On Parole in Lisbon

He watched Maturin leave without speaking. Enough had been said. Too much. His secret was now shared and may as well be considered exposed. Davenport shrugged his coat back on with an angry sigh. It was too dangerous to stay in the city any longer. He would have to abandon his passive trawling for information around Headquarters and all other small errands he had been meaning to take care of. All because he had stupidly chosen to approach the two men he should have been at every pains to avoid.

The house near the docks, where he stored his uniform, was reached after a brief, brisk walk. In only a few minutes, his red coat and the rest of his rig were safely packaged away underneath the floorboards and he was gone again, clothed in a loose-fitting shirt and trousers. At least it was dark, for all the perils that lurked in the shadows. He could pass unnoticed far more easily now and so he did. At least he was free to move and act as he pleased outside of the city's walls. But it was no comfort in the fact of the evening's events.

Lisbon was well at his back and forgotten before an hour had passed.


OOC - Hurray! Anger and discord!

As he walked through the western outskirts of the town, Stephen heard a great deal of commotion from one house - he gathered from the neighbours gathered in the street that old Sebastião, so close to his seventy-eighth birthday, had died in his bed the night before, and was only now being shriven. Stephen agreed with a huddle of older women that such a thing was terrible - what a fate to live in the city, and he said that he was sorry of all their troubles as he hurried away with his mule.

He realised as he walked that he has missed the Mediterranean sense of community, but it was not so very different from living on a ship. Then the small respite passed, and the dark thoughts of Calderón returned.

As soon as he was out of sight of the two men Raoul stopped, his fists clenched to stop the trembling that had set in. Coward, he said to himself, and remembered how he had resented Maturin saying the same thing - but that had been different. Just as deserved, but ... Over the last week, he had learned a great deal about himself, much of it difficult to reconcile with the image he had had.

He resisted the urge to follow Maturin and the man Calderón. They would surely spot him, and he could not risk forfeiting Maturin's regard again. It was the only thing that kept him from despair - that Maturin trusted him. And that he could trust Maturin. If he died, Maturin would see that his men were dealt with fairly, in a way that he would be unable to do. In fact, too much involvement from him would create problems for them, linking them with his guilt and dangerous knowledge. And that knowledge told him not to be concerned about Maturin, who surely knew what he was about.

He had been worried, when he left Maturin, that he would not be able to find his way back, despite his assumed confidence. But after a few minutes of climbing stairs in the increasing darkness, or looking at streets which might have been familiar if it had been day, he found himself in the broad central square, where he had eaten the day before. From there, and once he had found his bearings, it was only a few hundred yards along a broad avenue to Mr Dawson's house. The man pointedly checked the clock as he came in, but it was still only half-past seven, and Raoul made his way to his room without stopping. His mind was too full of his talk with Maturin, and he sat, staring out at the dark night, going over it in his head.

The Next Day:


As Stephen made his way to Mister Dawson's, concentrating on his route, he rubbed at his cheek self-consciously; he had not shaved in four days, and had not changed his clothes in five. Well, in truth he only had a spare shirt and neckcloth, but he ought to have changed those at least. Des Sablières, on the other hand, a prisoner, if on parole, was always well turned-out.

It would be a strange visit - it was based on promises made and secret confidences, and not simple, if extremely unpleasant, messages to be delivered. The question of des Sablières' loyalty was one that Stephen found interesting, and one that Stephen had been turning over in his mind, almost unconsciously - not as Saint Lawrence on the grill, but as with a penny in the pocket between the fingers. And then there was that Citizen Ickx, who had so disturbed the young captain.

Raoul had told Maturin that he did not usually remember his dreams, but in the morning he woke with a headache and a clear memory of dreaming of riding across country. The landscape had been desperately familiar to him in the dream, so that he knew each turn in the road before he reached it, but now, although some of the places remained clear, he could not place them. And although it had been familiar, he had been aware of danger, out of sight yet ever present. That sense remained with him too - but no longer linked to the landscape of his dream.

He was still lying in bed when Mr Dawson knocked to say that he had a guest, and if he came down now he could have his breakfast - and did he think that he had nothing better to do than look after a stream of visitors... Dawson had not said who it was, and Raoul was pleased to see that Dr Maturin had called, and was sitting waiting patiently for him - and for the coffee which Dawson brought in as soon as he entered the room.

"Oh, God bless you, Mister Dawson," said Stephen as he greedily reached for the cup - he had gone from a pot or three a day to one cup every five days and a laudanum-less couple of hours' sleep a night, and the change had not been good for him.

He turned and looked up at des Sablières. "I hope the morning finds you well, Capitaine."

"Thank you," Raoul responded. "I am well. May I ask you the same question." He watched Mr Dawson leave the room before taking the other cup and asking, rather less formally. "I was worried when you left me - but I had to believe that you knew what you were doing. And then - well, I can see that you are safe. Have you been to Belem and back?" The man looked as if he had slept in his clothes, if he had had any sleep at all. "How is Captain Padstowe?"

"I have - and Captain Padstowe is, I believe, for his condition, well. That is to say, I think he had a satisfactory night, and he will recover fully."

Stephen glanced to check that the door was shut. "My opinion was confirmed - you were quite safe. But Davenport will not bother you at all. I think he was more afraid of you than you of him."

Raoul smiled, glad for Padstowe, particularly because it relieved Maturin of an additional care.

"That is not reassuring." Raoul took a piece of bread - not like French or even English bread, but bread, none the less, and some of the orange marmalade, before pushing the bread board across to Maturin. "A man who is afraid of what I could do to injure him might be tempted to ensure that I did not do it." He glanced at Maturin. "As you might."

Stephen ignored the bread board, sipping his coffee instead. "It is in Ca- Davenport's nature to, if frightened, flee, and not fight. It is caution, and not cowardice, but I am certain that he is no threat to you." Stephen was careful to place no emphasis on any particular word.

He looked over at des Sablières. "That is true; I might be tempted. A utilitarian would balance one life against possible hundreds. But I am not a utilitarian, and I hate violence. Besides, I trust now that I less need to fear you."

Raoul nodded, swallowed the bread and said: "None. I shall keep that promise." He gave a half-laugh, rather ruefully. "Which, I suppose, must protect your friend Davenport, since to tell my authorities about him - if I ever get back to do so - would mean that I should have to explain more that I am willing to do. You may tell him that, if you see him again."

"If I see him," said Stephen with a rueful little smile. "After the manner of our parting last night, that is something I am by no means certain of. And I know that you will keep your promise, to the best of your abilities."

Raoul set his cup down. "I talk too much, I know. But - I shall be careful. And remember to be simple and stupid." He smiled. "That's if anyone asks about you. I doubt they will. If they know enough to ask, why should they bother with what I know? I'm just a cavalry officer, with fewer brains than his horse."

He pushed the bread board back, wanting a change of subject. His exchange was almost certainly a long way away - no need to worry about questions until then. By then it might all be academic anyway. "The bread is quite reasonable, and the marmalade delicious. Did you eat before leaving Belem?" He grinned as his voice took up the intonations of a nursemaid for the question.

Stephen smiled softly. "I pray that you are right." He looked down as des Sablières pointedly pushed the food towards him, and before he could begin to fuss, Stephen picked up a piece of bread. "No, but I will now, if I may?"

"Of course. That was why I suggested it." Raoul grinned. "You may even put a slice in your pocket for later - although not with marmalade on it." Though the coat looked as if similar objects had been stuck in the pockets at some point.

"If Captain Padstowe is recovering, will you be riding out to join the soldiers again? Because I should like to write to milord Edrington - to thank him for his interest, of course."

Stephen nodded his thanks, ignored the marmalade, and buttered a piece of bread. "I will, eventually - I intend to wait until Captain Padstowe is well enough to ride with me." He wondered if he would tell the Frenchman of his plan that des Sablières should also accompany them, and decided against it.

"If you have a letter for the Colonel, I am sure that if you bring it to Headquarters it will be delivered for you - it is among your rights, as a paroled officer, especially to a member of the British army, and they have regular messengers going to the column."

"Will that allow me to write to my parents? There is some means of communication, I am sure. They may even write to me here, perhaps." How long would a letter take? The Colonel had said he would write to his mother, the Countess. It would take several days, perhaps two or more weeks, for the letter to reach England, and more for her to pass the message on to his parents. Even now the letter would be only half way to England on the fastest packet ship. However quick the official channels were, they still had the same distance to cover - for a letter from him to reach his parents and a reply to be returned would take a couple of months or more. Would he still be here? It was not impossible.

Stephen shrugged. "I am new to the military, but I assume so. I would not count on the letter reaching them sealed, however."

Raoul smiled wryly. "You read my letters from my parents - from my sister. But - I do not think I would write anything that you would object to - or the military." Although he would like to write to his sister, and tell her about this new acquaintance, who made himself ill with worry about others and lack of care for himself. But he would confine himself to reassurances about his safety and descriptions of the city. And news of Thierry - Adrienne had never met him, of course, but he had told her of the man's devotion and she had always asked for news of him. He could send her the sketch, with what he hoped would be better news from Belem.

Stephen swallowed his bread. "I did. But I have your word now," he added for courtesy's sake, though the implication was a lie. As much as the constant paranoia and dissimulation sickened him, the way of the world, and of his occupation, did not change simply because Stephen Maturin had a distaste for the constant, wearying distrust.

"I am not sure that my word will be sufficient to convince others. But, no, what could I tell my parents? That some battalions had marched north? By the time the letter reached Orleans, and they had passed the message on - and even if I told them to write to Maréchal Soult in Oporto, their letter is unlikely to arrive ... But if it did, I think the Maréchal will have noticed by then!"

He smiled a little at the joke. "Well, I think that parents like to know that their child is safe," said Stephen slowly, spreading marmalade over a piece of bread, "and so it is not what the letter contains but the letter in itself that is of import. It may reach them unsealed, but it is quite possible that it would reach them, if you made the attempt."

He frowned in thought for a moment, and then put his bread down. "Capitaine, I am sorry. I must beg your pardon - I did not check on your men this morning before I left."

"I thought that... No, Mr Whiting knew you were there, surely. He would have come to you if there was any change in Thierry's condition," Raoul reassured himself. "And the others - I have no fear that they will be mistreated. Until someone decides what to do with them, I am happy that they are well cared for."

Raoul looked at Stephen. "You did not ride into Lisbon at this hour just to have breakfast with me. You have business here. Well, I have no business at all, and I could... If you could give me a paper, I will walk to Belem and see Thierry at least, if he is recovering. He is alone now - I hope with an attendant who speaks some French, but he will be happy to see me - that is not vanity, that is truth."

Stephen nodded with a frantic misery. "I do have business to attend to in the city - something very important came to my attention early this morning - I do not say this as an excuse, monsieur: mea culpa, mea maxima culpa-" he said, first waving a hand and then beating his chest from reflex, "- only that I might explain; Mister Whiting knows of my concern, and I am certain that he would have told me had there been any change in Thierry's condition, but it grieves me that I should have to tell you thus from conjecture instead of from observation. Of course, of course I shall write you a note of passage - Corbeille and Broussard and Aucoin as well, I am sure, I am sure - I have a pencil here-"

"You take too much on," Raoul said, watching Dr Maturin write. "I shall go when you have finished your breakfast - " he smiled, and thought for a moment. "Is there anything I could take to them? That would be allowed, I mean. Fruit? Or cards, dice? - I am sure that I can buy such things here. If you would write it in your letter, that it should be allowed."