Waiting to enter Óbidos

padstowe watched Stephen go to the staircase, then set about his task of searching the downstairs rooms. There was a light in one of the rooms off the hallway, and he edged closer, taking one pistol out from under his coat. Carefully he nudged open the door and stepped inside.

Every single room was empty. Stephen, keeping his pistol raised at all times, had checked behind every door, in every wardrobe, under every bed, and he was sure of it: the upper half of the house was empty.

While checking for Prideaux, he had found what was obviously his study – a large, wood-paneled room with glass-fronted bookcases and a large table. This was the room he returned to, checking again behind the door as he closed it. His practiced eye told him where to look – one file on the shelf, one in the desk drawer, one in the secret compartment under the base of the desk drawer that he sprung open with his pick-lock, but even apart from that, there were papers strewn across the surface of the desk. Some were coded, some were free, and one was in the process of being copied over. Unable to contain a gasp, Stephen bent over them, his eyes growing wide.

So many papers, such a very great treasure-mine of papers… Pay-lists for every French agent within two hundred miles, and some even further afield; numbers of infantry, cavalry, artillery that would have Wellesley’s hands itching, in detail enough to plan five battles; and then the letters – Wellesley’s arrival mentioned briefly here – no mention of Hogan or Padstowe, thank the Dear, at least not in this sheath – repeated mentions of one Ducos though; he would have to investigate further - he moved to the next uncoded page, excitement filling him – such a coup, an almighty coup – he stopped, his blood cold. This letter mentioned Dutourd, “Dutourd de valeur inestimable”, and in the same letter, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the same letter, “Domanova”, “Dutourd avait pensé qu'il fût le perfide Maturin”, “il est sans trois ongles sur la main droite”, “yeux froids et pâles”, this Ducos again, “du secret plus grand” – he stuffed it into his pocket, his hands trembling.

The room - a small library - was empty, the remains of a fire dying down in the grate responsible for the faint light that had dissipated under the door. Someone was home then, but the question was where?

He stepped back out into the corridor, pistol poised. The next two rooms were empty - cold and dark - with no sign of habitation. The kitchen was empty too, so was the water closet and then there seemed to be nowhere else to check. Out the back?

Suddenly there was a creaking and Padstowe spun round. The cellar. He hid himself behind the door just in time to see the trapdoor open, a tall, bulkey man in expensive clothes coming up clutching a bottle of some dusty vintage. Prideaux. The spy walked out of the kitchen, back into the hallway and the captain heard the first tread of the stairs creak. His heart in his mouth, Padstowe followed silently.

The shock of this letter, the terrifying shock of it, prompted him back into action. He collected all the papers and files into a leather folder, uncoded beneath the coded, cipher lists at the top, tying it off with string. He was reaching out for his pistol, balanced precariously on the edge of the table, when he heard the click of a pistol being cocked – a voice of cold, cruel fury, speaking in French. “Stop. Hands in the air. Step away from the table.”

Stephen moved to turn around, then stopped when he saw the pistol pointed at his back; he gave an exaggerated start and stared at the wall. “I don’t speak French!” Stephen spoke in Portuguese, injecting a high-pitched note of panic into his voice.

Prideaux answered in kind. “Hands in the air!” Stephen obeyed, cursing himself for turning to the right – blessed Saint Stephen, don’t let him notice the hand… “Why are you here?”

He had spent too much time looking at the papers; if he’d been watched for more than a few moments, he wouldn’t be able to pass himself off as an ordinary thief. “A British man told me to! Told me he’d give me money! Don’t shoot!”

“Are there others?”

Stephen pitched his voice to carry downstairs. “No, I’m alone.” His tone became wheedling. “I can’t read, sir, just told to go in and get papers. British soldiers, I can take you to them, behind the ridge there, under the southern-“

“Turn around.”

Stephen turned, hands still in the air, making sure to keep his eyes cast to the floor. He swallowed; Prideaux’s shadow told him all he needed to know about his opponent’s physique. He had dropped a bottle of wine at his feet - but it hadn't shattered; it rested on its side against his shoe. “Southern wall, sir, your honour – I can take you to them.” He chanced a look upwards. Prideaux was unconsciously lowering the pistol as he scrutinized the frightened little thief – then he saw Domanova’s pale eyes, Domanova’s crippled hands. Stephen leapt on him – Prideaux's pistol went off, and the bullet sliced across his thigh. He grunted in pain, but followed through, pulling his catling from the waistband of his trousers, momentum allowing him to bear Prideaux to the ground. As the sound of the shot reverberating through the house, he heard someone break into a run at the top of the stairs – Padstowe.

He had the better position: his body lying on top of Prideaux’s, their kicking legs entangled – Prideaux kicked at the table as he went down, and Stephen's pistol skidded across the floor - his left hand pinching a nerve in the crook of Prideaux’s right elbow, effectively paralyzing his dominant hand. He gripped the catling in his right hand, but Prideaux gripped his wrist, and Prideaux was the stronger man by far. Stephen felt sweat stinging his eyes, his abused limbs straining, the wound to his thigh was so painful. Drawing on his reserves of strength, he slowly moved the blade until the point hovered between two ribs, just above the heart, but he couldn’t press it any further – Prideaux was pushing him up.

Stephen brought his left hand to the handle of the knife – Prideaux, understanding just how great his advantage of size and strength was, did not mirror the move as blood and life flowed back into his arm; holding both of Maturin’s hands off with his one he reached to the side and grabbed Stephen’s pistol. He swung it around, catching Stephen with a stunning blow to the temple, but the smaller man clung on. Prideaux brought the pistol between them, pointing it into Stephen’s face – he could see the leaden gleam of the bullet behind the wad and powder as he stared down the barrel, refusing to let go of the catling – Prideaux cocked the pistol –

- but the sound of the clicking doghead seemed to have acquired an echo.

"Don't move."

The small pistol was pressed into the back of Prideaux's head at the base of his skull. Padstowe's mouth was close to the Frenchman's ear, but there was no way the man could see his assailant.

"Let him go," Padstowe growled in French, pitching his voice lower than usual. He had been halfway up the stairs when he'd heard the raised voices and pistol discharge and had come running. "Let him go, monsieur, or I swear you shall not live to draw another breath."

Stephen hardly dared breathe - stars were exploding between his face and the end of the pistol barrel (he must have a concussion, spoke the voice of Doctor Maturin) which was slowly lowered to the side as Padstowe spoke. The catling was still between he and Prideaux – he hesitated, pulling it back – he didn’t want to kill the man if they didn’t have to…

Prideaux moved like a snake; he jerked himself to the side – the shot from Padstowe’s bullet took off most of Prideaux’s ear - he whipped the pistol back up, laid the barrel across the back of Stephen’s neck, aimed it up at the invisible new enemy, and fired. The shot burnt his skin and singed his hair, but what made him shout out was the sight of Padstowe thrown backwards by the impact of the bullet, falling through the door and crashing against the wall opposite.

He was brought back to the fight by a viciously aimed knee in his stomach, and he retaliated with his own to Prideaux’s groin. The Frenchman swore, and tossed away the useless pistol, but he didn’t reach for the catling, once again in play between them – he reached up, wrapped his fingers around Stephen’s neck, and squeezed.

He couldn’t breathe, the Frenchman was physically lifting him up by the handle of the catling, this was the end -

As he felt his head swimming, Stephen moved his left hand to the top of the handle, curling the hollow of his palm around the top of it, to protect his sternum from shattering. With a low keen, he inched himself forward, until his breastbone was against the back of his hand – Prideaux was hissing something – and he pushed, collapsing onto the back of the blade.

Nine stone is not a very great weight in a man, but it was enough.

Excruciating pain webbed through the whole of his torso – both men gasped, though Stephen only once – Prideaux’s hand fell away, and scrabbled at his own throat – Stephen wrenched the blade out, moaning in pain - and now they were cheek to cheek, their hands clasped around the catling’s wooden handle, the jet obscured by Stephen’s body, both feeling the spreading warmth, Prideaux’s breath warm in Stephen’s ear.

Prideaux gasped in the silence, for Stephen had aimed the point to penetrate the crest of the aortic arch, and his head was deprived of blood, which poured out onto the floor. He died quickly, and when Stephen, his face inches away from his enemy’s, saw his eyes finally darken, he rolled off the body and stared up at the ceiling.

He covered his face with his hands, not caring that they were covered in blood, like his chest, and now his back, like his forearms and his leg. His breath came out in shuddering sobs as the fear and adrenaline rushed from him, leaving his whole body shaking.

He had no time to recover though – Padstowe, he had to get to Padstowe – his legs wouldn’t take his weight even without the bullet wound, he trembled so much, so he crawled across the room, as fast as he was able, his hands slipping in the blood. “Jonathan! Oh, Christ, Jonathan!”

The first thing Padstowe was aware of after the blur and the noise was the pain. It threw him back, crumpled him against the wall where he hit his head, then again as he slumped down. He must have momentarily fainted, because the next thing he saw was Stephen looking down at him, his pale eyes shocked and his face paler. And whose blood was that? His? Prideaux's?

"Prideaux?" he asked, reverting to English as it had seemed Stephen had. "Where is Prideaux?"

He tried to prop himself up but gasped as a stab of pain shot through his left shoulder.

"Dead. He's dead." He was having trouble focusing on Padstowe's face - there was probably some crepitation along the coronal suture, he diagnosed as though in a dream - and fighting down waves of nausea he forced himself to look over Padstowe's body. Blood was spreading out from his left shoulder, but slowly, oozing - thank God it missed the heart. Another inch and Padstowe would be dead. "Hurt?" He licked his lips, and croaked, "Does it hurt?"

"A little." It actually hurt a damn lot, but he was not about to own up to the fact. He looked up, saw Stephen's eyes unfocussed, heard the incoherency in his voice and realised that the blood was not just his and Prideaux's.

"Stephen, you're hurt." Steeling himself momentarily he used his right arm to raise himself up. It was agony, but concern for the doctor made him ignore the pain. "Did the bastard get you? Where?"

"Leg is grazed. Hit my head." Damn you, Maturin, focus! He paused and swallowed, trying to calm his head and his stomach. It didn't work. "I know you are brave, Jonathan, but I need to know how much it hurts, right now," he wheezed.

"Bloody agony," he said, gritting his teeth. "But I can take it, and we need to get out of here. How is that leg? Do you think you could walk?"

Because you certainly don't look as if you can...

"Good - that means you are not in shock." He was losing conciousness - everything went black, punctuated by flashes of stars or light or colours, and his voice felt too loud to be his. "I will be. Able to walk. Just... I am about to pass out, Jonathan. Keep pressure on your shoulder. I should come to in a couple of minutes."

"Oh God, no! No, Stephen, you can't pass out now!" He took a hold of doctor's shoulder, cradling him with his good arm. They did not have a couple of minutes, and he prayed the footsteps he heard running up the stairs were Calderon's. "Damn it, doctor, this is not the time!" he hissed.

He was dimly away of Padstowe, now above him, saying something beyond his hearing. "Only a minute... Not long..." His head fell back.

Padstowe swore as Stephen lost consciousness. Oh Jesus, this was going to be brilliant!

He turned as Calderon burst into the room, the Spaniatd's face a picture of shock and fury as he took in the scene. He started to demand to know what had happened, but Padstowe cut him short.

"We have to get him out of here," he snapped. "Can you bandage his leg?"

Calderon nodded, seeing the captain's desperation, and took off his dirty neckcloth to use it as a make-shift bandage. Whilst he was doing this Padstowe got to his knees, returned the spent pistol to its holster and then heaved himself onto his feet. A groan escaped from his lips, but he could at least stand. His left arm was still working, but at the moment it hurt too much to use so he stuffed his hand into his belt, hoping it would keep some of the weight off it, and went over to the desk. There were sheafs of paper neatly piled up and sorted - a veritable treasure trove of information both enemy and allied which momentarily took his breath away before he recollected himself. Loosening the laces of his shirt as far as he could, he picked up one wadge of papers and stuffed it down his shirt, followed by the next. They would be safe there from the water in the tunnel, and he told Calderon that he should do the same.

Stephen, true to his word, came to after a minute - when everything swam into focus, he saw Calderón and Padstowe moving about the room. He reached down his leg, and found that one of them had tied a bandage around it. "Jonathan. I told you to keep pressure on your shoulder."

He pulled himself up the door frame into a sitting position - the pain had, if anything, increased - he categorised them in order of importance: head, leg, sternum, hand - but his thoughts were already clearer. "We must- The papers! All the papers!"

"Already got them," Padstowe said, stuffing the last one into his shirt and re-lacing it up to the collar one-handed. "And my shoulder can go whistle for the timebeing, it'll be alright. José, you'll have to take his arms and I'll get his feet."

It was strange how it always gripped him, this sense of cold authority that made it impossible for him to give into any fear or pain he might be feeling. As long as he had somebody or something to protect he could keep going; and right now that was the papers and Stephen Maturin. "We're going to get you out of here."

"No, don't, I can walk." He pulled himself upright to prove it, hissing, all of his weight on his left leg. "Oh, Christ..." He looked at the room, awash with blood, Prideaux in the gory centre. He hobbled forward, the toes of his right foot just touching the floor, and he tried to bend to close his eyes. Whatever he'd done, he couldn't bear to leave him staring up sightlessly at the ceiling. He leant forward. "We need all the papers, Jonathan; you have them all?"

"Yes." The captain and Calderon came forward to support Stephen, each taking one arm. "We took all the papers from the desk. Is there anything else? We have not searched his body yet."

"I put them all on the desk - one from the shelf, two from the desk, one in a secret compartment, all the scattered papers..." His felt a lump in his throat. "I need to close his eyes. I'll search the body."

They helped him over to Prideaux's body, helped him to crouch down and Padstowe detached himself to look out of the window. He could hear shouts and distant commotion from the direction of the plaza - doubtless some neighbour had alerted the town militia to the disturbance. It would not be long before they would be here.

"We'll have to go out the back way. Be as quick as you can, or we'll have company soon."

With Prideaux's eyes closed, Stephen found it easier - one tiny cipher booklet in his breeches, which Stephen stuffed in his pocket, and then two more sheets in the breast pocket; they were so soaked with blood that they fell apart in his hands. He picked up Hogan's pistol, and tucked it into the back of his trousers. "That's all." Calderón picked him up, and Stephen leant on the Spaniard's shoulder gratefully. He dreaded the stairs, but he was proud as Lucifer himself, and he looked at Padstowe with a steely expression on his face, trying to quiet his wheezing. "Let's go."

Calderón wasn't pleased by the way things had gone. It had gone well until they reached Prideaux's house, when he had split off from the other two to keep watch at the back door. He'd remained there after the first bark of a pistol shot, sure that it was an ambush and there would be Frenchmen swooping down from all directions. As much as it pained him, he stayed at his post until the second shot rang out. There was no movement on the street and that meant it couldn't be an ambush. Calderón slipped away from the chimney block he had been standing beside and ducked toward the back door of Prideaux's house.

Events had moved swiftly from the instant he reached the Frenchman's study on the second floor. Esteban had been twice wounded and the British officer shot through his shoulder. Dios mio but this had turned into a nightmare. They were nearly fit to move, at least. The city's guard would be arriving within minutes, he could already hear them shouting in the distance. Calderón waited, striving to contain his impatience to move, while Esteban finished searching the dead Frenchman's body. For even one of them to be caught would be even more disastrous than the way the mission had turned out. If all three of them were caught... the simple fact that they were British would lead to a swift execution and an enormous loss to the intelligence network.

When Esteban was at last satisfied that he had taken everything of worth, he gave the order to move. Calderón was only too happy to obey. Navigating the streets with two wounded men wasn't something he looked forward too with any enthusiasm. They'd gotten what they'd come for, at least. He listened to the calls of the approaching city guard and cursed. Evading the guard would be a pretty trick.

"Come, hurry! They will have patrols on every streets very soon," he snapped, forgetting for a moment to avoid speaking English. He shouldered the bulk of Esteban's weight and headed for the stairs, not caring a whit if the Irishman objected to being manhandled.

With one arm around Calderón's neck, Stephen had paused at the top of the stairs. He reached to grip the banister with his left hand, but it spasmed in pain, and he pulled it back to his chest with a hiss. Reaching out again, he touched it lightly with his fingers for balance - he would have to put almost all of his weight on Calderón. He dropped a step, and then inched his injured leg down with it.

"Oh, for God's sake, Esteban."

Ignoring Stephen's half-hearted, petulant little protests, the Spaniard lifted him under the armpits and carried him down the stairs, his heels barely skimming the steps, in a move that was hugely painful but far, far faster. Calderón moved to pull him through the door, following Padstowe, but Stephen said, "Stop, wait a moment!" His shirt was soaked through with blood, tiny patches of beige showing here and there, and his face and hands were covered, while half of Padstowe's shirt was scarlet. Two cloaks were hanging by the door - he twitched the smaller one off its peg and pulled it around himself, while Calderón, quickly grasping the necessity, handed the larger to Padstowe. Running about in the small hours in May wearing heavy cloaks would be suspicious even in this area of the country, but it was far less suspicious than running from the city guard in bloodstained shirts.

Cloaks? Oh for...! He hung the cloak back up and swiftly buttoned his overcoat. It was not bloody, and the oilskin would keep the blood from coming soaking through - plus a cloak would drag when they reached the water gate. For Stephen it would be alright - they'd probably have to carry him anyway.

He went to the back door and opened it cautiously. The yard was celar and he motioned the others through before closing it firmly. There was a heavy stone plant pot which he pulled, with some effort, to sit in front of the closed door. That should slow any pursuit for a while.