On Parole in Lisbon

"If you are not concealing knives in the playing cards, rifles in the fruit or trebuchets inside the dice, I am sure it would be permissible - I shall add a post-script," Stephen drawled as he wrote. He signed his name, and then folded the paper, but before he handed it to des Sablières he blushed and looked down at the table-top. "In the light of my neglect I am ashamed to ask for a favour, but if you are going towards Belem as it is..."

"I will gladly do you a favour, since you do me one," Raoul responded, smiling.

"Oh, monsieur, the note is nothing, nothing. But I am afraid that for one such as Captain Padstowe, used to activity, such a convalescence must be terribly tedious for him, for I cannot be in Belem at all times, and even then my companionship is a paltry thing. Mister Dawson has kindly agreed to lend me some books, all of my own being in Latin, so that he might keep his mind active at least; would it be at all possible for you to convey these books to him? I do not know at what time I will returning to the hospital, and I believe the tedium already vexes him."

"Improving books? There are some works on Mr Dawson's shelves that would make the tedium of studying the ceiling seem exciting. But they might better than a sleeping draught." Raoul smiled. "Of course I shall take them to him. And perhaps even stay with him for a hour or so, if he can bear my company. Would he play cards?"

"He is most set against sleeping draughts - a sermon on temperance might suit him better," Stephen said with a relieved smile. He did not know how Padstowe would react to a visit from des Sablières, but it might do him good, and it was a kind offer. "I do not know if he will play cards, but I am sure that he would be glad of any company. It is good of you to offer, Capitaine."

"I need some occupation, Doctor, and visiting the sick is one of those recommended to us for the good of our own souls." He stopped, his mouth drawn for a moment into a straight line, then he smiled. "I think he will object to a sermon on any subject, so I suggest you do not include one among the books you send. I should hate to have it thrown at my head. Something lighter, and more suited to a soldier."

"Xenophon?" Stephen suggested, once again turning his attention to the breakfast. "I am sure Anabasis must have been translated into English by now. He did specify..." He licked some marmalade off his thumb, frowning as he searched his memory. "No romance, philosophy or verse, military philistine that he is."

"I am sure he will like Xenophon, though perhaps not approve of his - change of loyalties," Raoul said. "And what does he mean by romance? There is Malory - classic romance yet full of fighting knights. Mrs Radcliffe? Would that count as romance? My sister," he added quickly, "has been keeping up her English with such books." He offered the coffee pot, and continued: "I remember - he was against the idea of my writing poetry in my prison cell. Although there is a long tradition of it. But I am sure Mr Dawson will be able to provide something he will enjoy."

"If a prison cell was assured of coming with coffee, marmalade, a bed and the time to write poetry, I would be tempted to fight commit treason and hand myself in - thank you," Stephen said, reaching for the coffee pot. "I know not what he means by romance, but I think he would be equally likely to turn his nose up at a scientific paper; though he might be inclined to include that in his addendum regarding philosophy."

He rubbed at his temple, looking away. "Forgive me - I am being bad-tempered and unfair."

Raoul looked up from the piece of bread he had been holding and smiled, his eyes dark. "Not unfair, but I did not even have to commit treason - just fail. On several counts." He brushed the crumbs from his fingers and said: "Perhaps I shall turn to poetry in the end, but for today, I shall walk to Belem and see your friend and my men."

"Not entirely; you succeeded in-," said Stephen guiltily, brushing the crumbs from his small clothes. He was aware that he was being dire company; the task he had to perform, and the consequences should he fail, weighed heavily on his mind. "My friend-" He stood up hurriedly. "I should take my leave."

Succeeded in what, Raoul wondered, but did not dare ask. The doctor was suddenly in a hurry, and my friend? "About Captain Padstowe," Raoul said, interpreting the disjointed phrase, "if you give me the books you choose, and the paper, I shall not delay you further. No doubt we shall meet again before you go back to the Army." He rose as he spoke.

"No delay, no delay at all." He realised that he had not actually given the note to des Sablières - he handed it out now. "You choose, Capitaine, if you would be so kind - you will know as much about English literature as I will."

He gripped the chair; he felt so tired. "Before I rejoin the army: I will call on you again, if I may?" He bit his tongue, and looked up at des Sablières, not knowing why he had asked such a thing, save that he felt the tiniest beat of hope for an affirmative answer. "If I have news of your men; to tell you how Thierry finds himself..." He trailed off.

Raoul studied him as he took the note. "Of course you may call again. I shall be -" He breathed out and said "I shall be happy to see you. And will look forward to it." He would miss him, even, when he had gone north. He would miss the friendship of a man who said that - if he were a utilitarian - he would kill Raoul to protect himself. He put out a tentative hand, and then said, despite that: "But not if visiting me means that you deny yourself rest. I am the least of your concerns, Dr Maturin. I assure you."

Stephen let out the breath he had been holding, relieved. "I am beginning to think that, Capitaine," he said, gripping the other man's hand and giving a tiny shy smile. "Please give my good wishes to your men - I shall see them tonight. And I thank you for the breakfast."

"I shall find what Mr Dawson has to offer the Captain for entertainment. And I will see you - when you are able to spare a few minutes." Raoul returned the grip, and the smile. "Go safely," he concluded, as he released the hand to allow Maturin to leave.

To here

"I will. Please pass on my thanks also to Mister Dawson for the splendid coffee." Stephen gave a little bow, and that shy smile again. "I hope I shall see you soon, Capitaine."

He took his blue-tinted lenses from his pocket, and slipped out into the corridor, checking his list for a final time before he opened the door to venture into the streets of Lisbon.

[Stephen's story continues here.

From here

Raoul returned from Belem in a sombre mood. After his conversation with Captain Padstowe, he had been allowed into the prison, and had been able to speak to Corbeille, Broussard and Aucoin. Corbeille had, as usual, done most of the talking, Broussard watching him with his usual quiet amusement, and Aucoin nodding, and blushing shyly when appealed to confirmation of a point. They were well - Corbeille insisted that he must tell the good doctor that there was almost no discomfort now, and he was moving so much better - when they were allowed out of the cell - and they were regularly, which was good while the weather was fine... He did not see Moreau, but he was asked to make a statement about the incident. He tried to do that without bias, although he had to agree with Dr Maturin that the man was a menace. He was unable to discover what action would be taken, or to obtain any guarantee that he would be involved.

Then he had been able to see Thierry. Raoul was pleased to find that he was much improved - as Mr Whiting had said, he did still fall asleep, suddenly and peacefully, but when awake his mind was clear. He wanted to be back, guarding his Captain, but accepted that first he must be well, and that it would be best if he spent time recuperating. He had been almost apologetic that, when Raoul had needed him, he had not been there, because of the wound to his arm, and it seemed at first as if the memory of the mutiny was lost, but as Raoul tried to express his own thanks to Thierry for saving his life, almost at the cost of his own, he had growled a kind of embarrassed acceptance, and spoke more freely of what had happened in the clearing before the mutiny.

Raoul had sat beside the trooper's bed while he had dozed, woken and spoken again, his one hand grasping at his Captain's sleeve. Eventually Mr Whiting had brought him a draught to quieten him, as the agitation might be damaging. Only when he had slipped from a doze into a deeper sleep did Raoul disentangle his fingers and rise, to make his way back to Lisbon.

Raoul had not eaten since the breakfast he had shared with Dr Maturin, and although he thought that he could not eat, by the time he reached Lisbon he knew that he must. After all, nothing had changed, nor would it be changed by his refusing to eat like a fractious child. He turned down towards the quayside, where there were always bars catering for the needs of crew and passengers. To be hailed in French brought him up short, but there, just as on the earlier day, were the three French officers - Captain Delaporte, and Lieutenants Joubert and Garnier - he had met earlier. Had he thought of them, he would have avoided them, but that would have been aroused suspicions that he did not even acknowledge to himself, so he stopped, and admitted, on being asked, that he had not eaten.

The restaurant they went to was smarter than the one and Dr Maturin had been in, but with a low ceiling, and candles only on tables that were in use, it was sombre and rather uncomfortable. A place perhaps for assignations, and indeed a young woman had entered on her own, and been shown to a table in the far corner. Raoul's three companions seemed as on edge as he was. "We've been a couple of times," Joubert confided. "They have a waiter who speaks French - or rather who admits to speaking French. Most places would rather forgo our custom, than admit to knowing our language, these days. I'll be glad to be away from here."

"Have you heard anything?" Raoul asked, and Delaporte shook his head. "We are all keen to go," he growled, "but... You must want to get back yourself, in time to get your revenge." The question seemed to be almost rhetorical, but there was a light in the Captain's eye, and Garnier, thin and intense, leaned forward, his eyes as bright in the candleflame. "Do you, Captain des Sablières?"

Raoul hesitated and then responded as he knew they expected. "Of course. That is where my duty lies. But my exchange is most unlikely to be arranged by then. I know I must wait." On the other side, Joubert said: "If you wished, you could come..." "Shut up," Garnier snapped, his mouth twisting. "Do not mind him," he said more quietly, but his eyes studied Raoul's face.

The meaning, thought Raoul was quite clear. These men were intending to escape, soon if not immediately. Joubert, a friendly soul, thought to offer him the chance to join them; but Garnier did not trust him. Perhaps it was that Garnier, who seemed to be a gentleman like himself, put some store on the value of parole once given, and could not rid himself of the guilt of finding himself obliged to break it. And knew that Raoul would be bound by his own parole. "I shall not," he said, counting it as a promise.

After that, Raoul was not surprised when the other three decided that they had finished eating and left. He sat thoughtfully for a moment, and then called for pen and paper. The paper was rough, and the pen spattered dusty ink, but he only needed to write a few words.

Having come from the hospital at Belem, where I saw my trooper and your patient, Thierry Roger, I should be grateful if you would do me the honour of calling on me. Raoul des Sablières, Capitaine. He folded it, and wrote on the outside Dr Maturin, care of Dr McGrigor, Surgeon General, before putting it in his pocket, and setting out across the main square to walk to the British Army Headquarters. He left the note there, and walked slowly back towards the house where he was lodging. It was late, and he was barely paying attention to where he walked. He would have thought that the day had been bad enough, but it had not yet finished with him.

Raoul realized that he had been walking downhill, towards the central square, slowly and lost in thought. Most of the people on the streets were similarly occupied, and he had been threading his way around groups and couples also dawdling in the spring warmth. But the darkening sky warned him that it was growing late, and that if he were to be indoors by the time required by his curfew he should hurry. He tiurned off the main avenue into a narrower street and began to walk faster. That was when he became aware that someone else was behind him, and walking at more or less the same speed. This was a less busy street, and darker. The prospect of someone following him was unnerving.

Raoul was unarmed, but not, he hoped, defenseless. But the feet that he thought he had heard were not drawing nearer, and when he stopped, just past the light from an uncurtained window, and looked round as casually as possible, he saw a shadow, possibly a dozen yards away. He moved on, and saw a man leaning against the wall ahead. He felt a moment's alarm, and then realized that this could not be an ambush and that the man was almost certainly drunk.

He turned to take the left fork, towards Dawson's house, before recognizing the man as Dr Maturin, staring at him as if he could not see.

[From here.]

Stephen heard a noise, and he focussed on the shape in front of him, which wavered for a moment and then revealed itself to be the form of Capitaine des Sablières.

And, a few yards behind him, another form in shadow that had stopped when the captain had stopped. Oh, elementary mistake, Stephen thought as he reached around and pulled his pistol from his waistband, cocking it.

Raoul had stopped when he recognized the doctor, and started forward in concern. As the doctor pulled the pistol he threw out a hand and started to speak, before realizing that it was pointed not towards him but towards the unknown man who had been following him. He stepped quickly to the doctor's side, taking care not to get between him and his target.

Stephen pushed des Sablières behind him and set off at a run towards the follower, who had darted into an alleyway. "Batente!" he shouted, menace in his voice, and then, with a chill of foreboding, "Arrêtez!" The figure halted momentarily before resuming his sprint - even more elementary. Stephen run was halting, and his head was spinning - he forced himself onwards but his balance and strength were waning.

Raoul ran after the doctor, not just because he offered protection, but so that he could in turn offer support. It was clear that he was unwell, not yet recovered from either the blow to his head or the wound in his leg. The man had run - and responded not to the doctor's command in Portuguese, but to one given in French. Damn - it was probably one of the Naval officers, concerned that he might inform on them - and who would then have seen him go immediately to the British Army Headquarters.

As he came to his side, he said: "Doctor - I ... Do not shoot."

[Time for supper - back in 30 minutes or so]

Stephen started, but managed to still the reflex as the Frenchman spoke beside him. The man was gone - once he had emerged from the alleyway Stephen had looked left and right down the street, and seen no indication of where he had gone. He had made no move for a weapon, either at him or more importantly at des Sablières - reconnaissance only then. And now he had seen him. Biting back a curse, Stephen lowered his pistol and squinted up at the captain. "Do you have any idea who that man was, or why he was following you?"

Raoul hesitated before answering. If he said who he thought it was, it would not end there. The doctor would want to know why, and that Raoul would not say. The men would be worried enough by his visit to the Headquarters, and ... And it did not make sense, either.

Instead he shook his head, his face hidden in the dark from the doctor's intent stare. "I do not know. Unless he was someone intending to rob me - why should anyone follow me? Possibly a British official, checking I went back to my lodgings before curfew. I would have hated for you to shoot such a man, only doing his job."