Under guard in Lisbon

Continued from On The Road to Lisbon

It was a very empty tent, containing only one French Hussar Captain. He had been placed here, and told to wait, first by the Captain who had taken over the prisoners from Padstowe, and then by an rather harrassed Lieutenant, whose qualification for guard duty appeared to be a smattering of French. It had been easier once they had reverted to English, and Raoul had learned that the wounded men had been taken to 'the hospital', with their medical attendant. The lieutenant did not know where this hospital was, not whether it was one run by the Army or the Church, but it had been done - Maturin had kept his word and made the arrangements.

Raoul was to remain here, nominally under guard, since there was a sentry posted outside the tent. Someone would come for him, from Lisbon, and - the lieutenant was equally hazy on this point - arrangements would be made for him to be paroled, no doubt. His bags had been taken, as he had expected. Padstowe's assurances had been well-meant, but someone in the Scots Greys would have decided that it was essential to check for themselves. Doubtless someone at the next stage would do the same. And so on.

On guard duty again.

Well, he'd bought the things for Captain Vickery, and had a quiet drink or two with Private Williams, and was on guard duty again. You'd think there was only his company of the 60th in Lisbon, the rate they pulled duties.

This time, the 'cell' was a tent outside Lisbon, and the prisoner was a French Hussar officer. Cotton hoped the man wouldn't give him any trouble, and wondered how he'd come to be made a prisoner. There hadn't been any fighting since last year. Well, last winter; he wasn't exactly sure when the army under Sir John Moore had actually fought their battle at Corunna*, but he'd been in Lisbon already by then.

Guard duty: make sure the prisoner doesn't escape and don't fall asleep. Or get drunk, of course. He sighed.

(OOC - *Corunna was fought on the 16th January 1809, if anybody needs to know the date)

Raoul had eventually sat down on the muddied grass, and rested his chin on his raised knees. Not to sleep, not yet. The idea of a prison cell - with a bed - began to appeal. Someone would feed him, someone might even give him water to wash in. Prisoners lapsed into a state of submissiveness, which prevented them escaping as much as the stone walls and iron bars. But for a short time, it had its appeal.

A noise outside the tent, wth the unforgettable sounds of a military salute, brought him to his feet. He did not wish to look dangerous, since that would only create unpleasantness, but nor should he be found half-asleep. The state of his coat and breeches, which looked as if he had bathed in the blood of his enemies, he could do nothing about.

The Scots Greys sentry drew back the flap and shouted: "Outside!" and, as an afterthought "Sir!"

Outside, the small guard patrol stood waiting to receive him. Six men in green with an officer - no, a Sergeant - but for a moment his brain had seen Sharpe and his Riflemen. These were not those men, of course. Different insignia and - well, 'smarter' was unfair: Sharpe's men had marched across country, and fought his men to a standstill, before he had become aware of them as individuals. He stood patiently while the hand-over was made. One prisoner, French, consigned from the Scots Greys to the Riflemen, for onward delivery.

The man who came out of the tent looked more half-asleep than anything else, and his uniform was covered in blood. The Riflemen waited while the handover was completed before urging the man to come with them. Their destination was the wine-merchant's house that had been taken over for use as a guard-room, though (being an officer) the Frenchman wouldn't be put with the defaulters in the cellar. He'd probably get a room to himself until things were sorted out and he gave his parole to the board.

Cotton had heard something about some soldiers, Hussars, who'd been taken prisoner as well, but had gone to the hospital at Belem. He hoped the French officer knew his men were being looked after properly.

He studied the man. He was the first French cavalryman Cotton had seen from this close - all the others were infantry soldiers, like himself. He seemed to be a littler nervous, which was only to be expected, really, but he couldn't reassure the man, not a stranger and while under Sergeant Mayberry's eye.

Curiosity he had expected. Sympathy was less expected, but there was something in the face of one of the young men in his escort that came close to that. So many young soldiers, Aucoin, poor Montfort, even the young Rifleman who had been laughing with Broussard. When had he become so old?

"Forgive me," he asked softly, taking a chance that the youngster would not be offended. "But where are you taking me? To my men - they went to a hospital."

Cotton glanced at Sergeant Mayberry, who seemed to pay no attention to them.

He decided to risk answering; he seemed concerned for his men and Cotton respected that. "No, sir. We'm goin' to the guardhouse. But you'll give your parole, and they'll let you see your men." Did the man even know where they were? "I think they went to the military hospital in Belem."

The army had set up a hospital near the fort in Belem, last year, and all wounded soldiers went there. Cotton couldn't imagine that the French wounded wouldn't be in the same place and given the same treatment.

He hoped, should he ever end up in the same situation, that his officers would have the same concern about him that this Frenchman was showing.

A military hospital. It made sense, of course, and this lad was not the one to be questioning about the worm - who was not military - or Moreau, who was dangerous not to the British (or not immediately) but to his men. Or about what would happen to Broussard, now the real medical staff had taken over. But once he was paroled he would be able to find out, or the Doctor would find out for him.

"Does the hospital at Belem have a good reputation? I have heard unhappy things about field hospitals, although French ones are probably no better." But that had been after battles, and during retreats - hospitals in Lisbon at the moment would not be under such pressure.

"It ain't a field hospital, and they don't have many wounded, seein' as we ain't fought a battle in a bit, now. Though there are some men with fever, or who've hurt theirselves some other way, in course."

And of course once he'd given his parole, he'd be able to go where he wanted, pretty much. At least, Cotton thought he would, being an officer.

"Thank you." And presumably men who had contracted diseases of every kind. Lisbon looked the sort of city where soldiers would manage that.

It was salutory to compare it to Oporto. Here soldiers strolled freely, clearly feeling no threat from the local population. Women clung to the uniformed arms of officers or men, apparently under no compulsion. This was a bustling, bright city, welcoming visitors, even if military ones, not a city under occupation. Raoul was conscious of men turning to watch. Guard escorts were presumably not worth looking at - a French captain as their prisoner was.

The variety of architecture, and the way it was mixed up, made him wish that his sketch book was not presumably still in the possession of the Scots Greys. They passed across a square, with the white marble front of a church, all curls and pinnacles, and then turned into a broad street lined with brick-built houses, rich but not noble, with stucco decorations around the large windows. One had sentries posted on either side to the broad gate to the courtyard at its side. Rather like the houses in Orleans, serving both as home and as warehouse, workshop or storerooms. Well, he was something to be stored, although hopefully only briefly.

Well, they were here now, and Cotton was right; he'd have a room to himself, being an officer. Though he hadn't yet seen people to be able to give his parole, so there'd be a guard on the door for today at least. But it was a proper room with a bed and everything, as was only right and proper.

And of course it would be Cotton who'd get picked first for guarding the man.

"Here y'are, sir. If'n you want anythin', I'm just outside."

(OOC - I have work this afternoon, so don't kill yourself over answering. And I'm sorry this post was so short.)

There was a window, with a broad seat, which probably looked out over the garden. Raoul did not cross over to confirm this - a prisoner making a dart for the unguarded means of escape might convey the wrong impression. There would be time enough to look at the view. There was also a basin and jug, but these proved on immediate inspection to be empty. The young Rifleman was still regarding him curiously, and since the offer had appeared to be genuine he said. smiling: "Thank you. I would very much want some water, if it is to be had, and..." He started to undo the fastenings of the jacket. "My pack will no doubt reach me here in time, but if I could borrow a razor from someone, or a brush for these. I would not look quite so dangerous, and they might be prepared to extend my parole."

[OOC added later: Don't worry, I won't kill myself, even if you give me a razor. I'm having too much fun. See you later.]

A razor... would the Sergeant let the man borrow a razor? He could do quite a bit of damage with one, if he were so inclined. Cotton didn't think he looked the sort, but you never knew.

Water, on the other hand, was much easier to decide about.

"I can get you some water, but I'll have to ask the Sergeant about a razor," he said, taking the jug. "An' brushin' won't have much effect on your uniform. That needs a proper wash, it do."

Raoul took off the coat and looked at it ruefully. "Yes," he agreed. "But that would present a problem, would it not? Perhaps later I will find an opportunity..." He draped it over the back of a wooden chair, and shook his head.

"But thank you for the water, for myself." He smelt of blood, of horse, of sweat. Now, in this clean room, he was doubly conscious of it. He could not wash away the events of the past fews days, but at least he could try to look like a gentleman, not a savage.

It only took a matter of minutes to procure water - and, surprisingly, a razor - and Cotton put the things on the table before moving back over to the door. He couldn't help contrasting this nuce, airy room with the dark cellar Williams had been kept in.

"Like I said, if there's anythin' else I can get you," he said, glancing back out of the door. "Otherwise, I'll leave you to it."

By the time he had finished the water in the bowl was an ugly shade of brown, with a greasy sheen and a layer of soapy scum. Raoul left it, and the jug, on the table. After a moment's thought he laid the razor beside the jug.

He looked at his discarded clothing. He would have to put them on again - there was, after all, no alternative. But just for now he took the neatly folded blanket from the bed, and wrapped himself in it, before going to sit on the sill and look out of the window into the darkness.

Padstowe was directed to the room where Captain des Sablières was being held and mounted the stairs with his usual quick steps. He'd finally had time to wash, bath and put on a fresh change of clothes, not to mention a proper sling for his arm. Clutched in his good hand were des Sablières' saddlebags and sword - annoyed that they had been confiscated when he had promised they would not - and his parole in his coat pocket made out for the captain to sign, the paper crinckling gently against his bosom and he breathed. The duty could have gone to another officer, but Padstowe had requested it go to him.

At the top of the stairs he was surprised to see Cotton standing outside the door. They just seemed to keep running into each other, poor lad.

"Good evening, Cotton," he said, smiling. "I trust you are well?"

"Evenin', sir," Cotton replied to the officer, coming to attention before realising who it was. He grinned, though he didn't relax the position, then saw the officer's arm and frowned a little. "Fine, thanks, sir. I hope that doesn't hurt too much." Though he couldn't ask, of course, what had happened; you just didn't ask an officer things like that.

It was strange how they kept meeting each other like this... if Cotton had had any idea that he'd be meeting Captain Padstowe on such a regular basis, he would've been a darn sight more careful when sent to look for him that first time. Though Padstowe hadn't mentioned it again, and Cotton had heard no more about it, he still felt vaguely guilty.

"A little discomfort, nothing more," Padstowe said casually. No sens in drawing more attention to the wound unnecessarily. "I should like to see Captain des Sablières, if I may. I have his parole for him to sign, along with his belongings."

He readjusted his grip on the sword and saddlebags, as they were slipping slightly from his grasp.

"Oh, sorry, sir. Here."

He knocked on the door before opening it to poke his head in. "You've got a visitor, sir," he said before standing aside to let Padstowe enter.

"Will you be all right there, sir?" he asked, noticing that the officer was having a little difficulty with the things he was holding.

"Thank you, Cotton, I shall be."

He nodded to the private to indicate that he should shut the door, then turned to des Sablières. And stalled. The Captain was sitting on the edge of the bed wrapped in nothing but a blanket, his hair wet and looking and him with mild surprise. Padstowe's eyes wntto the window.

"My apologies, monsieur," he muttered. "I was not aware and would not have intruded had I known. I shall come back later."

Raoul attempted to stand up, almost lost hold of the blanket and sat down hurriedly. Clearly Captain Padstowe was as embarrassed as he was. "If you wish - but it might be best to deal with this now. I am sorry that I am not ..." He could feel himself blushing. "I am delaying the moment when I must dress again." He noted that the Captain had not only bathed, but changed into clean clothes. The sling was clean too. "If I am required to come with you, I shall of course do so at once." He looked at the pile of clothes with distaste.

Padstowe followed des Sablières' gaze to the soiled uniform.

"I shall have someone bring you fresh linen, monsieur," he said, irritated that somebody had not done so already. At least it looked as if he had been able to have a wash. "And to clean your uniform for you."

He cleared his throat awkwardly, putting the sword and saddlebags on the table.

"I came to return your property - nothing has been taken save what I did earlier. They should not have removed if from your person. And your sword as well -"

He fished inside his coat for the folded paper.

"- with your official parole to sign." He smiled. "Amongst the conditions you are permitted to retain your horse."

"You have been most kind already, but that - if it could be arranged - would earn my undying gratitude," Raoul smiled. "And perhaps, until then, it would be possible to remain here? It is comfortable, and quiet. I do not know where I will stay... I assume the conditions are that I remain in Lisbon, until an exchange can be arranged."

This time he managed to rise to his feet with more dignity, and crossed to the table. "I thank you for returning my bags, and my sword, Captain. But as for the horse, if it was not a prize, it was a gift to Mr Sharpe. And I cannot ask for a gift to be returned. Not even a gift horse." And how could he afford to keep a horse? Paroled officers might be paid an allowance by their captors, but it would not run to stabling and fodder for a hungry horse.

"Lieutenant Sharpe is, alas, not a horseman," said Padstowe, failingto conceal a small smile. "Neither does he had the funds to keep a horse. He was raised from the ranks years ago, and although he was most honoured that you should think to give him such a gift he is a firm believer in getting around à pied. I left him wondering what to do with the thing."

He opened the saddlebag with his good hand and took out the ink and pens he knew to be in there, placing them neatly on the table.

"As to your lodgings, it will be acceptable for you to stayhere until we can find quarters for you elsewhere." He smiled again. "It is, alas, not ideal, but we shall find you somewhere more suitable soon enough."

Which was true, for with the army moving out in two days there would be plenty of decent accomodation to be had.

"It is better than a cell. The young man at the door thinks I should be in durance vile, probably chained up in a dungeon. I think he does not like the French. And he may be right. War would be more comfortable if I did not like the English." He grinned. "Including you, monsieur le Capitaine. And as for Noix, if Lieutenant Sharpe does not wish to keep her, he should sell her. She is calm and obedient, a good horse for an officer. I should not be insulted if he did so. She is his, to do with as he wishes."

He hitched up the blanket, and took the paper for his parole, reading it carefully. "The bounds - I may not go outside Lisbon? Will that allow me to go to... I believe there is a place called Belem?"