Waiting to enter Óbidos

"No, child, come back!" Glaring at the apples, he began to limp after the girl, his right foot barely touching the ground, hissing in pain and frustration. Why was she going after the priest?

She came running back at his call and was aghast to see him limping. "Senhor, sit, sit, SIT!"

In the courtyard Padstowe was still sleeping. He had slept all the way through the day, not waking once; a deep, dreamless sleep. Sharpe had been as good as his word and made sure that nobody disturbed him - not that anyone would probably have been able to wake him, considering how far gone he was.

He did not sit, but at least stood still, leaning against the wall. "Menina, there is no need to fetch the priest. I just go to talk to the soldiers."

She gave him a weary and condescending sigh and explained, "Senhor must wear his clothes, and must not move his cuts so much."

"And I will, honey, just as soon as I have spoken to these men, hmm?" The sun was setting. He noticed Padstowe, asleep, thank God, and knew he would have to wake him, however much he hated the idea after expending so much energy in trying to make him sleep. He smiled down at the child, who glared reproachfully at him. "I promise."

She pressed him back to his chair, however, and ran ahead to the soldiers. She tugged at the sleeve of the nearest in the group and turned back to gesture at Stephen.

Stephen smiled apologetically at the green-jacketed man and stood up again, flushing in embarrassment. He tried to haltingly make his way towards Padstowe to wake him before his self-appointed carer noticed his disobedience.

She pressed him back with the force of her disapproval and then, seeing his intention, ran to the courtyard herself to approach the man sleeping there.

Oh, no... Sensing how unamused Padstowe would be were he to be woken up suddenly and forcefully by someone he did not know, he hissed, "Wait for me, menina!"

Somebody was tugging at his blanket. He shifted slightly, pulling it back around him and letting out a mumbled protest, not truly aware of what was going on and not really caring - that was until the person poked him more insistantly in the shoulder and his eyes snapped open, crying out as the pain flared through his flesh.

A child was hushing and cooing him like she might soothe a baby. "No Senhor, no Senhor, quiet, quiet!"

"Don't, child!" Stephen, collapsing next to Padstowe, pulled the girl back from him as he cried out in pain. "He has an injured shoulder," he muttered in Portuguese, before switching to English. "I am sorry, Jonathan..."

Padstowe stared groggily up in hurt confusion, having so forcefully been taken from the peaceful rest he had been experiencing moments beforehand. He was feeling colder than he had done earlier, and his bleary eyes could not make out who was next to him.

"Hurt..." he murmured.

"Certainly he has an injured shoulder. Did not I sew his shirt, too?" She gazed at both of the men reproachfully.

"Jonathan? Captain Padstowe? It is Stephen Maturin." Stephen suddenly felt worried - he prayed that this confusion was an effect of being so suddenly and painfully woken, and not a sequela of the operation. "I am sorry to wake you - how do you feel?"

"What...?" Sharpe looked from one man to the other to the girl. "I said he wasn't to be disturbed. He needs to sleep, all right?"

Stephen. Yes, Stephen he could hear and recognise, although he appeared to be nothing more than a blur at the moment. He blinked, trying to get him into focus. And was that Richard he heard nearby?

"Cold," he said, in reply to the question. Cold, sore and sick.

Shit. He only had one blanket, and Padstowe already had that. He looked around and saw a horse blanket folded in a corner. He shook it out, hoping it didn't have too many fleas, and spread it over Padstowe. "Easy, there. You go back to sleep. I'll deal with this lot."

Stephen snapped at Sharpe, all his attention suddenly taken up with Padstowe. "It is twilight - you also said we need to be on the move. If you think we can risk another night, I would be delighted to let him sleep."

He looked down at Padstowe. "Though perhaps it is a blessing he is awake... Menina, that bread and cheese, could you bring it to me? And the apples. I can pay." He pulled the blanket from around his shoulders and placed it over the Captain. "How cold are you?" He put his hand to his forehead. "No fever - this is the desanguination."

The child's eyes brightened at the sound of English being spoken. With great authority, she spoke. "He drinked in the night of the opii crocata of my father. He sleep inside?"

He looked at the girl. "He did not, child; he refused it. Who drank it?"

"My father gave it to him to help him sleep, and to you. You do not remember? He sat with you all the night, Senhor. I sat all the day."

Almost as if in response Padstowe shivered. The blanket had suddenly got heavier, but he felt no warmer. His skin was cold and clammy and he just wanted to be left alone. Why did they have to bother him now, and why were they shouting? Why couldn't they just go away? His eyes slid shut again, too heavy for him to keep them open.

"Senhor, sir, inside, inside to sleep, a bed, sir," the child was saying.