On Parole in Lisbon

Stephen frowned. "And when did the bleeding stop?"

"I don't know. I forgot about it until after coming back to the city, when I left the Greys with the waggon."

Stephen looked like he wanted to strangle the man. "We rode for miles together, and you said nothing. Had it stopped bleeding by then?"

Davenport shrugged. "Probably. It wasn't something I paid much mind to. It was too good to be able to run without being chased."

"By God, I could hit you," said Stephen despairingly. "There is no bleeding at all now, is there?"

That one he could answer with complete certainty. "No."

"Well, that is something," Stephen said as he looked up at the first stars. "You cleaned it thoroughly? You are keeping it bandaged well?"

"I have and I am," he replied. "It is not putrid or even close to it." Davenport offered a mildly chiding smile. "Your reaction is precisely why I didn't tell you."

Stephen pointed his finger warningly. "My reaction is entirely correct in a doctor, José." They had come to Headquarters. "Will you not let me look at it now?"

There wasn't any reasonable excuse he could use to refuse, so he nodded. "Aye. There's a room just inside, nobody should be around anyway."

Stephen nodded. "Very well, but I must get back to the hospital soon, I am afraid. I said I would be returned by sunset, and it is already growing dark."

Ah. That was a perfect solution. Davenport was grateful to Maturin for offering him a way out of enduring treatment of his arm. "You might've mentioned that earlier. Don't let me keep you, sir. It's not a short walk back there."

"No, no, I really ought to look at your arm first."

"There's not a thing wrong with it, sir. Only a natural ache." Davenport shook his head. He wasn't about to give in if there was a chance of escaping. "If it was bad I would have taken myself to hospital and you'd be able to poke at it to your heart's content. Too," he added, "it isn't wise to wander the streets after dark."

"Well do I know it, José, but I am quite capable of looking after myself. Now, coat off, and roll your shirt-sleeve up."

He lifted an eyebrow, a sceptical expression passing across his face. "As capable as your Captain Padstowe?" The question would strike like a cutlass, he knew, but the point was one he felt compelled to make. He hadn't heard of the fates of the French hussars until that day, but word of the assault on the red-coat captain had gone through the city like a flood-water. He also hoped the question would stir Maturin into departing without troubling the bandage or the wound,

Yet, in the moments after his question was asked, he was unbuttoning his coat. Was he really so quick to bow under insistence?

Stephen's hand dropped away, and he looked at Calderón, stricken, his face white. "Why would you say that?"

"Is he not a fit and able sort?" Davenport asked. "There's not a red-coat in the city doesn't know what happened to him, sir. And he an officer. If thieves'll be that bold, sure they won't pass up anything else strollin' around at night." He favoured Maturin with a meaningful gaze, his half-removed coat forgotten. "Short tale being, it's hardly safe of late. Even for a red-coat."

Stephen almost trembled in fury at having Jonathan's condition used against him so. "I know all of this, Davenport. I know far more about this matter than you do, so I would advise you not to talk of matters you do not understand." Stephen bit his lip, and grabbed Calderón by the wrist, beginning to roll the sleeve up himself. "I will see to this, and then I shall be on my way."

"It's enough to know it happened." Davenport found he didn't care to know more about the incident, however easy it might be to learn more. When Maturin grabbed his arm and went to work rolling his shirt sleeve up, the Cornishman cursed and pulled away. Stubborn blackguard.

"It's easier this way," he said curtly, tugging his arm out of the sleeve. Really. "Just don't prod anything but the damned arm."

"And why not, pray?" Stephen said nastily, unrolling the bandage. "I would not want to," he muttered.

"Then why trouble yourself at all, as you're so clearly unwilling?" The sharp tone in Maturin's voice had not passed unnoticed and was easily matched. If the man was so concerned about keeping his appointment at the hospital, why did he delay?

"Because I have to," Stephen said simply as he examined the bare wound. "No sutures - that is why it has not closed yet. I think it is healing well enough without them, but there will be a larger scar." Stephen glared up at Calderón.

That wasn't much of an answer. Davenport glanced dismissively at the hole in his arm and shrugged. "It'll match the others," he said and pulled his shirt fully back on. "Now you may go and risk the journey to hospital, though you're bound to be late, I'm sure."

"Goodnight, Private Davenport. Thank you for your escort, however unnecessary," Stephen said coldly, before sweeping around and away.

When he came out of Headquarters, planning on leading his mule on foot until he was out of the city, Calderón was nowhere to be seen. There were a few men about the streets, and he peered at them as he walked past, but none of them were Davenport; most were locals - he only saw one man in British uniform, though there were a few members of the Portuguese militia. He thought of a few choice curses for the stubborn, foolish man, who had said such things, as he walked down the smaller streets that he knew took him out of the city.