Under guard in Lisbon

Padstowe frowned, not only puzzled by Edrington's tone, but somewhat hurt by it. What did this colonel think he was? Some manipulative monster?

"I have nothing to interrogate M. des Sablières about," he said, taking his feet down and sitting up straight. "I arranged for his parole and thought you might like me to conduct you here, seeing as you are new to Lisbon and it would have been uncivil to only give you directions."

His frown deepened. He could not understand why Edrington had become so damned hostile all of a sudden, seeming as nothing he had overheard had indicated anything of the sort.

Edrington raised an eyebrow. "It was civil, and I am grateful. I am sorry if I sounded curt, but ... If you know what Captain des Sablières was doing, and he knows you know everything, then why are you both ... I thought you might need to know things that Raoul would be unwilling to tell you as your prisoner, but that he might tell me as a friend." He grimaced. "That may be what he thinks - he did not tell me everything, and I was unwilling to confirm his suspicions by asking."

(OOC - Interrupting, I know. Can we assume Cotton has brought Captain Raoul's uniform back earlier, unnoticed? 'Cause I think Captain Vickery's going to want him soon...)

"Your friend is in no danger, my lord," Padstowe said, softening his tone a little. "He is the usual run-of-the-mill captured officer; wrong place, wrong time. He will most likely be free to go about his leisure after the bulk of the army leaves tomorrow. He is only being kept here at the moment for convenience's sake."

[OOC: Ok. Fine by me - I think it was earlier on in the thread anyway that Raoul said he'd got it back.]

"Of course, and thank you for your assurances. It was a rather more difficult conversation than I had expected." Edrington looked away. "In that respect, it is a pity that we leave tomorrow." Although not in other respects. "If there is anything I can do for the boy, you know where I'll be - probably better than I'll know where I am."

"I shall do my best to be of service, my lord," Padstowe said humbly, letting the last comment slide by without taking notice of it.

Damn it. It had not meant to sound like an order, but a request. Or was Padstowe mocking him? It did not matter, provided he meant no harm to the boy, who was a boy no longer.

"Thank you. I shall leave you to carry on. I think I can find my way back from here, at least if I find the market place again." He nodded again and then remembered. "Raoul wanted to see you - something about a pass to get to Belem. Is that where his men are held?"

"It is, though all but one are in the hospital there."

And maybe one in his grave by now, Padstowe thought sadly as he remembered the unfortunte Thierry; though he hd been asked to be kept closely informed on the man's health. He stood, taking acouple of last gulps of the tea before handing the mug back.

"Thank you, Roberts. I shall see him directly," he said to Edrington. "Perhaps we might see each other in the Mess later, sir."

He hoped not - would be eating at home this evening amongst his paperwork in fact - but it sounded a polite enough indication that they should part ways.

"Thank you - but probably not. If I do come back, though, I shall remember your advice about the wine." And the advice about Sharpe. "Good bye." He nodded, replaced his hat and left to walk back to the Regimental HQ. Among all the other tasks, he now had to write to his mother.

[And returns to With the 62nd]

Padstowe waited until Edrington was gone, and the reclimbed the stairs to des Sablières' room and knocked on the door again.

Raoul had returned to sit on the bed, staring down at his clasped hands, the book abandoned. Now the opportunity had gone, he felt the need to talk, to look for advice, reassurance, something. So much had gone wrong, though, that it would have been impossible. At least, not to the Earl.

His head lifted at the knock and he stood up, and crossed quickly to the door. Padstowe. Of course, he would need a pass for tomorrow. He stepped back to allow the other man in. "Thank you. I did not expect you so soon."

"It seemed a foolish to go away again and come back," Padstowe said, walking in and seating himself at the table. "Considering I was already here."

He pulled a clean sheet of paper from his coat, borrowing pen and ink from Raoul and began writing out the pass.

"I was unaware Lord Edrington and yourself were acquainted."

Raoul looked down at him. "You think I should have gone on about 'My friend, the Earl of Edrington'?" he said half-mocking himself. "But I would not have said 'friend'. Had I known he was here, I might have mentioned it. Or not - I would not have been sure that he would have welcomed having the acquaintance of a French prisoner." He watched Padstowe write, and said, quietly. "It will not cause problems for him, I hope. With you?"

"Why should it?" Padstowe said, signing the bottom of the paper. "This should grant you access to the fort and hospital at Belem to see your men."

Raoul took the paper and folded it. "Thank you. I will go tomorrow morning." That dealt with, he returned to the earlier remark. "Because you are what you are, Captain - and the Doctor is who he is. I said nothing to the Earl about that, because... For a number of reasons, but because it is not his world, nor his kind of war." Then with feeling, he added: "And I wish I had not been dragged into it, either."

Of all the things to have said des Sablières could not have chosen a better parting shot. The significance of the 'what' and 'who' did not escape Padstowe, and it wounded him deeply, wiping away all semblance of polite cheerfulness to be replaced by moroseness. He handed the French officer the paper.

"Goodbye, monsieur," he said, trying to keep his voice from trembling. "I shall like as not see you again before you are transferred."

And then departed without a further word, picking up his hat and shutting the door gently behind him. On his way down the stairs and out into the street he reflected on des Sablières' words. You are what you are... Yes, he knew what he had become; but he was not some soulless monster like Prideaux or Ickx, nor some toadying weakling like Saint-Laurent who would sell his own mother to save his skin. He still had honour, still had his coat... and then yet again he wondered whether he disgraced the honour of a regiment that no longer had a place from him. He was alone, a soldier without a home or reason, and this hurt him more than any bullet or sword could hurt him.

He walked into the courtyard, a cloud of misery above his head, not glancing back. Perhaps it was best he was going away from this city; for what had started as a stay full of hope had now become hollow.

Meeting Edrington like that had been disturbing, and Raoul had spent an uneasy night. But towards morning he had fallen into a deep sleep, which even the sound of drums and marching had failed to penetrate. He had not woken until the orderly had come into the room with his breakfast - as always, bread, butter, and tea, this time with a piece of honeycomb. He had drunk some of the tea, then washed, and dressed in his uniform trousers and shirt. The hussar jacket hung still on the back of the chair. No point in adding honey smudges to the irremovable traces of blood.

He was finishing the tea when there was a knock. The orderly - or a message about his arrangements to visit Belem. He got up, wiping his fingers and opened the door.

Stephen did not quite know what to make of des Sablières. He honestly believed that he was a good man - dutiful, loyal, honourable, all almost to the point of fault. He cared for his men, cared deeply, and that was something he could understand and appreciate. Civil, kind, young and idealistic - the antithesis of himself, in some ways. He had a genuine liking for him, he believed.

But he wondered at the man's moral cowardice, and it was something he could not forgive. It made for an reserve, an awkwardness even greater than what would be usual in their highly unusual situation.

He stood outside the door, knocked briskly, and waited. The army would be moving out later in the day, and he did not plan to be late. He had left his knapsack at the bottom of the stairs, and stood wearing his black coat and wig, his sword belt crossing from right shoulder to left hip and the strap of his leather medico's bag going from left shoulder to right hip, which made the crutch more difficult to manoeuvre. But he had promised that he would visit the French captain and attend to his wounded, and he was a man of his word.

Raoul stepped back. "Dr Maturin." The man was burdened with sword, bag and crutch, and looked tired and harassed, as if this were an additional burden on top of all his other duties. One that, from the coldness in his eyes, he did not relish. If it was about the prisoners, it must be bad news.

"Please, come in," Raoul said. "You have come about my men - is there more news? I am to go there this morning. I have a paper..."

"Thank you." Stephen stepped inside. "I am about to go to Belem also - other duties yesterday prevented me from going myself, although Dr McGrigor was kind enough to send a brief message - all of them are doing well, he says. Thierry has a slight fever, but even with that he seems to be breathing easier, thank God."

"Oh, I thought... Perhaps we can go together." Raoul pushed his hair back, and wondered if that was the reason for the doctor's visit. Or something else. "Sit down, sir. I will be ready in a moment." There was little enough to do. The sword Padstowe had returned would stay here - it would not be right to wear it while he was a prisoner. He just had to put on hs coat.

"Perhaps, if you are going that way yourself." He declined the seat with a barely-polite gesture, but looked genuinely sympathetic when he spoke again. "McGrigor thinks that we will need to amputate Thierry's arm - I am sorry, but it is essential."

Raoul closed his eyes for a moment. "I see. That - he will hate that. If you must do it, I should be there. But he will live? I was afraid that he took that wound for me and that it would kill him."

He looked up at Dr Maturin. "I have heard nothing about Brissac and the others. Did ..." He shook his head. "You know what I want to ask. Did the irregulars stop them? I know how Thierry was shot, you see."

"You and I will go together then. And I think I must do it. We cannot set it, and if it becomes infected, and with a splintered fracture such as this, and at the joint too, that is very possible, then no matter what progress he has made with the bullet wound - and he has made progress - it will all be for naught."

Stephen shook his head. "I am as concerned as you are on that issue, and I regret to say that I have heard nothing: no news at all."

The problem over Brissac was not his - or not his at the moment. If they got back to Oporto - but surely they could not succeed? - that might cause problems. He had done what he thought best at each stage, and would admit to his mistakes, but Brissac, returning without him, would be free to twist those mistakes into something much worse. And one day he would be exchanged.

But Thierry's need was more immediate. "Then it must be done, doctor. I am with you." He picked up the coat.