On Parole in Lisbon

It took a moment for Stephen's mind to catch up. "Before the court martial, you mean? That was not at the Battle of the Nile - that was some years later. I was on board, and we were treated supremely well. We met our captor again for dinner, when we were in France during the Peace." From what Jack had told him later, he knew that Pallière had tried to warn them, the night before Napoleon declared war and began to seized British subjects - another man torn between loyalty to his country and his conscience. He wondered if he might relate the story to des Sablières, without names.

"I am glad. I would have been angry on your account. Perhaps if there is another Peace we might meet. I should be glad of that." Yet there seemed no likelihood of peace in the foreseeable future. The war would go on, moving from country to country, leaving lives and homes broken. "But that will not be for some time," he concluded, unhappily.

"You would have been angry...?" Stephen began to laugh, a wheezing creak that turned into a rocking paroxysm. He was aware of how insensitive he was being, but he could not help it. Jonathan had been right - this was cathartic. He laid his head in his folded arms on the table, his shoulders shaking in pain and mirth.

Eventually he stopped, and wiped his eyes on his sleeve, hiccuping. "Oh, Raoul des Sablières, God love you. Bless you, my dear. Oh."

For a moment Raoul thought that Maturin was choking, the harsh wheezing sound as if his breath had caught in his throat. When he recognized it for what it was, and that it was almost involuntary, he sat back, his mouth set in a straight line, and his eyes frowning. The other patrons were openly watching them now - almost from the moment of their arrival they had been behaving strangely and now the doctor's helpless laughter could not be ignored.

He waited until the doctor recovered enough to speak, and was touched by the warmth of his words. It brought an answering warmth to his own grey eyes, and his lips twitched. He leaned forward to lay a hand on the doctor's arm. "Monsieur," he said softly, "you are tired and - not yet well. Would you go to Belem now, if we found your mule?"

"In a moment, Capitaine - I declare you are wasted as a hussar. Fuss, fuss, fuss; your vocation is that of a nursemaid. I am still hungry, and I will not waste food that I have paid good money for." Having said that, he pocketed the remaining hunk of bread, and set about to finishing his sausage. "Have you had enough yourself?"

Raoul picked up one of the apples, but before biting into it he said, still smiling: "Then I shall know what to do when there is peace. And if you do not want me to fuss, then stop giving me cause to do so." He bit into the apple, soft and wrinkled from the winter's storage, but very sweet.

"I do not. I am a physician, not a child in long clothes; I am entirely capable of taking care of myself without the need for constant fussing from a hussar. Even one with an ambition to be a nursemaid. Are the apples good?"

"If I were your nursemaid, you would be sent to bed immediately. For impertinence." He grinned at the doctor's expression. "Go to Belem and you will be free from me. Just rest. The apple is very good. Sweet."

"Then I will take it instead of offering it to you, for that comment!" Stephen smiled then, and pocketed the apple as well. "I suppose I ought to be getting back to the hospital - it is not yet sunset, I hope."

"Not yet, but you have still to find your mule. If it is late, perhaps Mr Dawson could be prevailed upon... He has not yet replaced the officers who lodged with him."

"No, no, I really must get back to Captain Padstowe..." Stephen rubbed his chin, gazing up at the ceiling in the vain hope that it showed a map of the city. "I left her at Headquarters, which should not be so very far from here."

That was a relief. He had half expected the answer to be that he had left it in a stable run by a man whose name he could not immediately remember. "We can find Headquarters - even if we have to ask. And then I must return to Mr Dawson myself." Raoul stood up, and waited.

"Oh, no, we shall not have to ask; if we are entirely unable to find our bearings I will walk you back to Mister Dawson's house and bid farewell to you there, and then trace my earlier route back to my mount," said Stephen, waving goodbye to the tavernkeeper. "Obrigado, senhor!"

There was still sunlight shining on the shuttered windows of the upper storeys of the houses on the other side of the street. The street itself was shaded and cool. It could not be long before sunset, but the shops and bars seemed to be reopening now that it was cooler.

Raoul could offer no advice as to the direction of the Headquarters. He had become confused on the way to the bar, and was not even confident that he could find Mr Dawson's house again. But Dr Maturin had been at least been here and to Headquarters before, and might hopefully be able to find it again. He had after all successfully navigated his way to the bar.

"Now. I walked south from Headquarters to Mister Dawson's, and then we walked down and across and around like so," - demonstrating with a finger in the air - "and as we are currently facing the sun, we must be facing east. So the most expeditious way back to Headquarters should be through that alleyway there."

"I think the sun is in the west," Raoul said, with an air of respect. "Just at the moment."

"Oh." Stephen paused for just a second. "I meant west! Of course we are facing west."

"So that lane leads east," said Raoul. Then turned round in a full circle and said. "South is up this road, then? If Headquarters is ... "

"I have it!" Stephen looked pleased. "When we walked towards the tavern, the sun was kept to our left - so, if we now keep the sun to our right, we might find the way back." He pointed. "I think it is that road - I do not recognise the opening from this end, but the angle would be correct, and I am told that navigation is a very mathematical matter."

"Do you have a mathematical bend?" Raoul asked as they headed in the direction Stephen had pointed. "Or a good sense of direction?"

"Not- not entirely, I am forced to admit." He turned to face des Sablières. "But you soldiers go gallivanting all about the countryside, and I know that you have a good eye. Do you think this is the right direction?"

"We do a lot of galloping, but I find it is easier with a map - or at least to know where one is going. I do not think I know the Headquarters Building, but the Guard house should be," Raoul pointed in the opposite direction.

"That way would take us back to Mr Dawson's house, though, if you prefer to go that way."

Stephen dithered. "I do not know which... Let us go back to Mr. Dawson's, and I will bid you farewell there."

It seemed almost quiet in the city after the three regiments had marched out to bands and fanfare the day before. The streets were less crowded with red coats, which made moving about a good deal easier. That was one small blessing, he supposed. He straighted his shako atop his head and stepped around a woman carrying an over-flowing basket of clothes. Only a couple of days had passed since he'd entered Lisbon again and already he was becoming restless to be back in the open country. Soon, he promised himself. Soon he'd be on his way again and wandering as he pleased.

He was passively searching for a likely place to idle away a few hours when he spotted a familiar face. In the milling crowd ahead, two men were strolling along and Davenport stopped in his tracks, his brow furrowing in slight alarm. He knew both of them but they would not know him, not in this guise. He very nearly sought the shelter of the nearest alleyway before remembering his present attire. A soldier would not hide from a pair of apparent civilians.

Oh but it seemed that the pair were lost. Davenport felt himself grin around the pipe stem between his teeth. This could be interesting. He set his initial fear aside and shifted away from the alleyway and picked his way casually toward the pair, trailing a light, wisping curl of smoke from his pipe. Aside from his distinctive red coat, his only accoutrement was a single crossbelt with a bayonet, so he was confident that he wouldn't present an overly threatening front. Just as long as he was not immediately recognised...

"G'evening, gents. Lost an' all ar'yeh?" Davenport grinned and puffed at his pipe.

Raoul caught at Maturin's arm to bring him to a halt. The soldier who had accosted them was smiling round his pipe stem, not in a threatening way, but with what might have been construed as disrespect. But then, he thought, neither he nor Dr Maturin looked exactly like wealthy and respectable gentlemen. And any offer was better than wandering around. He wanted to make sure that Maturin found his mule, and the way to Belem, before abandoning him. And the sun was nearly set. He did not recognize the uniform, but the accent was rural, and that, rather than any real impudence, might explain the attitude.

"Thank you," he responded. "Not lost -" with a glance at the doctor -"we were discussing which was the quickest way from here to the British Army Headquarters. Can you tell us? My friend has business there."