On Parole in Lisbon

The brim of the man's shako cast a long shadow across his face, and Stephen raised a hand to shield his eyes against the red sunlight. He was certain he knew the man, but could not think of why - he did not recognise the man's accent, or his languorous manner, and his voice was disguised by his gripping his pipe with his teeth. He did not know many soldiers at all - not British soldiers, and this man was not even one he had passed in the street. He could not place him at all.

"Do I...?" he said, half to himself.

"Headquarters? Straigh' up yon, so they is, not butta few streets off. B'iness there y'say?"

Now that he was settled on it, it was almost entertaining to play the part. Davenport used his pipe to point out the direction. "Can't miss it sure. But c'mon an' I'll show ya right I will."

"Thank you," said Raoul, before Maturin could reject the offer out of pride. He would not admit to being lost! A glance at the doctor showed him looking at the soldier with narrowed eyes, though that might just be the low sun. Raoul turned back to look at the man more closely, but he looked no different from those he had seen during his days in the Guard House. Slightly familiar, in the way men in uniform are alike until you know them as individuals.

"We shall be grateful," he added, trusting that Maturin would not let them be led into danger.

Stephen nodded absently. "Private, have we met before?" He tried to peer through the shade to the man's eyes, though he was certain he had no acquaintance with such a broad accent.

The pipe was back in his mouth and giving off light wisps of fragrant smoke. Davenport nodded at the taller man's response and was ready to lead the pair toward their desired destination when the smaller fellow asked a question Davenport had been hoping not to hear. He had an answer of course, but he would've preferred not to even start down that particular thread of conversation.

"Met 'fore, sir? Why never, I think! Unless we gone'n passed on a street some-place here'bouts." He squinted, as if looking closely at the man's face. Then he shook his head. "But there's a lotta fellows caperin' 'round the city, prolly thinkin'a one of them right 'nuff. C'mon then!" Davenport added cheerfully, his wordy reply feeling cumbersome yet natural. He tipped his shako back just slightly and waited for the other two to decide they were ready to follow.

Stephen touched des Sablières elbow. "A moment."

"Might you remove your shako, private? I should like the be able to recognise the kind soul who came to our aid in the future."

Damn damn damn. The smaller fellow was suspicious. He had to be. Nothing else for it but to oblige, however. Davenport grinned and pulled off his shako. "Yer too gen'rous with yer praise, sir, but I'm 'bliged anyways. Private Davenport at yer service."

Stephen relaxed as the man removed his shako. For God's love... He raised an eyebrow. "Private Davenport."

The face was familiar, but he could not place it. If it had not been for Maturin's reaction, Raoul would not have looked twice. It would annoy him, and he stared at the soldier too long for politeness, then looked from him to Maturin.

He could understand maintaining the disguise if des Sablières were present, but he could not understand why Calderón would risk it in the first place, and approach them. Perhaps he wished to know if the Frenchman could recognise him - it did not appear so, even with the shako removed, and his face fully lit. The Spaniard had always been something of a force unto his own - his impetuousness with young Perkins proved that - and Stephen gave up on trying to figure out the other man's logic.

"Well, Headquarters," he said, looking up with a blank expression at des Sablières. "Shall we?"

"Headquarters," Raoul agreed, and looked back at the soldier, smiling. "Thank you. We shall be glad to be shown the way."

He'd been recognised. He knew it. Yet the only thing was to run with it. Davenport fitted his shako back on and took another puff on his pipe. Headquarters it was then.

"Thissaway, sirs, ain't far t'all."

As they walked down one alleyway and then another, Stephen wondered how Calderón had come to know his way around the city in such a short space of time - he had assumed that the scout would spend more time in the countryside. "So, Private Davenport, is there any particular reason you are in Lisbon, instead of marching north?" he asked in a conversational tone.

That question he could answer comfortably. Though... it was sure to be one of the few. "The resta the regiment ain't here, sir. On'y me'n a couple others. Dunno why, there's nothin' fer doin' here wit'out the lads 'round'bouts." He shrugged. "Not slightin' them others though!"

Raoul was becoming increasingly uncomfortable as the soldier led them into the maze of streets and alleys with linked by stairs that twisted behind the houses up the side of the hill. The soldier might have no more than a bayonet, but he was totally unarmed. And who was to say there would not be an ambush somewhere. Perhaps not aimed at him but at Maturin - as Padstowe had been attacked only a couple of nights earlier. This man, with his thick country accent had to be British, surely, although he himself showed how language and accent could be learned. But could the man be Portuguese, after all...

Raoul stopped in his tracks, the thought finally completing the sketch he had mentally been creating. He looked angrily at Maturin, who had certainly recognized the man and conspired to deceive him, and then at Calderón. The question of the British uniform was less urgent than his intentions.

Stephen caught des Sablières angry look, and shrugged.

If he was wrong, they would let him leave, Raoul thought. He did not fear the British, but the Irregulars were another matter. Only a couple of hours ago he had learned of the vengeance taken against four of his men, men who did not bear the responsibility of command. It had been stupid of him to trust Maturin so blindly, knowing of his contacts with - even his friendship for - this man. Calderón had been in apparent command of those Irregulars who had allied themselves with the Riflemen. Perhaps even in command of those who had tied his wounded men to trees and shot them.

The doctor's shrug seemed to say that he could do nothing - but had this meeting been entirely by chance? Raoul tried to smile, and said: "I think the good Private will be able to see you safely to the Headquarters, doctor. You do not need my escort any more. Thank you for the meal. I - I shall leave you now, if you will allow me. Sir." He cast a wary glance at the man calling himself Davenport, as he took his leave.

"One moment," Stephen said to Calderón, following des Sablières at a trot. "Are you all right, Capitaine? Do you know the way back?"

"I can find it," Raoul said in a hard voice. "I think that even lost, I shall be safer than if I go with that man, do you not?" He blinked, angry at himself for the sense of loss he was suffering. "I trusted you," he said softly. "But do not fear, I am still bound by my word."

"You think José-" Stephen's eyes widened. "I do not know what he is doing. I know that he is here in Lisbon for a reason, but he does not report to me. But I know him, I-" But is was true. Calderón worked for someone else. Calderón had nearly killed Perkins. Calderón was carrying on this ridiculous charade.

Stephen swore under his breath, and looked up at des Sablières, understanding his look. "Come on, hurry," he said, taking his arm. "Let us go, before he notices."

Raoul wanted to trust the doctor, at a heart-felt level he did, but still he asked, hoping that the doctor would at least not lie to him: "You did not arrange this, then?"

Stephen shook his head, replacing an expression of shock with one of earnest. "Capitaine, I did not even know that we would leave your lodgings together. I do not know what game Davenport is playing, but I have no part in it. Nor will I."

He said nothing as the Frenchman abruptly stopped and turned an angry glare at the smaller man. Of course he pretended not to directly notice and in fact continued walking as if there was nothing at all amiss. Everything was wrong now however and he knew there was no escaping it. The Frenchman had pieced it all together - he had to have done - and was now just as wary as Davenport often became. Not that he could be blamed for it, after the wildness of the journey to Lisbon just days earlier.

Perhaps he had been a fool, a very prideful one, to have approached the two men so boldly. Perhaps he had gotten too comfortable too quickly with his true role. Perhaps... Davenport bit down on his pipe stem and grimaced. Perhaps, because he had been so willingly careless, he could not return to the open country to roam as he pleased and learn what he could. French officers often got paroled and returned to their own people, and the risks of such men telling all they knew were great. The Cornishman sighed. He had, most likely, just signed his own death warrant.

He stopped and turned partway back, his gaze drifting purposely toward the Frenchman, now several yards behind. There was nothing to say that could ease either man's tempers so he would not try. Especially not Maturin's - and Davenport was sure he would not be easy around the man again. "Afor'eego," he called out to the pair. Then he straightened his back and gave his heels a stamp. It had been a long time since he'd saluted an officer with a genuine feeling but he tried to give the gesture enough snap to make it perfect. To try to convey his understanding of what both men must be feeling. But he'd never know if he might succeed.

It was time to go. Before he did something else to further destroy his cover.

It was dangerous, but Stephen decided that not knowing was the greater evil. "I will find out what I can," he said in French to des Sablières as they stood, staring at Calderón, Davenport, rigidly at attention in a crisp salute. "Go to Dawson's - straight there - and I will call on you tomorrow." He looked up at the captain, almost imploringly. "Trust me."

Raoul began to protest, and stopped. Maturin was asking for trust, and he wanted to give it. Not totally, but enough for this. If he was wrong then he had very little hope at all - a Maturin who wanted him dead could achieve it without needing the help of the Portuguese.

So he nodded. "I'll go straight there," he agreed. He stared for a few more seconds at the soldier - the man wearing the uniform of a soldier - and then looked down and grasped Maturin's hand. "I do trust you. Take care." And turned and walked towards the setting sun and Mr Dawson's house.