Waiting to enter Óbidos

Stephen frowned. He remembered no such thing - they had not been here a night, he had taken no laudanum, and the girl's father...? "My dear, I will talk to you about this in a moment. Right now, I need the apples and the cheese, please."

And there was a shrill voice piping in his ear. Who on earth? He opened one eye wearily.

"Wha'...?" he slurred.

She wavered uncertainly, but obeyed and set off at a run to retrieve the tray.

When she returned, she was walking meekly behind Father Miguel and a disheveled tired looking man.

Stephen picked up Padstowe's hand, and pinched his thumb nail, counting as he released it. Four seconds to turn from white to pink, and again with the index finger. He pulled back the blankets and checked the dressing - it was still dry. He sighed in relief. "Captain Padstowe, these are symptoms of the desanguination you suffered earlier. Your shoulder is fine, but the delay in treatement meant that you lost more blood." He was speaking more for the worried onlookers than for Padstowe, but now he raised his voice and spoke slowly and clearly. "You will drink what I give you, and then will eat if you can."

"Obrigada," he said, taking the apples, once the girl had returned. He handed them to Sharpe. "Mush these into pulp and juice, into your mug. As quickly as possible."

He looked at Padstowe, and then at the Doctor. Neither of them looked fit enough to go tramping all over Portugal to Lisbon. Fine. Not the best way to make a decision, but he really didn't want either of them collapsing on him because he'd dragged them away too soon.

"I think we can stay another day, but we have to leave tomorrow if we've to have any chance of keepin' the Frogs off our trail," he said, and turned to light the fire. A good cup of tea would help. Be better with sugar, but beggars couldn't be choosers. And he'd made sure he didn't have too much powder in the tea-leaves this time.

"Senhor, may I assist?" the disheveled stranger asked quietly, stooping at Stephen's side. "I am Nicolau Da Rosa, apothecary. Father Miguel sent for me yesterday. This is my daughter, Marta. Marta, fetch the small case, quickly now."

"No, Lieutenant, not the kettle! Crush the apples!"

He looked aside at the newcomer. He had been called yesterday...? Bread and blood, he was confused - his head swam. He shook it, ignoring the pain; he needed to concentrate on Padstowe. "I am a physician, sir - my name in Maturin."

Overcoming her shyness in the presence of her father, a superior authority, Marta reclaimed the apples and took them inside to the little kitchen.

Oh God, just why wouldn't everybody shut up? He moaned softly in protest, his good hand searching to pull the blankets back up over his ears.

"Sir, I thank you for your assistance, but I have this under control." Stephen waved the apothecary aside as politely as his thumping head and fading patience would let him, and turned back to Padstowe.

The child had returned and was shyly pressing a cup into Stephen's hand now.

He gave Marta a hurried smile. "Thank you - more, as much as you can make." He turned to Padstowe. He was sure the ball had not nicked an artery - he couldn't be bleeding internally, and he would not risk external bleeding to check. It was a simple case of blood loss, but even that was dangerous. Still, Padstowe was strong, and his pulse - Stephen checked it again - was weaker than it was earlier in the day but not dangerous. He pointed to one of the green-jacketed bystanders, blinking to try to see the man's face. "Bring me your pack - put it on its side, under his feet; we need about a foot of elevation."

He gently shook Padstowe, bringing his head up. "Captain, drink this."

"Do as he says, Coops," Sharpe said. "He's the doctor, after all."

He hung the kettle over the fire. If nobody else wanted a drink after this, the Chosen Men would.

"Is there anythin' I can do?" he asked, looking down at Padstowe.

Stephen handed to mug of apple juice and pulp to Sharpe. "Make him drink this." He picked up the piece of cheese from the plate and began to break it into bite-sized pieces. His head hurt - he was struck by a pain which he would deemed earlier to be be intolerable, but a precise feeling of authority had seized him, and he was able to work despite it. "Do you have sugar?" He suddenly abandoned the cheese and unraveled the bandage around the captain's shoulder.

Now he was being manhandled, made to sit upright and somebody was messing with his shoulder. It was at this point that Padstowe's subconscious decided enough was enough, and kicked his consciousness into life so that his eyes opened and he stared unconprehending at the world, with so many people crowded around him, many he did not recognise, all of which staring down at him.

"What... what in God's name...?" His eyes flickered back and forth in bewilderment, finally settling on Maturin. "Doctor?"

He took the cup thrust into his hands, and blinked at Maturin's question. "No, 'fraid not." And just how were they supposed to carry sugar around with them, even supposing they could actually get any.

He moved over to Padstowe's other side, where he knelt down to be closer to him. "Here, Jon, the doctor says you're to drink this."

"No, no, just bring his head up - torso on the ground!" Stephen snapped at Sharpe, and then at Cooper, "Keep his feet up!"

He jerked when Padstowe spoke. "Captain, you're awake?" He dropped the bandage, and put his hand on Padstowe's chest, pressing softly. "Does this hurt?"

Padstowe looked down at the contents of the cup questioningly. It seemed to be some kind of pale mush that smelled of apples, and he shivered again as the doctor unwound the bandage about his shoulder. He really wanted some stew, or a broth made from some kind of meat and his empty stomach gave a loud gurgle at the thought. He looked at the mush again.

"What is it?"

"I will fetch sugar, Senhor," whispered Da Rosa, startled by his invalid's transformation to such severe efficiency. "And more juice."

"Jonathan! Concentrate! Does this hurt?" In truth, Stephen's panic was decreasing - Padstowe looked to be increasing in coherency and strength, if he could sit up, but he need to eliminate the threat of internal bleeding.

Padstowe's gaze snapped back up to Maturin. He frowned, shivering again.

"Somewhat tender," he said gruffly. Why was he getting all this attention suddenly? "And why is everybody shouting? I'm not deaf."

Stephen sat back. "Thank God." He looked at his patient sternly. "This is apple, crushed - you will drink that cup, and another is on its way. If you can keep that down, you will eat this cheese, and then some meat if we can get it. Do you understand?"

His voice softened. "You were awoken, but were not responding coherently - just complaining about the cold. It is an effect of the blood loss. I was concerned that you might be bleeding internally, to have such a reaction."

"I think it's apple juice," Sharpe answered, responding to Padstowe's question. In fact, he wasn't entirely sure, having not paid any attention to what the doctor was doing.

Suddenly realising that his men were gawping, he adjusted his position to glare at them over his shoulder. "Harris, you're on watch. Hagman, if you can scuff up summat for breakfast, we'd appreciate it. And Perkins? If the doctor wants summat, get it quick sharp."

The child was back once more, this time carrying a jug and a blanket that she handed to Sharpe. Whispering and timid, she told him, "Sir, please? My father say, it rains, will be rains! He come in, and sleep in a bed?"