On the road to Lisbon

"I do not know. For myself, I will stay. And I would want to say that you will be safe, both as a doctor who has already treated them, and under the terms I set and have explained to them. But ... I cannot say with the certainty that I had before." He stared at them: surely they would not attack a doctor, here only to treat them. "If you will take the risk, it should be safe. Possibly safer than not taking it. I pray I am right."

Even hesitating here was displaying a weakness that, for the first time, he feared to show before them. Like a vicious dog who will be safe to handle until the day it savages its owner, these men now needed firm handling. He raised his voice again, not loud, but audible beyond the two of them. "Wait here a moment, doctor. I wish to talk to Sergeant Brissac."

He walked in among them, to where the Sergeant, muffled in bandages, stood almost to attention. "Sergeant. The doctor has come to see that our men are well. He is not to be harmed. Is that understood, or do I have to explain it again?"

Stephen prayed he was right as well. He stood while des Sablières took his sergeant aside, but smiled concernedly, and called softly, "How do you feel, Monsieur Corbeille? If you are in a lot of pain, I can give you something to ease it."

The Sergeant's bandages had been carefully arranged to allow his moustaches to appear. He stared at Raoul in an angry, unsettled way. "It isn't right. Captain. We could have made it. We should be on our way home, not sitting here waiting to be shipped to England. The damned rosbifs."

"We - No, Sergeant. None of it is right. But the doctor must not be harmed. I have given my word, and that is your word too. Do you understand. The men must stand down. and allow him to treat his patients." His decision could not be changed. He must try to explain it again, but first, to get the doctor safely back to his own men.

"He cut me..."

"That was then. He is here to treat Corbeille. Stand the men down, Sergeant. Now." His eyes were heavy, and bruised, but he could still fix the Sergeant with an officer's stare. He had had to practice it once, but now it came simply.

"You will have to explain it again, I think. Sir. But yes, the doctor can treat Corbeille. Poor bastard. Then he must go, back to his own side. We will look after ourselves from here."

Raoul raised an eyebrow at the tone. He nodded to Maturin. "A misunderstanding, doctor. Please see to your patient, now. All is well." But it was not.

Stephen nodded. He had heard and understood the exchange, being more fluent in French than even des Sablières might have guessed, and the nuances of the captain's reassurance were not lost on him. He limped to Corbeille with as much dignity as his condition and his haste would allow, and sat beside his patient. "The bleeding has almost stopped completely - you need only a few stitches. Where is the laudanum?"

He turned to look at the man sitting next to Corbeille - he had not stood, but had stayed anxiously at the man's side. Stephen took him for the man's tie-mate, or whatever the army equivalent was, and smiled reassuringly. "May I have a needle and thread?"

Thierry looked at the doctor as he approached Corbeille, then across to his Captain, standing watching them, beside the Sergeant. He frowned at the doctor's request but said quite politely: "In my pack, Sir." He reached round with his good arm and swung the pack between them. It took him a moment to fiddle with the buckle with one hand, and with his head bowed over his task he said: "You don't want to hang around here, Sir, nor the Captain. Do what you have to and get out. And take him with you. He's given his word, won us our lives, and they'll throw it all away. Stupid idiots."

"I will, monsieur; thank you." Stephen murmured back, finding the laudanum bottle, before thanking him again, more loudly. "Take a mouthful of this, Corbeille - a little more there - that will ease the pain by a great deal." He threaded the needle, taking three turns, with his trembling hands and blurred vision, but pressing the man's bare back, firm and confident. "Relax now; I will have you sewn up in an instant."

Raoul kept his face turned towards the doctor, but aware all the time of the others - he saw Dumoulins, who had thought he had won the prize for them, skewering the papers like that, and his particular friend Feillu. They had turned away, and were quietly rubbing down one of the horses. But he was not unaware that the men were waiting. They had allowed the doctor in - would they let him out again?

"There. Now, if your comrades will tie a bandage about you, you'll be fine." Stephen patted his patient on the shoulder, and then slowly stood up, turning to face des Sablières. "You man will recover fully, with the blessing, after some initial stiffness. Is there anyone else to whom I should see?"

Raoul walked over, feeling strangely exposed. Corbeille was lying his head half turned towards him and Raoul gave him a smile before looking across at Thierry. "Thierry?"

"The arm's good, Sir. Thanks to you and the doctor here." The man's worried eyes searched his face. "You done all right. But when you get back, you..." He stiffened, and Raoul turned to look up at his Sergeant.

"Sergeant Brissac. Do any of the other men require treatment? The doctor..."

But the Sergeant was looking at Thierry. "Fool." Then he turned to the doctor. "You'll stay here with them. And you, Captain. Just until we're ready."

Stephen stood very still, and calmly looked at Brissac. "There is little else I can do here, Sergeant. The captain and I are expected in the other clearing."

"Sergeant!"

But the Sergeant stared back at them, the little that could be seen of his face between bandage and moustache set with anger. "The other clearing? Why should we worry about the other clearing? They should worry about us. But not until we're ready. So for now, you can stay here." He stared at his Captain, before adding, almost viciously. "You gave your word. You had no right. But the doctor's safe, if he stays here. I won't pay him back for this."

Raoul turned to look at Maturin. This was the final humiliation -losing control of his own men. He seemed to have been saying the same thing, over and again: "I'm sorry. But I think we must do as he says." But they have forgotten one thing, he thought. The English soldiers might be keeping to their clearing - and were outnumbered. But the allies - those hidden allies that had forced him into this surrender they were rejecting - they would not have neglected to watch the enemy.

Stephen spoke firmly and clearly. "Sergeant, members of the ordenança are in those woods, and they will be very concerned if the captain and myself are not seen returning to the other clearing imminently." He couldn't see the irregulars, and he doubted that he would have been able to even if his vision was at its normal acuity - he prayed that they were present. "This is something none of us want to happen, and so we will now leave."

Thierry was rising, angry. He had his pack in his hand, and spoke to the Sergeant. "You weren't paying attention Sergeant. The British were begging him to let them go, and he persuaded them to take our wounded, so we wouldn't have to buy carts and things. He was saving your bleeding lives. And when they found out about the village, the irregulars blame the soldiers for what happened." He looked pleadingly at the Captain. "That is true, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Raoul. "And now you have their attention."

No French soldier in the Peninsula needed to be warned about the irregulars. Feillu spoke to Dumoulins, and the older man turned to look at the doctor, as if he were both the source of all good treats, and a man sworn to kill them. It seemed to confuse them.

He spoke briskly to the Sergeant. "You will understand, Sergeant, but in the meantime, if we must wait here, you can organize food and drink. Doctor, would you prefer what we call coffee to what they call tea?

[Now I am asleep -if it's not coherent in the morning I will ditch it. and apologize.]

"I would prefer to have no more bloodshed, Capitaine. I would therefore prefer to assure the ordenança that all is well, and thus I would prefer to return to my own camp." He turned around.

Back at the campfire Padstowe was taking a grim pleasure in engaging Saint-Laurent in an unofficial staring competition. The Frenchman was trying hard to give as good as he got, but he was uncomfortable, fidgiting and his nerves obviously stretched very thin. Padstowe would have smiled had he thought it would not ruin the effect - then out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the ordenança coming out from the treeline.

He turned, forgetting Saint-Laurent and frowned. Something must be wrong.

"A moment, please, Doctor."

Raoul turned back to the Sergeant, aware of how precariously everything was balanced, and hating the idea of relying on the irregulars - who would slit his throat as eagerly as anyone's - to rescue him and the doctor from his own folly and arrogance.

"Sergeant. I surrendered - for myself and the Company - on my word, on my honour. Perhaps I should not have pledged your honour too. But the truce - you accepted that when the fighting stopped. And that is on your honour, and the honour of our men. You cannot start the battle again, without first giving fair warning to the English." He drew a deep breath. "If you do not believe the doctor about the ordenança - the irregulars - then go. It will be mutiny, but perhaps you are right, and it will be seen as right... But the doctor is protected under the truce, and you are a party to that."

Trouble; that's what it was.

Padstowe replaced both his pistols in his belt, motioning for the big sergeant to come with him, and followed the man into the trees. They came to a place where they had a good view of the clearing - the trees dense enough so that even a redcoat could not be seen from the cavalry's position - and watched, listening to the Frenchmen argue amongst themselves, des Sablières credibly attempting to keep the terms of the truce and secure the doctor's release. He findered the handle of one of the pistols, ready in case it were needed, and watched events unfold.

[OOC: Have to go for a driving lesson. Back in a couple of hours.]

Stephen stood and stared at des Sablières. He had just one objective - get back to the British camp and warn Padstowe and Sharpe, without bloodshed, if possible. He had his catling in his pocket, and a loaded pistol at the back of his waist, but against so many men they would be worse than useless.

There were several factors in play. The Portuguese had not come out of the woods, if they were there, but fear was still high in the Frenchmen's minds. The immediate threat of retaliation if he was held back was dwindling, but the larger threat from the ordenança on the way back to the French lines was still looming. They had been directing the flow of talk at the Sergeant, who seemed to nominally be the ringleader, but Stephen was keeping two men in his peripheral vision, one of whom he recognised as the man who had so triumphantly speared the papers the night before, whose looks were worrying him. Finally, there was des Sablières himself. Stephen would have played on the men's fears, but he, young and idealistic, was appealing to their honour.

The idea of mutiny surprised the Sergeant, whose moustaches twisted with his mouth. This had been planned as an attack on the English, or just an escape from captivity. Both were good, but mutiny was bad.

"I haven't seen any of these irregulars," the Sergeant said abruptly. "A couple of peasants joined in the fight last night, for loot probably, and you make out they're a danger to us. Well, it might be mutiny, or it might not. You come with us, Captain, and you can tell your side, and we'll tell ours. I wouldn't deny you that."

No, he should not have mentioned 'mutiny'.

des Sablières was losing them. "Think, for God's love! Every Portuguese man between here and Porto is an irregular, once word spreads of what you did in that village. And what of your wounded? Staying under British protection is the only chance your men have of surviving the week. If you attack them, you lose even that. If you lose, more dead, more wounded; if you win, there is nothing standing between you and slaughter by the local people."

"They're peasants - kids, half of them, or old men, with pitchforks and half-rusted muskets. We've dealt with them before. Haven't we, Captain?" Dumoulins had joined them, with Feillu as always shadowing him. He grinned, and Raoul realized that he had been arguing with the wrong man.

"I think you're right, Sergeant," the trooper continued. "If we want to get the hero's welcome we deserve we need to show what we've done. Now, we can't take the papers back with us: our Captain let the English have them. But he's brought us something even better." And he turned to look at Doctor Maturin.

Stephen felt an icy pit open in his stomach. He put his hand on his hip, inches from his pistol, and stood up straight, glaring up defiantly at Dumoulins. "I had no idea that the French army was in such dire need of medical men, monsieur."

Few had had such a privileged view of last night's proceedings as Dumoulins. He had snatched the papers, and had been there when the worm St-Laurent had read them - and denounced Maturin. He knew what he was doing and it was not the doctor's medical skills that interested him.

"This is foolishness," Raoul said, hoping that he could disguise his own fear, and work on theirs. "You would not succeed in leaving this clearing if you offer violence to the doctor. And the irregulars here are not those we met further north. They are armed, and organized, and led by the friend of this man you have the dishonour to threaten." He frowned at Maturin, unable to say what he wanted to say. "If you will go, despite all the warnings we have given, I will come with you - as your Captain or your prisoner, n'importe. But the doctor will leave now, and go back to his friends." And pray for me, if he will.

Stephen knew what des Sablières was doing, and he knew that it would be his last chance. "God be with you, Captain," he said in English. He had to warn Padstowe and Shape - his, or the French captain's fate was of secondary importance. He made for the opening of the wooded path, his posture showing nothing but determination, at as close to a stride as his leg would allow. He did not reach for the pistol - the moment was too precarious - but his right hand hung ready at his side.

"That is enough."

Padstowe stepped out from the trees, his hand resting on one pistol butt, he face stern.

"Gentlemen," he said, using his French. "We offered you the status of prisoners for your own protection, not to humiliate you. If you were to come with us you would receive all the honours due to you as prisoners of war, for you fought bravely and are worthy opponants. However, if you were to leave us I would not give you a sou for your prospects of returning home in one piece. And if you do make it? Far from receiving a hero's welcome you will be discgraced, having mutinied against your officers and failing to return with watever you came for."

His severe gaze rested on Dumoulins.

"Because if you even attempt to hold the doctor here you will not last the next five minutes, let alone the next day."