On the road to Lisbon

Harper held back, lingering in the shadows of the trees. Rifle cocked, he wasn't entirely sure which French bastard he wanted to shoot first - whichever one pulled a weapon against Padstowe or the Doctor would be the first to hit the ground.

He was unable to follow what they were discussing, Padstowe opting for the Frogs' native French, but by the tone of voice he assumed the Captain was using his authority to ease the tension.

Stephen had not gone five steps before he heard Padstowe's voice. He looked up in horror. If he had been hiding, and heard all of this, why had he not gone back to warn Sharpe and the others? Unless they were all already here, hiding in the woods as well. He prayed to God that they were, because if not, Padstowe did not have a chance. He reached around his back for his own pistol, watching Dumoulins' face.

Something was amiss in the French clearing. One of the irregulars had come creeping through the trees to warn him of hot words being exchanged and he had circled around to that place at once. The red-coat officer was of similar mind, though he took a slightly more direct route than Calderón. The scout, however, had passed the word for several irregulars to close on the French clearing, in case a plain show of dominance was required. He would have no reservation about taking action if provoked, even a little.

When the red-coat stepped boldly into the clearing, Calderón rose from where he had crouched in the bushes behind the man. The irregulars around the clearing shifted another pace closer, rustling the leaves and branches just enough to be noticed as they moved. This was not a stand-off that Calderón was prepared to lose. Especially not with Esteban caught nearly in the middle of it all. Again.

"The doctor will go from here, unharmed and unchallenged," the scout said in a clear, carrying tone; first in Portuguese, for the benefit of the irregulars and then he repeated it in English that the Frenchmen might understand him as well.

It was Thierry, rising from Corbeille's side, who moved first as the British officer finished speaking and the Portuguese leader spoke. The rustling around them put paid finally to the idea that there were no irregulars. He was so close to Dumoulins that the mutineer had to step back. "You shut up," Thierry spat, "and let the officers make the decisions. You couldn't decide which whore to choose in a brothel - if you knew what a brothel was."

But the Hussars could not be held against their will by the few British Riflemen, nor could he allow them to be the prisoners of the irregulars. If they did not submit of their own free will...

"Captain. As the senior officer, will you release my men from the agreement we reached last night? And myself?"

Stephen had looked up when he heard Calderón's voice, and so he vaguely saw the movement in the swathe of dark green. He took one step, and then another, moving carefully as the captain's loyal follower began to argue again - Dumoulins, who Stephen was currently counting as the most dangerous of the hussars, was distracted and literally taken aback, and Stephen edged away from them.

Until he heard des Sablières' question, at which he turned around in shock. Oh, no... He pulled his pistol from the waistband of his trousers and took a step backwards, glancing over his shoulder. The green was still too far away. He gritted his teeth. He would have to run, if a firefight was about to break out.

Padstowe looked round to des Sablières.

"Your men," he said. "Your fit men, that is,can take their chances - but for yourself, captain, and M. Saint-Laurent I have the gravest fears."

He lowered his voice.

"If you were to go with them at the first sign of trouble they would slit your throat, monsieur, and run for it. I will elease your men, but I beg you, monsieur, to remain under our protection."

Raoul licked his lips, and spoke to Padstowe in French, for his men to hear. "The men must be free to choose, each man for himself. To go, or to stay. For Trooper Corbeille," he looked down at the uncoscious man, "I claim the right to choose, that he stays as a prisoner of war. But the others must make their own decision. That way, Captain, we will all know where we stand. Will you allow that? And you, Sergeant. This will allow you to choose your own way of honour. Your band of brothers," he said in English.

Was he hearing correctly? The French were about to be freed from their agreement of surrender? Calderón set his gaze on the one who appeared to be the leader of the disturbance, thinking that he would go for that man if the next moments turned bloody. They had been close to being away from this wood and on the way back toward safer country.

"Pray you choose wisely," he grunted, not bothering to conceal the annoyance in his voice.

Padstowe nodded in agreement. He knew very well that should the Frenchmen wish to break their parole the cavalrymen would not leave this clearing alive.

"Very well. Tell them your decision, monsieur, and then tell them that they are free to make theirs."

He could sense the hidden muskets within the trees being levelled. So much needless death... but these men had chosen their own fate and must now accept it.

"Doctor, I would advise you to return to the camp. I will follow you soon." His tone was not one that invited disagreement.

It would be a bloodbath, an utter bloodbath. Stephen finally ducked into the greenery behind Padstowe, trembling in relief. A few steps behind Padstowe was Sharpe's Irish sergeant, and Stephen collapsed next to him.

"Wait." He squinted, and aimed his pistol at Dumoulins. "Sergeant, if I miss, you must shoot that lùirist there, with the stain on his sleeve."

Harper watched as the Doctor collapsed beside him, and was about to ask if he was ok when he was given a target.

"Aye, Sir. My pleasure."

Harper aimed the rifle where the Doctor had indicated.

"Are you alright, Sir?"

"I will feel better when that brathadóir is dead." God help him, but it was true: Dumoulins was too dangerous to be left alive. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, they will be merciless."

"Say the word, sir, and consider it done."

Stephen nodded. "Where are Lieutenant Sharpe and the others? On the other side?"

"'Fraid not, sir. Mister Sharpe's still resting, the rest of the boys...well, we didn't think it necessary to bring 'em." They really hadn't been expecting this much trouble. He should've known better, it was the bloody French they were dealing with.

"Think there's a few of those Portugese lads around here somewhere."

[My lovely post disappeared!]

That had not been my plan, Raoul thought, at the Captain's words. I would have preferred to leave that decision to the last - moral cowardice again. But now there was only one decision to make, to go with his men or those that decided to withdraw their surrender. Any other choice would be real cowardice. At least the Doctor had reached safety: that much of his honour was redeemed.

"Men, you may leave if you wish. But believe Doctor Maturin's warning - every man's hand will be against us. The wounded - must travel on horseback. We cannot take a cart on untracked routes. You know how we travelled here. Each man must decide for himself. But if you decide to go, then I will try to guide you." I at least know where the depots of fodder and food are.

"They must be warned. If enough of the French renege on their surrender, they can mount and break through. They will be dead in a second." If they heard musket shot, they would think it the work of the irregulars - they might rush in, not expecting mounted cavalry.

Padstowe waited, his hand still on the pistol, his face still grim. Des Sablières, he had decided, he would protect. He did not exactly know why, but events had spiraled far out of the young Frenchman's control and he did not want him to die.

He waited for the hussar's decision.

"Why don't you head back to camp, let the others know. Get the men to spread out, and tell them exactly who we're after. Harris might understand that bloody French crap, but the rest of us poor buggers ain't got a clue."

Harper watched the continued discussion in the camp, before remembering his manners.

"Sir."

"I'll never be there and back in time. Does Harris understand Portuguese?" He could tell one of the irregulars - they would be back at the British camp in a quarter of the time. "Get the brathadóir, the brathadóir's friend, and the Sergeant. Not their Captain, do you hear me?"

[Can you protect me while I have a bath and dinner? I don't want to be cut down by irregulars.]

"No idea, but he might. He'll make a better stab at it than I could. Knowing Harris he probably understands more languages the Wellington himself. As for your Frog Captain, I'll do my best."

[I can do that... *stands guard in front of the bathroom door with a loaded pistol]

It occurred to Calderón, as he heard the faint click of musket hammers drawing back in the treeline, that he was not in the best position should an exchange of fire break out. He carried no firelock and stood almost directly in the line of fire. The red-coat officer had a pistol, at least, where Calderón had only his knife. He was confident he could knock that ringleader, the one with the stained shirt, down before a stray ball found him and contented himself with that.

The scout braced himself, not sure what would happen next. "We will take care of this, now," he said to the red-coat. It would not do for any of the British to become involved any further, when they should be making their way back toward Lisbon. "Go and continue your journey."

Stephen gripped the big Irishman's shoulder, and made his way around to the irregulars. He asked one to run with all possible haste to the eastern clearing and to wake the British officer, for the French were breaking their surrender. He was to bring his men to aid them if he could - if not, to get away from the clearing, and hide themselves in case of a cavalry charge. The French clerk was to be kept alive, and protected if at all possible. He crept back to Padstowe, who had been joined by Calderón, always keeping Dumoulins in sight.

"Stay down and back, José. I have that one, and you have no pistol."