On the road to Lisbon

Raoul gritted his teeth as Maturin averted his eyes. "You gave all you could spare to my men. When it was thought we would be - leaving you. As we will not, you should perhaps take it back. It would be wrong, I feel, for the prisoners to hold so much of a powerful drug." He blinked again, as if dust had got into his eyes. "Could someone collect it from them? I would go myself but..."

Then he drew a deep breath, and said his voice harsh: "Doctor, I do blame myself. You know that is so. I did not want what happened."

Stephen finally met the Frenchman's gaze. "You will not be leaving us? You have surrendered?"

"Yes. Even without the wounded, the events of the other night made it impossible that we would survive the journey. I do not wish my men to fall to the irregulars, dead, or even worse, as prisoners. So I have place them under the protection of the British Army. And myself, of course."

"The gentleman surrendered to me not a quarter of an hour ago," Padstowe said to Stephen. "Forgive me, I had neglected to inform you."

Stephen waved his hand. "It is no matter." His eyes softened, by an infinitessimally small amount, as he looked at des Sablières . "It is the safer option for your men. I will take the laudanum back then, though it is no very great amount of the drug, I am afraid." He seemed unable to inject any tone into his voice at all, for fear of falling apart completely. "How were Corbeille and Prud'homme when you saw them? Corbeille will require some laudanum once he wakes up."

"Prud'homme... As you said, he died. Just before I returned to them." He stared at Maturin. "His death was easier: thank you for that. And Corbeille still sleeps - or slept when I left. Thierry is with him, and the Sergeant will see that they get what they need. His experience is with horses, not men. Although he will obey your instructions, of course, if you leave some of the drug with him." Counting the cost after any fight hurt, and this one had also been lost, which meant that there was nothing - no pride, no victory - to set against the dead.

The doctor was looking at him strangely, his voice - even enquiring about his patients - was cold, cold as the pale eyes. There had briefly been a sense of connection between them, but that was before the Captain had talked of the priest and the apothecary.

"I will check his progress when you return to your men. If you are not to leave us, then I will stitch him up myself, once my eyes have cleared, and measure out a dose." Part of him was telling him that he should eat, but he had no appetite.

"Then I will wait for you," Raoul said simply. It would be insolent to tell the man that he should take care of himself first, and Captain Padstowe looked as if he would be insisting that he do so, rather than treat the enemy wounded.

He licked his own lips, tasting dry blood, and the last vestige of tea. He was thirsty again, his mouth dry and bitter. And hungry, which reminded him: his troops would need supplies - they would not now be returning through the chain of depots that somehow Ickx had arranged for them. But the English would not have enough to feed 25 extra mouths - would the Portuguese be prepared to sell them food? And who would he ask? For a moment he felt amused - in theory, being a prisoner should relieve a commander of such problems, which now fell to his captors.

Stephen glared at des Sablières - the man was giving no sign that he intended to leave. Was he actually going to stand there, waiting, until Stephen's head had cleared? "Is there anything else you require, monsieur?"

"No. Nothing. I am sorry. I - You must rest." Did he want anything else? Absolution?

"Later, when you are ready, I will be here - there," he gestured behind him to the place where he had been before. God, he was babbling. He wanted to weep, at the look on the doctor's face, at his own thoughts, at the needless deaths. He shook his head slightly, and turned away.

"If-" Stephen cursed himself, before continuing. "If you think your men need seeing to now, I can go. I will not sleep."

"I did not mean that. For what you have done for them, I am more grateful than I can say. I am certain that, thanks to you, they will be well." He could not ask for any more from this man who had never been a friend, only an enemy. "You must sleep. Surely you can now, with your work done."

"One of them is dead, thanks to me. Six of them, or more, forsooth." He was almost growing used to the pain in his head, it had been so constant. "I slept for a few hours before dawn; I will not sleep again now."

"That is war, monsieur. It is a risk, and the commander's responsibility, not the enemy's. And perhaps you do not need sleep. But you need something." He hesitated just for a moment, before continuing with something that was meant to be a smile, though it hurt: "Another cup of tea, perhaps. I would - " he glanced towards the fire " be most grateful for that." The doctor had wanted time to recover, and his own importunity had now robbed him of that rest.

"I cannot-" Stephen gestured to his leg, and then stopped himself. He looked up again. The captain was young - old enough to know better, certainly - but young, and he looked wretched. Damn him. Damn des Sablières, damn Ickx, damn Saint-Laurent, and damn his weakness. "You need to rest yourself. Sit down," he snapped.

If he rested and drank tea, then the doctor would do the same. A victory, of sorts, for both of them. Even though the Rifleman who brought them their cups looked daggers at him, for his impudence.

Never mind, he thought, as he cradled the cup and let his eyes close. Rest and tea were not to be dismissed as worthless, even today.

They sat for a while in silence, Stephen ignoring his tea. The French captain was looking a little calmer, he thought dispassionately, though all three men looked just as morose. Numbness was turning into restlessness - better to be doing something, anything. "I ought to see to Corbeille."

Raoul opened his eyes, the lids gummed. Between his hands, the cup was still warm. He raised it and drank, before speaking. "If you are sure you are rested. It is..." He looked across at the Captain, but received no help. "He will be more comfortable for it, if you would see to him." He put the empty cup down, and pushed himself to his feet, feeling heavy and clumsy. Once upright, he offered his hand to the doctor. "We may need to support each other."

Stephen grimaced, but took the offered hand. "I will be back as soon as possible, Captain Padstowe." He hissed a little as he stood up; his leg had gone stiff. It was strange - he had made this short journey maybe an hour ago, but so much had changed in so short a period of time. Particularly his opinion of des Sablières, he thought ruefully, and a little sadly. He had felt a genuine liking for the Captain, particularly given his obvious care for his men. It was brave of him to surrender.

"I am sorry about your leg," Raoul said. "Perhaps if you rode, although it is not far." Or perhaps the effort of mounting and dismounting would be worse. He looked at the track between the two clearings. Not long, but it had been a battleground.

Once they had left the camp, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. The irregulars were still there, out of sight now, but watching and hating. He would not wish to walk this way alone, not now. But if not hatred, there was dislike leaning on his arm too.

"How do you balance your two lives, doctor?"

Stephen looked up at des Sablières in surprise. He did not have to answer him, but seeing the almost dejected look on the young man's face, he felt a little pity. Further dissimulation would be insulting as well as utterly useless, and so he answered. "I hate oppression. In all of its forms, but particularly that of Buonaparte. If to be a doctor to to be of service to men, then to work towards the end of tyranny and tyrants to be of service to mankind, quite apart from any personal reasons. I... I abhor violence, in truth. But I am prepared to risk it, and myself, if I can be of any use in the fight against him."

"Yes. I understand you. But, you see, I fight for France, and you would say that is for Bonaparte, but that is how it is." He steadied the doctor over the rough ground at the edge of what could be termed the French clearing. "And I meant to find honour in doing my duty. But sometimes duty is not honourable. Or so it seems now."

"I cannot..." Closing his eyes against the accusatory glares of Father Miguel and da Rosa, and cursing himself for a weak, soft fool, he gripped des Sablières' arm. "You do what you can for your men. You can do that at least."

Looking up to face the said men, he felt a chill come over him. If he had thought that their glares earlier had been hostile, then he had been naive - a number of them stood up to more effectively communicate their hatred. Stephen suddenly had the horrible feeling that it was not directed solely at him, as a representitive of the victorious party, but also at their own captain. Surrender was rarely a popular option, especially with men as proud as the hussars, and especially against a smaller force, but they had to understand that des Sablières had made the decision that gave the most assurance of their survival.

Raoul hesitated fractionally, as the tension in the camp and the doctor's reaction, hit him. But they were still the men who had followed him this far, and he could not let them intimidate him.

"Doctor." There was the faintest note of warning in his voice. He wondered if the doctor were armed. He was not, but it would have been on no use if he had been. And not only because he could not fire on his own men. He raised his voice. "At ease, now. The doctor has come to check on his work on Corbeille, and on the rest of you."

Thierry was looking at him from Corbeille's side. He at least was not hostile, but worried. The others however remained standing, staring at him. "Doctor," he said again, wondering if Maturin would ask to be taken back to his own camp. If the man could walk on his own, it would be best for him to go, to come back later when Raoul had had a chance to talk to the men. But Raoul could not turn his back on them.

Stephen whispered to des Sablières in English. "You know your men, and I trust your judgment regarding them. Should I go back?"