On Parole in Lisbon

His arms were caught, but his hands and his legs were not - des Sablières pushed the man he was holding towards them both, holding him in front of him by the throat like a shield. Stephen struggled, kicking, twisting to reach for the catling on the pocket of his breeches while des Sablières went for the pistol his captor was holding above them all.

The man Raoul was holding was clawing at his forearm with both hands, and Raoul tightened his grip. He dared not release the one, even to allow him to grab the pistol that the other thug was trying to bring down to point at him. Maturin, struggling in his captor's hold, caught his eye for a second as he twisted. Raoul tried to seize the pistol butt, and the hand holding it, but he could not get a grip, and he found himself with his hand grasping the man's wrist. It was impossible to hold both, and he had to relinquish his grip on the pistol as the other man clawed upwards at his face. Raoul spun the man away from him and hit him as hard and as precisely as possible, on the temple.

As soon as des Sablières let go of the man's wrist, he brought the pistol down again, trying to find a killing shot as the captain spun away with the other man, punching him; Stephen flung himself backwards, pushing his captor back into the wall of the alleyway. He was a thug, recruited or hired for his muscle, not an assassin, recruited or hired for his brains or his training, and he had made the mistake of not taking his finger from the trigger in time - as Stephen pushed him back into the wall he fired, the shot harmlessly embedding itself in the stone. The man shouted in fury, tossed the pistol away, and pulled a knife from his belt.

Raoul heard the shot, and the shout, and struck out again. As the man he had hit staggered back, Raoul took the pistol from his pocket, holding it by the barrel and used it as a club on the man's head. The man fell, and Raoul turned to see that Dr Maturin, apparently unharmed by the shot, had pushed his assailant to the wall. The Portuguese had drawn a knife, and Raoul threw himself forward, going for the hand with the knife as he had previously tried to seize the gun, but this time without any hindrance. His hand closed round the man's fist, pulling the hand and knife away from the doctor.

The man went to plunge the knife into Stephen's chest, and he closed his eyes against the stabbing, but it did not come - des Sablières leapt forward and pulled the man's hand up and away from him. Des Sablières tried to pull the knife as far away from Stephen as possible, but the Portuguese man was stronger; he twisted his wrist, and began to slowly push it towards the Frenchman's head. Stephen struggled more fiercely - the man's arm loosened and he ducked - the Portuguese man wrapped it around his neck instead, but even as stars exploded in front of his eyes his freed hand found the catling in his pocket and pulled it out.

Raoul brought up his other hand, to resist the movement of the knife towards his face and throat, and fastened it round the man's wrist. His left arm was throbbing with a sullen hot ache. The man he had felled had torn at the cut in his effort to escape from the neck hold. He could release the knife hand, release it and step away, but that would leave Dr Maturin defenceless, held by the man's other arm, despite his desperate struggles, and open to the knife. If Raoul tried to shift his grip, the man would twist his arm free, either to stab at him or at the doctor. His left hand, grasping at the man's wrist, found the cloth of his coat sliding under his hand, the hold weakening.

Stephen could hear nothing, and he was becoming more and more light-headed - he would pass out very soon. He brought up the catling in a quick jerk and sliced along the man's arm - he released him with a roar, and Stephen rolled away, gasping.

Suddenly the man jerked, and roared with surprise and pain, and Dr Maturin, released from his grip fell to the ground, breathing harshly. Raoul himself was now free of immediate concern for the doctor, and took advantage of the thug's temporary shock to put more pressure on his arm. He was relieved that his opponent did not bring up the other hand, and Raoul forced him back against the rough stone wall of the alley, smashing his hand against it. The man cried out, and groped at him with his other hand, but after a couple more blows he dropped the knife, and Raoul twisted his arm round behind his back. He was breathing heavily and looked down at Dr Maturin, and beyond him to the man he had hit, who was beginning to move. The first man - the one he had shot - had fallen silent. "Doctor?" he said.

Stephen looked up at des Sablières; he could not speak, but he nodded. He sat up, swaying, his vision going black and then returning - he followed the captain's look to over his shoulder, and saw the other Portuguese man beginning to stir. He tried to stand, gave it up as a lost cause, and edged across the ground, holding his catling out.

Dr Maturin was crawling towards the man Raoul had temporarily stunned, an knife - something shiny - in his hand. Raoul turned his attention back to the man he had hold off. The doctor had apparently used a knife on him, and the pain of the wound he had inflicted was causing the man to whimper. Raoul twisted his arm harder, and the man screamed.

Stephen reached the head of the man who was beginning to gain consciousness - he leant back against the wall, shaking, and used one hand to twist the man's hair around his fingers, making a fist and holding his head fast, and in the other he held his catling to the man's throat. He swallowed, gulped down more air and then swallowed again, looking up at des Sablières. "What now?" he asked in a harsh croak.

The man had stopped struggling and hung from Raoul's grip. He thought he might have broken the man's arm. "Do you want to hand them over - to the British, or ..." He looked at the doctor and blinked. "I - I killed one of them..."

"The... the civil guard? I... I cannot-" Stephen steadied himself as he swayed to the side, leaning back again. "No, no, the British, if we can..."

Even if the man on the pavement that Dr Maturin was kneeling beside at was still stunned enough to be no trouble, the doctor was in no fit state to go to the Headquarters, or even to find some British soldiers or sailors to help. Raoul would have to be the one to go, and that meant... With some distaste he dropped the arm, pushed the man away and hit him hard on the back of the neck. The man fell to the ground and Raoul looked across at Dr Maturin, breathing heavily. "I'll go to the Headquarters..." He bent and picked up the pistol he had dropped. "This may be useful."

"Wait..." Stephen's brain was catching up with him - were they to go to the British, these man would be hanged. They would have nothing to lose - they could talk about Raoul, carrying a pistol, fraternising with parole breakers, and worse, mention of the word spy, which, however unsubstantiated, would start rumours, interest, long glances. They could not hand them in, and as he looked up into Raoul's face, he knew that they could not kill them either. "Knock this one out too - I cannot lift him... we must get to a safe place..."

Raoul frowned, and crossed to the doctor's side. The man he had hit before moved, attempting to rise up on one arm, and Raoul pulled him up, and used the pistol butt again on his head. Possibly not quite the same spot, but the man collapsed.

Raoul slid the pistol back into his pocket. "Are you all right, Doctor?" he asked, and offered his hand to help him to rise.

"I am," Stephen said, slipping his catling back into his pocket, taking des Sablières' hand and pulling himself up. "He hit my head..."

"Then we will go to Mr Dawson's house," suggested Raoul. "I do not think anyone would dare attack it. They know where it is, though...." He looked around. There was another pistol on the ground by the wall, and a knife. No point in leaving them for the thugs to rearm themselves with. "Can you stand for a moment? I will collect..." The bag - the bag that Dr Maturin had left behind, that was still near the alley mouth, a step beyond the body of the man he had shot.

Stephen nodded, leaning against the wall, closing his eyes. "Or Santana's - they do not know there..."

Raoul looked at him, noting the exhaustion. Wherever they went, it would have to be close, he though. His own arm continued to ache, and he was aware that the cut had opened and probably bleeding again. He bent and picked up the other pistol, and two knives, and put them carelessly into the other pocket, before walking to the mouth of the alley, stepping over the body and the pool of blood to collect the bag. He held it out as he stepped back to return to Dr Maturin. "You forgot this," he said, as if to explain the whole situation. "Mr Dawson's for tonight, I think," he continued. "Unless Santana's is very close."

Stephen opened his eyes, and looked at the alleyway, calmly horrified. He stared at the bag for a moment, and then looked up at des Sablières. "Dawson's is closer, but there are things I must do..."

Raoul put his left hand in his pocket, fingering the haft of one of the knives. "Come back," he said again. "This is not the place to discuss it. I am - in an awkward situation." The smile tried to be light, but did not quite manage it.

"Yes - of course..." Stephen looked up into des Sablières' face, swaying slightly. "I am sorry, Capitaine."

"Come then," Raoul said, and offered his arm, as he had done in the wood, and at Belem.

Stephen leaned on des Sablières' right arm, but frowned in concern when he saw his left. "You are bleeding..."