Under guard in Lisbon

"Yes, your men are at the hosptial there. You uninjured man is being held there also."

"Broussard will be no trouble. But you know that, of course. At least until they can return to our Army. And the boy Aucoin. But..." That was not Padstowe's concern. "I will go there, if I may. Perhaps Dr Maturin will arrange something... "

There appeared to be nothing unacceptable about the parole, and he wrote his name at the bottom. "There. That is done. You may now list me as finished business." He took a firm hold of the blanket with one hand, and held out his right. "Au revoir et merci, monsieur."

Padstowe shook his hand.

"Not quite finished business, monsieur," he said. "But one who shall not be troubled for the timebeing. Good day."

And he left, closing the door behind him. He turned to Cotton.

"Is there a laundry woman about the place?"

Typical officer, asking strange questions. Though maybe not so strange, considering the state the Frenchman's uniform was in.

"I, uh, dunno, sir. Though Sergeant Mayberry would, if'n you ask him." He hesitated, puzzled. "If he's signed his parole, sir, am I still needed on guard here, or what do I do?"

Quite a sensible question from the man, and one that padstowe had overlooked.

"No, not to guard; though it would be good if you could wait until I send someone up with fresh linen and to do his laundry - I'll send a note with them detailing what he should do about meals and such."

"Alright, sir. Thank you." There wasn't really anything else to say and much as Cotton wanted the company for a bit, this was an officer, and he really couldn't detain him by discussing the army's gossip about moving out and doing what they were paid for.

"Good. Be so kind as to give my regards to Captain Vickery."

He smiled and then started down the stairs to find Sergeant Mayberry.

"Sir."

And the officer was gone, hardly even waiting for Cotton's acknowledgment of his order. Ah well. At least he wasn't going to be stuck here all night.

After Padstowe's departure Raoul stood looking at the closed door thoughtfully. Not quite finished business, then. Well, that did not surprise him. What did was the fact that they had taken his parole so swiftly. But of course, he could not leave this room, this guarded building, quite so easily, even if he were paroled. He would remain - at least until he had clothes fit to be seen in the city.

He opened the saddlebags and looked at his possessions. He looked through the sketches - Noix, and Thierry scowling at him - he had pretended to hate being sketched - and a stork's nest on an old ruined windmill. None of the ones he had done on this journey. Of course. He grimaced, and took out the Rousseau and opened it where the bookmark lay. That had been his stupidity. He had not even thought of it until Padstowe had mentioned it.

Raoul wrapped the blanket round him again, and returned to the bed. Rousseau would send him to sleep. He wondered if he should ask Padstowe if he had anything more amusing he could read.

Pumphrey was reading his mail in his rooms. Despite his hints, Sir Arthur Wellesley hadn't seen fit to offer him an office in the building he had taken for the Army's headquarters. Sir Arthur did not trust him. But what regular army liked the diplomatic service? This did just as well. There was none to report on his comings and goings, and he was privy to the gossip of the common soldier.

What he had recently heard was interesting. Very interesting. His landlady's chore boy had reported that a French cavalry troupe* had been captured. By Captain Padstowe and Lieutenant Sharpe no less. A walk in the streets and he had determined that a Captain was also taken. He already had the name and where he was held. No doubt he would sign a parole and be allowed to take rooms in Lisbon instead of languishing in the goal.

Now... which party was guilty of playing too deep within enemy lines? He would find out soon enough. But what was the information worth?
He tapped his writing desk, sifting through facts, whispers, rumors and innuendos. His steel-trap of a mind sorting through what he needed to know.

He would have to visit with Sharpe. Mmm... delicious prospect... but work before pleasure. He turned his mind to facts again. Made short seemingly disconnected notes of no meaning.



OOC notes:
* ('zat what they are called?)

[OOC - Raoul called them a Company or a Troop, with Troopers. Not a troupe or troupers, who sound a bit like can-can dancers. Because you could use the correct term, in French - pretentious, vous, milord?]

Morning. Raoul had woken in a sunlit room, when an orderly had brought him breakfast. Bread, butter, jam, coffee. Somewhere, people would be eating much more, but this would do. His awful pile of clothes had been removed, replaced with underclothes, stockings, light pantaloons and a white linen shirt. His boots had been cleaned! It was like staying in a country house, but even so, only for the most relaxed houseparties would one appear outside one's room so casually dressed. Despite his parole, he was effectively still confined to this house, if not to his room (because surely he was exempt from the rules of strictest society here). At least until his uniform was returned.

They had brought his uniform back late in the afternoon. Not totally clean - that would have been impossible, but all that remained was a slightly rusty appearance. It would serve. But now he could, he was unwilling to leave the room. To stroll around Lisbon in a French Hussars' uniform, without any aim, just because he was free to do so. Tomorrow, he would ask if he could go to the hospital, and for that he would dress properly. He had received a note, just to confirm that the men were there and receiving treatment - no details. That would have to wait until he went himself. And, he rather thought, with a note from Padstowe or the doctor, if he could contact either of them.

For the time being, he left the uniform in the neat pile that had been placed on the table.

At the knock on the door Raoul closed the book, the torn slip of paper marking his place, and laid it on the table. In this house there were no casual visitors. And it was too early for another meal.

He opened the door.

"Captain Padstowe." He smiled as warmly as he could manage. The Captain would at least be able to arrange for him to go to Belem, wherever that was. He stepped back, holding the door open.

"Captain." Padstowe gave the young man a genuine smile, but did not immediately step into the room. "I hope I find you in a fit state to receive visitors?"

He remembered yesterday's incident very well, and though he had been embarrassed at the time had later laughed at it on the way home. Cotton was obviously not one for tact or too sensible decency; probably came from the freedom of wandering in and out an officer's quarters whenever the whim took him.

Raoul smiled back. "With thanks to you, I am perfectly decent. And clean. There is a problem?" Behind Padstowe there was a figure also in red. A visitor might mean trouble, but this man - there was something about the stance that was familiar. He stepped back, allowing Padstowe and his companion to enter the room. Once out of the dark corridor it was clear that he had not been mistaken. He smiled with real warmth and said: "My lord, this is... How come you to be here?" He looked at Padstowe and said, rather stupidly: "I knew his lordship from England."

The captain's smile broadened.

"So I have been informed," he said politely. He turned to Edrington. "I shall wait downstairs, my lord. Should you need anything in the meantime do not hesitate to ask the sentry."

"That is why I am here, Raoul - I mean, Captain des Sablières. I heard of your... That you were here, and asked Captain Padstowe to bring me." The Captain's offer to leave them alone surprised him. He had expected to have to talk in front of him. "Thank you, Captain. Under the circumstances, I do not expect to be long."

Possibly, if Raoul had been in uniform, he would have looked less like his younger self. If you ignored the stupid little moustache, and the bruising round the eyes, and the harder set to the mouth... He had changed, Edrington admitted. But so had he at that age.

"I will leave you gentlemen to talk then," he said, and withdrew. It was not much of a risk, leaving the two of them together alone in the room - but Padstowe was a curious man, and he knew what he was about to do was dishonourable. He talked in a low murmur to the sentry, who looked at him surprised, but obeyed and made his way downstairs, leaving Padstowe alone outside the door. Inside Edrington would have heard the murmured voices, but not the words, and one man's boots going down the stairs. He shufled his feet a little, as if he were just fending off numbness from standing too long, and carefully pressed his ear to the woodwork; praying that he would hear any indication of either man coming to the door and would be able to make himself scarce.

Raoul was conscious of the other man's scrutiny, but merely met his look calmly. Then his lip twitched. "Yes, and I am taller -again. Sit down, milord. And tell me... Tell me why you are here."

He would have trusted Edrington, but not Padstowe. But even if he had had secrets, he would not have told Edrington, who was too English to understand.

Edrington sat down and said: "I heard your name, and made enquiries. Captain Padstowe speaks well of you. As for why I came - to make sure you were well, so that I could write to the Countess, and she can tell your parents that you are safe."

"Thank you. You may tell your mother that I am well. I am paroled, so I can leave this place as soon as there is somewhere else to put me. And now I have my uniform..." Raoul looked at Edrington, frowning. "There are things I must do. But I am not looking forward to being so obviously a prisoner in Lisbon."

That made sense. "How did this happen?"

The frown deepened. A simplified truth, for Edrington to pass back to his parents - and so that he did not become enmeshed in the complications of Padstowe's business. "We were scouting - too far South, but to see if your Army was on the move, against us. Or to prepare to move south ourselves. And we ... We heard of a group of English soldiers, and ..." Even the simplified truth was painful. "We did not realize they were supported by the irregulars. I lost eleven of my thirty men, five others surrendered with me, and the rest... I doubt if they would make it back to Oporto. It was a disaster."

"That's ..." Raoul saw that Edrington was not convinced.

"It was rather more complicated than that," he admitted. "But that is close enough. I did the best I could."

Raoul was lying, that much was clear. But that was not surprising - you did not suddenly tell the truth to your captors just because they had known you since you were a child. Whatever the Hussars had been doing, it was clear that they had been the ones out of their territory. That made a difference, and... No, Padstowe had to know more about the truth than Raoul was telling him. Which made it an unspoken conspiracy to keep the grubby details from the simple soldier.

He smiled crookedly. "It's always more complicated, Raoul. I am sure you did do your best - you always did. Captain Padstowe says the same." Raoul was shaking his head. Eleven dead and five captured, from thirty, was not something you could be persuaded to forget. Even if the others did get back safely. He could not hope that they did. They were enemy soldiers for whom he felt no compassion, except that their safety might lift Raoul's misery.

"I am leaving Lisbon tomorrow," he said abruptly. "If you need anything - funds, or anything - you can contact me. Captain Padstowe will know how." He thought about the general movement of the Army. "You'll be exchanged, I'm sure. But there may be a delay. So - Do you need anything?"

Raoul shook his head. "I don't know. I don't think so. Or - something Captain Padstowe can give me - a pass to go to Belem. Do you know it? Perhaps you could mention it to him." His jaw tightened. "Thank you, anyway."

Edrington stared at him. "If you think of anything. And this..." He handed over the packet. "Not Orange Pekoe, I'm afraid."

The genuine smile returned to Raoul's face. "Tea?"

"I know, you are awash with tea here. But I thought you had already been paroled." It had been a stupid thing to buy. And there were things to do - he still had not completely sorted out his own gear for the move north, and he should not leave all the work to Vereker. Not just for a French prisoner.

Raoul stood up. "It was good to see you, milord. If I wrote a letter - not now, but when there is news - would you send it on?"

"Of course. And let me know as well."

"Yes." They looked at each other, and Edrington nodded.

"I must go. Take care, Raoul."

"You too milord. I think I am safe for now." He took Edrington's hand in his. "Now, please go, and ask Captain Padstowe if he could spare me a few minutes this evening."

Raoul took a deep breath as the door closed. The Earl had seen that he was lying, of course. But the truth was a tangle which one pulled thread might unravel. Mention Captain Padstowe, or - even worse - Dr Maturin, and you had to tell about the spy Prideaux, and then St-Laurent, and the papers, and... and what he had failed to stop. And that was too much to say, in haste.

The sentry must have gone, Edrington thought as he came out of the room. He could have sworn... He smiled wryly. Presumably he would find Padstowe downstairs, waiting patiently. He could deliver his message, and get back to unpacking and repacking. And paperwork.

[That's it. It may be easier if there really are two of you, or perhaps not. But at least I could mod as much as I wanted.]

Padstowe was waiting downstairs, talking to the sentry quietly. Thecolonel and captain had spent far less time together than he had anticipated and, hearing their moves to leave, had slipped off his boots and tiptoed down the staircase, avoiding the creaky treads he had mentally marked yesterday. This had received some strange looks from the two guards, but he had just smiled cheerfully, put his boots back on and asked for a cup of tea.

He was seated now in the kitchen, his feet resting in front of the small stove the guards kept going for their water and had managed to drink about a third of a borrowd tin mug when heard Edrington coming down the stairs. He'd made it just in time as well. He was relieved that des Sablières had not betrayed him or Edrington pressed too many questions; so perhaps it may be safe to exchange him?

He looked up as the colonel found his way to the kitchen and smiled.

"Everything alright, my lord?"

Edrington did not return the smile, but studied the Captain. "Not everything, Captain. He's naturally bitterly upset at the loss of so many of his men, though at least some of them escaped, and may return safely to Oporto. I don't think I can say that he will get over it - do any of us?"

"And like you, he seems to have decided that I should not know what happened, or exactly how he came to attack a small British force so far from his own lines. Did you hope that I would act as your interrogator?"