouth with a dirty handkerchief, his face drawn. Raoul offered him a hand up, and held his elbow as the boy stumbled.

"No, help him down," Stephen said, lowering him again. The chicken, he thought - Yates was the only one to eat any substantial amount of it. At his bidding... The emetic would make him vomit again, possibly more than once, but it would cleanse his system of the poison.

"Please..." the boy said, his voice rising. "I have to go ... Not just feeling sick, doctor, my stomach hurts!" Another spasm struck him, and he leant over, and threw up again, gasping as he finished.

"I know," Stephen said, his voice calm and soothing. "You will feel better after this, I promise." The boy was still retching; once more, he guessed and then- "Raoul, help me take him to the bushes; can you stand? Good lad, nearly done..."

The French captain was offering him a hand, and Peter stood up, leaning on the two of them. Embarrassment was a slight thing now - it would be so much more embarrassing if he ... There was a clump of bushes between the olive trees, and there, he fumbled with the fastening on his trousers. "I'll be all right," he muttered, although he really doubted if ... He stepped to where he could hold onto the trunk of a tree for support.

Stephen motioned for Raoul to turn away, but did not himself; as a doctor, he was concerned for his patient's health, not his ego. "You will; do not worry at all."

Peter closed his eyes, to make it easier, and held tight to the tree. He vomited again, feeling rather better as he did so, and managed to do what had to be done without shaming himself. "I am so sorry," he whispered, as he cleaned himself. "I ..."

"Do not be silly now, Mister Yates; it is not your fault at all. It is a perfectly normal and natural process," Stephen said kindly, handing Yates his own handkerchief. "How do you feel now?"

From outside the olive grove Padstowe and Barnthorp listened to the murmuring of voices and the muted sound of Yates retching from within with growing perplexity.

"What on earth is going on in there?" Barnthorp muttered to his friend.

"I don't know," Padstowe replied. It seemed odd that poor Yates had taken ill so suddenly and so violently. "He didn't eat or drink anything that we didn't."

Barnthorp shook his head again, clueless. "You don't suppose it could be a ruse by the Frenchie to escape?"

"The Capitaine?" Padstowe's disbelief was clear in his voice. "No, I doubt it. He has given his parole, and he would not impune his honour. His honour is vital to him, Andrew; binding. He would not..."

But then a nasty little thought crossed Padstowe's mind; but would Stephen? It was ridiculous, no. Raoul had nowhere to run this side of the river, and were he to be caught would face certain death. He beat the unworthy thought down and urged his mare closer to the grove.

"Doctor?" he called. "Is everything alright?"

"I will be but a moment, Peter," Stephen said kindly. He walked towards Padstowe. "Mister Yates is unwell, I but I think he has been sufficiently purged of the poison; I suspect the chicken."

Padstowe's face went pale.

"Poison? You are certain?"

"Oh, not intentional poison," said Stephen, waving a hand. "His body has not adapted to the food in Portugal - everything on a ship is salted to within an inch of its life, and salt is of course the great purifier; the Latin for 'health' is salus, after all - he is just not used to the food. I have given him an emetic, and I suspect he has been purged of it now." Stephen looked guiltily to the olive grove. "He ate much more than any of you, at my bidding, alas."

"That is something of a relief, I do admit," Barnthorp said, to which Padstowe seemed to agree. "I would not have thought the proprietor would have been the kind, and I fetched the chicken myself. I hope the poor lad has not suffered too much."