On Parole in Lisbon

Stephen fidgeted, but his hunger was an imperative that he could not ignore. "I know there is a tavernkeeper who will give enough bread and sausage for two men for eight pence, and I must go nearby to it to fetch my mule," he said, thinking of where he had eaten with Sharpe. He had eaten twice since then, he realised with a shock: now that he had recognised the sensation, he could not stop thinking about it. He looked up at des Sablières; he seemed a little more cheerful at least.

"Then if you will wait - five, ten minutes, no more - I shall accompany you. If you do not mind." Raoul moved towards the door. "You must eat. And rest, sometimes."

Phrasing it as a request instead of an offer was a sop to his pride, making it more difficult to refuse; Stephen shrugged gracelessly, and poured out another glass of wine for himself.

Not wanted to delay the doctor, Raoul washed in cold water, and changed shirt, neckcloth and coat. Only when he was almost ready, dressing to go out for dinner, did the news Dr Maturin had brought strike him again in its full force. Tied to the trees and shot; he would pray for their souls, and, he thought, for the souls of the rest of his mutinous men, that their deaths were no worse than that.

The blue riding coat was less worn than the lighter coat he had worn during the day. Not fit perhaps for dining in the best circles, but perfectly acceptable for a place that sold enough bread and sausages for two for eight pence. He brushed his hair and went back down to the siting room.

Stephen stood up when des Sablières entered. "There was little need to change, Capitaine. Shall we? I find that I raven."

"Then I apologize for keeping you waiting." He stood aside to allow Maturin to leave. "I shall let you lead. I need to find places to eat that do not charge a fortune." And at which I shall feel safe, he thought. The fate of his men reminded him that there would be men here who would think that slitting the throat of a French officer would be a duty. The dark back streets would be even more dangerous for him than for a British officer like Padstowe.

He smiled. "You have been in Lisbon for some time?"

"No; it is not even two weeks yet." Stephen blinked in the sunlight as he opened the door. "It was near to the Headquarters, and so it will be in this direction..." He could not spend too much time in eating, for he had to return to Belem, but he was content to spend a little time away from the hospital.

"I thought you had been here longer. You speak Portuguese well - and have friends among them. The man Calderon... How do ..." They paused at the corner of the street, giving Raoul time to think. "I am sorry. I do not wish to know. Simple and stupid, that is me."

"A wise decision, Capitaine. I last came when it was dark - if that road leads to Padstowe's, then we must have come from down here..."

"I think I shall avoid these streets after dark." Raoul gave a half-laugh. "Not that my parole will allow me to be out at night. But that is not for my safety, but in case I try to leave. I assure you, I am dissuaded from that!"

These were narrower streets, where Raoul in his walks had not dared to go. People watched them, with curiosity rather than open hostility. Probably the place would have been popular with the British soldiers, who had ther red coats to identify and protect them, but at present Raoul could only see one, leaning on a wall partway up the street.

Stephen patted the other man's arm in sympathy. "You have a curfew then. What time must you return to Mister Dawson's by?" he asked as they walked up the street.

Raoul smiled down at the doctor. "Not until eight - it is not onerous, unless one wishes to frequent bars all night. Or has friends to visit. I am discovering that being free to move around is not the same as having somewhere to go. Or I am not yet accustomed to a life of leisure. Since we went to Belem have you managed any rest at all, with your journey and Captain Padstowe. And you return to Belem today, after we eat?"

"It will also be safer for you indoors after dark, I think," Stephen said, thinking of Padstowe, then of the hussars' bodies, and looking up at young des Sablières with a shiver. "I will return to Belem, indeed - apart from anything else, as you say, finding somewhere to go, or to sleep, in a strange city can be a problem. As it is, I slept a little last night, yes, thank the Dear."

"I think so too," Raoul agreed, noting the other man's concern. "I shall remain in my room, with one of Mr Dawson's improving books - he has not I think bought a new book for 20 years or more. But we must eat, and see you on your way. It is good that you have slept, but have you eaten?" He realized that he was concerned for the other man. The strange relationship that he had felt in the small room in the hospital, as he tried to persuade Maturin to rest and recover, returned. "You are still not fully recovered, yet you try to do everything. To take care of everything - and everyone. Yet no one takes care of you." He smiled rather shyly. "Let me at least ensure that you eat."

Stephen looked away, quite overwhelmed by des Sablières' kindness. He spoke quickly, staring ahead, an attempted stride on a still-healing leg making him walk with a strange, slight lurch. "Monsieur, I doubt even France's finest could prevent me; I am famished, starved, ravenous. It is not so far now, Deo Gratias." He was intensely moved; even more so when he considered the source of the concern, and while he knew the emotion to be unwise he did not have the heart to repress it.

Raoul smiled at the doctor's words. "Then perhaps you should have a plate of sausages and bread for two, all to yourself, to make up for missed meals."

He reached out a hand as Maturin seemed to stumble, but the doctor righted himself. His leg was still giving him trouble, and no doubt he would not rest it as he should. He had offered the doctor his arm in the woods, when the wound was still fresh. Then, Maturin had been going to treat those wounded men who now lay dead. He blinked for a moment, and then drove the thought from his conscious mind. He had lost men before, from battle or disease, and had carried on. But this time, his unconscious mnd reminded him, he did not have anything to carry on for - a Captain without a Company.

"Oh, I could never eat that much - tell me if you want something else though; I know that Portuguese cooking might be spicier than a Frenchman would expect."

Stephen indicated the tavern ahead, thinking that is looked smaller and far dingier in the daylight. Thinking of that night made his insides feel hot with guilt, so he quickly stepped forward, pushing the door open. His conversation with des Sablières felt unfinished, and because some small measure of the captain's peace of mind was built on a lie, it always would be.

He had expected the doctor to bring him to one of the bars popular with English soldiers, but this one was small and seemed to cater for locals. He ducked his head as he followed the doctor in, and took their seats. But they were speaking English, and his coat, if shabby, had been made in England. He had nothing to fear.

"I shall be happy to try it," he said quietly. "I doubt if I could find a proper French meal here, nor would I try. Though there are some compatriots - ship's officers on parole like me - who may know more."

Stephen had been about to stand up to order their food, but instead he turned to scrutinise des Sablières, sitting unnaturally still. "Really, now?"

Raoul looked at him, puzzled at the sudden intensity of his gaze. "But that is not surprising. The British have been keeping our ships from Oporto, and there would be prisoners... There may be more here than the three I met yesterday..."

Stephen went icy-cold. He had been stupid; so, so stupid. Des Sablières could send no letters that Stephen would not be able to check and destroy, but there was nothing to stop him from telling everything he knew to another officer, any French officer, who would soon be paroled and able to pass the message on to whoever des Sablières specified. He gripped the table, feeling faint and sick, his appetite entirely gone. Whatever he had said to the captain, he was entirely alone in Lisbon - it would take days to receive confirmation from Wellesley to have his parole revoked, and he could not reveal himself to any man in Headquarters. He could not believe he had allowed himself to be fooled by concern.

Raoul saw the change in Maturin's expression, and was struck by how ill the man looked. It was not just lack of food, but too little sleep, too much activity for a man recently wounded, concussed. Only two days ago he had watched over the doctor as he recovered from a blow he had taken to protect him, an enemy. He rose and called urgently for brandy, for a glass for the doctor. While he waited, hoping they would respond, he came round the table and knelt at Maturin's side, one hand resting on his wrist, where the hand gripped the table.

"Doctor. You are not well." Someone at his side, and he reached out and took a glass with what smelt like brandy. "Here. Drink this."

Stephen pushed the glass away, feeling something spill onto his hand. He gripped des Sablières' shoulder, pulling him close enough so that only he could hear Stephen as he whispered "Que leur avez-vous dit?", his eyes fixed on the captain's.

Ah. Raoul submitted to the grip, his eyes meeting Maturin's. "Rien. Nothing about you. Nothing about this bloody business. I know what it would mean. for you." He swallowed. "Not to Pumphrey. Not to them. Nothing."

He could barely believe it, but Stephen could see that des Sablières was entirely sincere - he let go of the captain, and closed his eyes in relief. He forced himself to calm down; he could feel his heart hammering against his ribcage, and while he steadied his breathing he apologetically straighted des Sablières' coat sleeve. "I am-" He choked on the final word. "I would be useless; able to help no one-"