On Parole in Lisbon

He shrugged. "I follow whoever I am told to follow, Senhor. I do not question my orders. But sometimes it is not the Frenchmen themselves but those they meet. I will show you my orders." His voice rose in urgent appeal, but he kept his hands still, not making any move that might cause the Englishman to fire that pistol. The shrug had brought the other knife close to his left hand. If only the Englishman would step forward to take the paper, he would have him, pistol or not.

Perhaps he was being paranoid, Stephen thought as the shadows in his vision lengthened. But paranoia had kept him alive thus far, and the man had been following him. "And Scott told you to follow the captain? How long have you been tailing him?"

He had no idea what the damned French captain had been doing today, or any other day. And this man almost certainly did. So: "Since this evening, sir. Since he left the other French officers. I followed him from there. And then ... You threatened me, sir, but I went to his lodgings to find him."

"Why did you follow the captain, and not the naval officers, if you work for the navy's parole office?"

"Those were my instructions, senhor - to see who the naval officers spoke to, and ... You may read my instructions, senhor. I will not trouble you again. I see you are English and not ... But, please, I am only doing my job!" He tested again, his right hand reaching towards his pocket.

There was a limit to how far one could question - if this man was an innocent ally, and if Stephen was overly paranoid, he would go away wondering why that small man with the cropped hair had a reason to be paranoid. "Toss them onto the ground."

He slid his hand into the pocket and felt paper. Thank God, he thought and then remembered that this was the piece of paper on which he had written the Captain's address when Garnier had told him about the man. It did not look like official instructions, unfortunately - it looked like what it was, a restaurant bill. But in the dark...

He took it from his pocket still carefully, watching the pistol with a not entirely assumed nervousness, and stepped forward saying: "Here. Here is the authorisation to follow the Captain," holding the paper out in front, where it would distract the eye of the Englishman, as the knife slipped down into his left hand...

The piece of paper wavered and split in the dark; Stephen blinked and looked down at it, taking his finger away from the trigger.

At just the correct moment, the Englishman's attention was drawn to the paper, held in his right hand. While the left hand, now sharp tipped with Toledo steel, slashed upwards, with the intention of deflecting and maiming the hand with the pistol before burying itself in the man's throat.

Stephen saw the flash in his peripheral vision; long training made him take his finger away from the trigger, so not to waste his one shot, and he brought his right arm up to protect his face and throat.

He saw the arm go up, and threw his own right hand, hoping to seize the pistol. The knife in his left hand caught for a second on the sleeve as he changed direction and drove it inwards rather than upwards, towards the Englishman's flat stomach.

The man had targeted his midriff - Stephen bent and twisted to avoid the stab. The poniard made a shallow cut before getting caught in the fabric of his shirt and waistcoat; he had lost enough weight over the past fortnight for there to be enough excess material to make it difficult to judge the dimensions of his body. He pulled his right hand up, holding the pistol, while he grabbed the man's wrist with his left.

He tried to twist the blade, to drive it into flesh instead of being tangled in clothing, but the man had his wrist in a grasp that was firmer than he had expected. He had to release his hold on the knife, twisting against the grip while turning a stab into a punch in the belly.

The knife clattered on the ground, and Stephen gave a choked gasp as the man drove his now-empty fist into his abdomen. He swayed, faint, noticing the symptomatic hot flush and cold sweat he associated with a dangerous blow to the stomach, but brought his right fist down, smashing the butt of the pistol against his attacker's collar bone.

The pain shot from the point of impact up his neck and down his arm, radiating out in all other directions. His right hand was useless, and the left came up to cradle the other arm. He yowled in agony and staggered back, back into the dark cross street, consious only that the man had not fired the pistol, and that now he had no reason not to do so. No further explanation would work. He bumped into something that smelt of wine and sweat, and which made a half-hearted grab for him before pushing him away. His English was not good enough to understand the slurred voice. He was pushed from one to the other, each an agony, but each taking him further from the man with the pistol.

Stephen's legs gave way and he collapsed onto the cobbles. The man's cry of pain had attracted attention, and men - English, and drunk, by the look of them - were coming into the street. He brought the pistol up and looked along the barrel, but there were already dark, floating corruscations in front of his eyes, and the men were grabbing at his assailant, pushing him away, above all blocking Stephen's aim, and he lost sight of him. He lay down, shaking, so that if he lost consciousness he would not pitch forward and smash his face against the stones of the street. He looked up at the newcomers, concentrating on breathing steadily and not passing out.

He emerged into the lighted avenue, his shoulder agony and his mouth a mew of pain. Both knives were gone, and all he wanted to do was to get back to his house, and curl up round his injured arm. Catarina would make it better. He stumbled down the hill, looking like another drunk on his way back to the port.

Stephen closed his eyes as the ground seemed to spin. "Looks Portuguese to me," said a harsh voice above his head. He pressed his hand to his side, and hissed - it was not deep, but it stung terribly. He opened his eyes and stared upwards in horror at the myriad of faces that circled him, until they merged into four more solid shapes - tanned shapes with pigtails and earrings. "British," he croaked in response.

"Well, why didn't you say so before? Where are you to then?"

"Um," Stephen said, his brow creasing in thought. He wanted nothing more than to go back to Dawson's house, and sleep the night away comfortably as des Sablières had suggested. But he had promised Padstowe to return by evening. Besides, he did not need to go running to the French captain on account of a punch and a scratch, for God's love. "Army Headquarters. I will just be on my way; thank you for stopping-"

"Not at all! Billy, you take his right arm - we'll have you at Headquarters in no time!" Billy and his friend picked him up and each took an arm around their shoulders, both tall enough for Stephen's feet to barely skim the ground, and their two friends went ahead, laughing about the fight they had witnessed, from another ship, it seemed. They belonged to a ship called the Terpsy, they said - been in just over a week now - and weren't it a fine city, sir? Stephen thanked them all profusely once they reached Headquarters. He decided that he would examine his side and stitch it up if necessary when he reached the hospital - not much point before them, and he mounted Bethany to begin the long ride back.


[Stephen's story continues here.]

Raoul closed the door and stood for a long moment looking towards the chair where he had laid his cloak and sword. The door to Mr Dawson's private rooms opened as he stood there, and Dawson looked out. "The doctor's gone," Raoul said. "But I'm afraid I broke a glass. We picked up most of the pieces..." The pieces of glass, that was. He was left with broken illusions, trying desperately to reassemble themselves.

He left Dawson calling for a servant from the kitchen and went up to his own room. He could not disbelieve Dr Maturin. The evidence of his own eyes, and those nagging doubts. He had not known, because the full truth was, as he had said, unthinkable. But he knew more than he had ever admitted to himself. He sat, staring down at his own hands, and remembering the doctor's - the pain that he must have suffered, at the hands of a French army officer, and the scornful way Maturin had spoken of that man's honour. He thought of Ickx, and of d'Estrées. And it was the latter's face that flickered on the edge of his memory as he sat, his mind alternately rushing from thought to thought, or refusing to move on. Eventually, with birdsong beginning in the garden beneath his window, he fell asleep across the bed, still in shirt and trousers.

[From here.]

It was still extremely early when Stephen arrived in front of Dawson's house. He had left Bethany at the British Headquarters again, and had walked the rest of the way; he held his hand pressed against his side, and a closed, pained expression on his face. He believed that des Sablières had not compromised his honour or his promise, but he needed to be sure. He knocked, and waited.

Raoul was still heavily asleep when Dawson knocked on his door, and it took a few moments for him to wake up. It was still very early. His neck was stiff from the position he had slept in, and he felt frowsty and stupid. Dawson was calling through the door that the doctor was here again, and then he remembered. He hurried down to see him, without wasting time washing or shaving.

Stephen was sitting straight-backed in a chair when des Sablières came down, having certainly just woken up. He looked tired and bleary-eyed, and it made him look younger - Stephen felt a stirring of pity and something worryingly close to affection, but kept his face cold and impassive. "Please, Capitaine, sit down. I have some questions."

Raoul rubbed his hand across his face, and felt the stubble. He blinked and sat down. Something had changed since the evening before - some new information, perhaps, although Raoul could think of nothing that could cause this closing up against him.

At a reptilian glare from Stephen, Dawson had backed out of the room and closed the door, and Stephen turned to look at des Sablières. "Capitaine, I would like for you to tell me everything you know about the paroled French naval officers currently resident in Lisbon."

Raoul concealed his consternation as well as he could, with a puzzled look. "I do not know much - I told you about them, but I assure you, sir, I have not told them anything about you. I gave you my word..."

He wondered if they had gone already, but it could not be that. Dr Maturin would not be informed so quickly of the escape of three French officers, even if someone had seen them together.