On Parole in Lisbon

Raoul looked down at the glass in his hand, the surface of the red liquid trembling into rings. He set it down with a click, and righted it before it fell over. "It was what.. They killed wounded men?" But that was not all. Brissac had led them away from the safety the British had offered, from the treatment that Aucoin, Corbeille and Thierry, even Moreau, had received, and then abandoned them. He did not doubt what Maturin had said. It had to be so. And it was because he had tried not to do that, not to take wounded men into danger, that Brissac and Dumoulins had turned the men against him.

He gripped his hands together. "If he hoped to get back to Oporto, he would have to. But ... The irregulars killed them? They... Can you let me know who they were?"

"I can..." Stephen had copied over his notes for identification, devoid of any details or indication as to how the men had been killed, and he handed these to des Sablières. "I recognised three men as those that I treated that morning, but I would not be able to give you their names, so I took down these descriptions instead, and the fourth had a broken navicular that had not set correctly - he would have been limping for a while, some months ago? Does that help?"

Raoul read the notes, and then held them, creasing them between his fingers. He knew the men, the three wounded he could remember, from the descriptions of them and their wounds, and taking Dr Maturin to them in the clearing. The first time, when he had been accepted as a doctor treating their wounded.

Mercier, who had been cut across the chest - not deep, but it had cost him blood. Roget, who had shaved off his moustache after they had taken Oporto, and who had been caught in the calf by a bayonet early on, the wound matching the description in Maturin's neat hand. And the bullet wound, that had been Lacroix, who had transferred from Belmain's company. But reading the notes, he was aware that the descriptions concentrated more on the wounds, fully described, and less on the men themselves. Was that because Maturin was a doctor? "When did they die?" he asked.

Stephen had watched des Sablières' face anxiously. "Between three and four days ago, I would estimate - possibly as early as the night of the mutiny."

Raoul's mind settled on that. "So soon?" He could see the anxiety in the doctor's face. There was more, and Maturin did not want to tell him. "Then it was probably men who were looking for them - looking for my men. It was not by chance." He had been warned that they would not make it safely back to Oporto, that what had happened to the village priest and the apothecary would be avenged. And he had seen the results of vengeance, taken by both sides. Reprisal, vengeance, payment. Every blow returned ten-fold in pain and suffering. He released the notes from his clenched fist and straightened them slightly before looking up at Stephen. "I do not want to make you tell me," he said. "I do not ... Should I ask?" Even without knowing, his mind could paint its own pictures. He had seen the results.

Seeing des Sablières' face, and knowing the powers of the imagination, Stephen made a decision. "We - that is, Lieutenant Sharpe and myself - have both seen... incidents such as this. We believe they were in a hurry. They were tied to the trees, and shot, as though by a firing squad." If nothing else, he knew that he was a convincing liar, but the sorrow in his voice was genuine.

"Not even in a fair fight," Raoul said. He had seen such things too, and worse. And not always the work of the Portuguese. "They should not have been abandoned to that fate. If Brissac does get back, after that, I shall see him hang." If he got back to the Hussars himself. If no one handed him over to the Portuguese, for diplomatic advantage.

He took the wine and drank it, before remembering his manners. "Thank you for coming. It was not a pleasant mission."

"It was the least I could do, Capitaine," Stephen said quietly, before sipping his wine. It was good, and even before it reached his stomach it made him realise how hungry he was. He drank a mouthful, and then drained the glass in another.

"I forget myself, I have other messages also. I happened to meet Colonel Edrington: he says that should you require any help, in any way at all, you are to ask it of him; you will be able to send messages by courier from Headquarters."

Raoul offered to refill Maturin's glass. The thought of the colonel came as a relief. "That is like him." He was about to say that of course he needed no help, but the memory of his earlier visitor returned. Whether a colonel had influence over the Foreign Office was open to question, but it was not just the veiled threats to himself that he remembered now. It was the fishing for information that should have been available from elsewhere. "I might need help," he said slowly. "Do you know a man with the embassy here - involved in arranging exchanges for prisoners? A Lord Pumphrey?"

Stephen felt the blood drain from his face, and he nodded slowly. "I know him - not personally, but by reputation. He is a dangerous man, Capitaine." He also knew that Pumphrey's jurisdiction was not limited to prisoner exchange, if that even fell within his realm of influence at all - and the danger to des Sablières was not whether or not he would be exchanged. "If I can be of help, I will give it." The blood flooded back into his face as he realised his mistake. "I mean, I will pass on any message you wish to send, but I must agree with your assessment of the colonel - he is a soldier; a very intelligent soldier, but a soldier nonetheless."

Raoul nodded. Even if he had been in Lisbon, and not a day's march or more away, Edrington was not the man to deal with Pumphrey.

"I - I felt that he was dangerous too. He threatened me, I think, and he has been to see my men." He frowned. "Or so he said. He claimed to be here to arrange my exchange, but I do not see why the Foreign Office is involved. Or why, if it is, he should be so ill-informed." He fixed his eyes on Maturin's face. "He asked me what had happened to Prideaux's papers after his death."

Stephen glared, but not at des Sablières. "What did he threaten you with? Did he threaten your men at all? I spoke to them this afternoon, before I left Belem, and they made no mention of him."

He closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "So he is asking... Jesus wept." He looked up, opening his eyes. "May I ask...?"

"You would not have spoken to Moreau, I think. I cannot believe it of Corbeille, and ... " Raoul collected his thoughts. "He spoke of needing to make sure of a few facts before my exchange could go through. But they were things that you already know. He knew about Ickx and St-Laurent, and Prideaux - he knew the name, I did not mention it. And about ..." He closed his eyes for a moment. "He said he knew about the priest and the apothecary, and that there was the Portuguese interest, which would interfere with my chance of an exchange."

He shrugged. "I think, if there were any advantage in it to him, he would sell me to the Portuguese. But then he asked if St-Laurent had brought Prideaux's papers from Obidos, and I realized he knew nothing about what happened. And that I was not even sure that he had any authority to interrogate me. And I told him I would not answer his questions." He smiled quickly. "If I am to be questioned, it should be by you or Captain Padstowe. Then we will not need to go over what we all know."

"Moreau - no, I neglected him, more fool I, though I doubt he would have been communicative." Stephen leant back in his chair, pressing his fingers to his eyes and watching the corruscations. Pumphrey knew - what did he know? He knew names, but not his - hopefully - and not events.

"He will not sell you to the Portuguese; I will not allow it. Did you tell him my name, or Captain Padstowe's?"

Raoul felt a sudden sense of peace at Maturin's reassurance. His reasons did not matter. He smiled his thanks. "No - I did not even mention the riflemen. It was - I did not know what he wanted from me, at first, and he asked about English dragoons. So I told him they were Scottish. He seemed to think that they had captured us." He looked at Maturin, at the look of concern. "He is not working for the British?" he asked, suddenly confused.

"Good, that is good," Stephen said wearily. "He works for the British, yes. Ruthlessly. Rumour tells that he also works for himself. But he works for the Foreign Office, which has 'ideas' as to how this war should be run, and Pumphrey works for the Foreign Office above all. If he visits you again, be simple, discreet, and above all be stupid. I truly doubt he has the power to hand you or your men to the Portuguese, so never fear that."

No, if there was a danger from Pumphrey, it would be more immediate, but he had no motive to, not yet, unless he thought that des Sablières would threaten the British effort in some way, but he did not know about Maturin and he did not know that des Sablières knew about Maturin, and so... He shook his head. He needed more information before he could do anything. If Pumphrey needed dealing with at all, it would have to be with the most delicate touch imaginable.

"Ruthless. Yes, I can see that. He is a vain man, elegant, fussy. But nevertheless, he reminded me of Ickx, who was none of those things, in that ruthlessness. If it were not for that, I should say that I do not know where my advantage lies, in this disagreement between the army and your Foreign Office. But I will trust you in this, because he is not a man I would wish to ally myself to." Raoul smiled at Maturin. "So I will be stupid, and a simple soldier, who does not know about papers, or agents, or anything. And you will see that my men are safe."

"And yourself, if I can, Capitaine. But your men, yes." He looked up, with the hint of a smile. "Your men, indeed, I am happy to tell you that Thierry has been having some lucid periods - Corbeille was able to confirm that he was lucid because he was grumbling. He complained about his back, and he was concerned about you, but lucidity is a very good sign. I checked his arm also, and as yet there is no sign of infection, thank God.

"What else...? Corbeille was being moved down to the prison as I saw him, aided by orderlies but otherwise on his own two feet - he was cheerful, and sent his blessings. Aucoin and Broussard: I saw them only briefly, but they seem hearty and healthy - Aucoin told me that they are used to far worse rations; his spirits seem to be returning." He had spoken to them only briefly in each case, lingering longest by Thierry, for he was in the height of emotion during his flight from Padstowe, and had not yet entirely trusted himself.

Raoul stood up, his back to the doctor. It was not much, perhaps, four lives salvaged from his company, but it was something, and he breathed deeply, his hand brushing the sudden tears from his eyes. When he turned back he was smiling. "Thank you. It will be only Thierry whom I can visit now. But that is good news. I will go again soon. And Captain Padstowe? Is he recovering? Have they found the men who did it?"

Stephen hesitantly reached out, and touched the young man's arm. "There, now. I am staying in Belem" - somewhat unofficially, it should be said - "it might yet be possible to arrange further visits, even into the prison quarter of the Torre."

He drew his hand away. "No, and I doubt we will, the pity and the woe. He has been moved into a private officer's room, which he greatly prefers, and though it will be several days at least before he can be moved from the hospital, with the blessing he should make a full recovery."

"Then I shall pray for him, and that his attackers be caught - though it seems likely that they left Lisbon with the army - soldiers or the ruffians that follow armies for easy pickings." He had spent the day sketching churches, some had dated back to the Normans, their shared heritage visible in the architecture. There had been one that might have come direct from Italy - a Renaissance gem. He had sketched its doors, the ranks of saints. apostles and Portuguese kings on its facade., and even walked round the walls, noting that all the pantheon and hagiography lists were rpresented were there He had sat at the table of a bar and nursed one drink for as long as it took. And when he had tired of it had turned and walked away. "It was a robbery, wasn't it," He asked curiously but aware of his own sympathy, not for Padstowe but for the little doctor.

"It was," Stephen said softly, idly stroking the rim of the wine glass, his head full of Pumphrey, Padstowe and all of des Sablières' men.

"Or attempted murder. You said how severe his injuries were." Raoul refilled his wine glass. Do you wish to eat? I do not yet know the best places."

Stephen blinked - he suspected that that was closer to the truth. "They are indeed severe," he said, almost in a whisper.

He felt that he could faint of the hunger; he nodded stupidly. "Any place will do - if I can get a piece of bread to eat on my way back, I will be happy."

"Then, if you can put up with my company, we shall eat. To any that worry, you are a doctor who has examined my men, and you are merely exercising a Christian duty to love thine enemy. Or at least to buy him dinner."