Waiting to enter Óbidos

Being a patient always made Stephen feel uncomfortable, and normally discomfort would make him sulky and quiet with strangers, but thoughts were flashing through his mind in something resembling a lucid train of thought, the drifting delerium contributed to a prolixity, and he spoke quickly in an attempt to hide his slur. "When do we move out? It would be best for you to rest, or at least to eat before we do. What precisely happened downstairs? Is Calderón outside? And Lieutenant Sharpe?" He looked down - the two men were making a neat job of the bandaging, from what little he could see - the pressure certainly felt adequate, and he told them so.

"They're both outside," he said, pressing his index finger down so Hagman could tie the knot. It was not the neatest job in the world, but perfectly adequate. "And I have no idea when we leave, there has been no time to discuss it. If we were to wait until tonight at least that would give us some time to rest and have something to eat."

"How long did we ride for? Were we riding towards Lisbon? Are the Lieutenant's men on foot or horseback?" Stephen's voice lowered in pitch; became calm again. "Yes, sleep and food. I couldn't eat now, but we can't have for hours now..." He reached down, suddenly panicked. "The papers! I put them down there!" He leaned out of the bed, his hand scrabbling about the floor.

"Calm down!" Padstowe lurched forward and gripped Stephen's shoulder firmly, although the sudden motion made him feel even more queasy and his guts clenched momentarily. "Calm yourself," he repeated. "Nobody has touched the papers save you, myself and Calderón. I will put them away."

He looked to hagman who was hovering nervously. He smiled.

"Thank you, Hagman, you can go and rest yourself now. I'll speak to Lieutenant Sharpe about our next course of action."

"Yes, yes. You are right. I am sorry. I was just..." He waved his hand vaguely, then dropped it to to rest at his side. Stephen head jerked up, and he smiled. "Goodbye, Mr. Hagman - thank you for your help." He waited until the door had closed behind the kind, green-jacketed man, before he tried to sit up, leaning towards Padstowe, and whispered, "Where is Calderón? Is he all right?"

For the fifth time of telling him.

"He's fine. He's outside the door playing guard dog, which is really upseting Sharpe." He managed a grin. "I believe Calderón is very devoted to you, Stephen."

Stephen flushed, and looked away. "I think he is angry at me. We have known each other for a long time, and I have a great trust and affection for him, but tonight I was so-" He stopped and looked momentarily shocked, before he looked up at Padstowe again, frowning.

"You look sick, Jonathan - use the basin, for God's love."

Padstowe blinked.

"But I don't want to vomit."

"No?" Stephen looked confused. "But you just said..." He closed his eyes. "You mentioned, earlier, and a look..." He put a hand over his eyes. "Do you know when we move?"

"You seem to be repeating yourself, Stephen," Padstowe said. He was telling the truth when he said he did not want to vomit, but his body may force him to do different. He swallowed down the bile that threatened to rise in his throat. "You asked me that not a minute ago, and I still don't know exactly. Not before... Oh God!"

He stumbled over to the basin, and bent over double, retching as the little there was left in his stomach came up. Yet he made sure he had his back to the doctor. Determined that he should not suffer too much of an indignity.

When Padstowe sat down again, Stephen, without opening his eyes, patted his hand. "There is water on the side. Do not fear, my dear - I am a doctor, I have seen far worse. Do you feel any better?"

"No," Padstowe moaned, more because he was mortified for having thrown up in company. He clutched atthe mug of water that had been placed on the bedside table and took two mouthfuls, swilling around and then spitting them out into the basin, but it did not suceed in taking the taste away.

Stephen opened his eyes, shading them with his hand, looking wretchedly concerned. "Do you need anything?"

Sharpe was torn between concern for Padstowe and concern for his men. Giving Calderón a final glare, he turned to go back downstair to find out how his men were. Perkins was sitting on the floor with Cooper and Harris talking to him in low, reassuring voices.

"Everyone all right? Ben?" he asked, annoyed with himself that he hadn't thought there would be someone with Padstowe and the doctor. Typical bloody Portuguese, striking first and asking questions later. But then, that's what came of not wearing red, and everyone thought all the British soldiers wore red.

Padstowe shook his head, miserable. He just wanted to go to sleep, to curl up and do nothing for a few hours but there was only the one bed and Stephen needed it more than he, and he was not about to demand it from him. He picked up the canteen and took a swig of brandy, spiting that out into the basin. It was not much better, but it did make a little improvement, so he did it again before re-corking it and setting it aside. No sense wasting any more.

"Might be an idea to get Richard up here," he said, somewhat pained. "Poor bastard will be wondering what the hell's going on."

Stephen nodded. "Please to pass my trousers?" He used the bedpost to pull himself into a sitting position, ignoring the blinding flare of pain in his head - he would be damned before he met Lieutenant Sharpe lying down, however wounded he was. A heavy melancholy had been threatening him since they left Óbidos, and while he knew that its immediate keenness was a result of the fracture, he felt it just as deeply. "Are you in much pain?"

Perkins looked up and nodded, looking somewhat shamefaced. "Sorry, sir," he said.

Sharpe felt like snapping at him, but couldn't bring himself to do it. "We were all young once, Perkins. The way to grow old is trust no one and nothing." He grinned over Perkins' head at Harper. "Ain't that so, Pat?"

"Not as much as I was," He picked the trousers up and pulled a face. "Do you not have another pair?"

He called to the Spaniard outside.

"José?"

He heard the British officer call out to him from within the bed-chamber and stepped through the door at once, confident that a moment's absence from the hall would not prove foolish. The officer was holding the ruin that was Esteban's trousers. Calderón grimaced at the sight and guessed what errand he might be sent out on.

"Yes, sir?"

Stephen Maturin was not a man that anyone could accuse of obsessive cleanliness, but even he looked aghast when he saw his trousers, and the shirt was far worse - Prideaux had bled out so much that it was stiff and brown, with a few bare patches of beige about the shoulders. "I do not. The trousers will suffice - I have worn worse in my time - but I find I do not want to wear this shirt for another second. When I pay the priest for his troubles, I will ask if he has a spare he might sell me."

Padstowe ignored him, and called through the door to Calderón. Stephen smiled weakly as he entered. "Hello to you, José."

Padstowe gave Calderón a small smile.

"If I could ask you to fetch Lieutenant Sharpe up here? It is time we four discussed our return. I am sorryto ask you, but I fear neither of us are in a fitstateto negotiate the stairs again."

The scout inclined his head at Esteban's greeting. "You're looking more well," he said. Then, to the other man, "I'll fetch him directly."

So he was mistaken as to the errand that had been set before him. He'd have preferred being sent to find a more presentable pair of trousers. Calderón padded down the stairs and outside, knowing his appearance so close to the group he'd accosted so shortly before would not be well-received.

"Sharpe?" Calderón asked, his gaze seeking out the man who'd been glaring at him upstairs. "Esteban wishes to see you."

Sharpe didn't hear Harper's reply as his name was called by the man who'd come so close to doing poor Perkins in. He noticed the Chosen Men move slightly closer together and glare at him. He turned to them. "I dont; know how long we'll be here. Get comfy, but keep an eye out. I don't want any more nasty surprises while we're here."

He turned back to Calderón. "All right. Just remember we're on your side." He stepped past him to climb up the stairs. On entering the room where Stephen and Padstowe were, he was shocked to see them both looking the worse for wear. "What happened? You fight your way through the entire French army or summat?"

Padstowe gave Sharpe a wan smile.

"Good to see you too, Richard," he said dryly.

Stephen was sitting as upright as far as his head would allow, and he injected as much strength and dignity into his voice as he could manage. "Good morning, Lieutenant Sharpe. I apologise for the earlier confusion."