Crozier's Operation

"They are sanderlings," said Stephen softly. "Calidris alba. They breed in the far north, but they fly to Africa or even Australia for the winter." He looked down at the midshipman. "How long have you been at sea, Mister Yates?"

Peter looked at the birds, darting their beaks at the sand. He was sure they were the ones he'd seen when they went to the coast. "Since early March," he said. "This is my first ship."

Stephen raised his eyebrows. "You learn very quickly, Mister Yates. I would have thought that you had been at sea for a year or more." He looked at the sanderlings, with their distinct walk. "The men certainly respect you."

"This is the Captain's boat crew - they are very responsible men... The Terpsichore will miss them, if they are actually going to... But they wouldn't do that, surely."

"Go into battle? If they do I will have very serious words with your captain."

Peter smiled in spite of himself. For a moment he tried to imagine the doctor facing up to cool, calm Captain Bolitho, and then he met the doctor's pale eyes and thought that he could, and that Captain Bolitho would not come out of it unscathed. "They have to investigate though - and if it is a Frenchman, you wouldn't want to be caught here - even I can see that the other ship could drive the Terpsichore onto the beach."

Even Stephen could see that. But he was glad to see the midshipman smile, and he smiled back. "Of course they do. But if they engage without even a loblolly boy on board..." It was very impolite to criticise one's host, however, let alone a Captain of the Royal Navy, so Stephen stopped. "If it is a French ship, we will have to consider what it is doing here."

"I am sure the Captain won't do that, although I suppose they could engage him... " Peter frowned over the Doctor's comment. "We're blockading the mouth of the Douro - perhaps it wants to blockade here."

"Perhaps," said Stephen neutrally, thinking of the threat of smugglers, and the trade in transporting escaped French prisoners. "Do we know it was a French ship?"

"The signal just said a ship, and they'd investigate... It could be one of ours. It might not even be a warship, I suppose." Peter drew a ship shape in the hard sand with the toe of his shoe. "If there is a battle..."

Stephen waited, interested to hear what the midshipman would say.

"... I wouldn't mind being on her, for that. I didn't enjoy it, and people got killed - my friend..." Peter looked away, watching the birds flicking backwards and forwards across the line of the last wave. "I mean, that wasn't why..."

"How did you find the battle?"

Peter risked a glance at the doctor, and then slumped. "I'd broken my arm just before - while we were chasing the French ship, and had it bandaged, and ... nothing seemed right. When we went to quarters I couldn't do much: I was still learning what to do, and I ... It was loud though, and there was no time to think, even when the Frenchmen got onto the gun deck and Samuels hit him and I shot him... " That seemed to be it. After that the battle had moved away from the Terpsichore, onto the Victorieuse, and people had come back, injured or even dead. And what he was worried about had, briefly seemed less important.

"He was the first man you killed, I assume?" Stephen asked gently.

Peter straightened his shoulders. "Yes - it was my first battle - and ... He was going to kill me. Unless you want to count when I shouted "Fire" ..." His blue eyes were very serious. "I knew I'd have to kill people, when I joined. My father said it would be all right, because our cause is just, and I'm protecting my people."

"I hate violence. Most of the men I know take some form of pleasure in it - the thrill, the excitement - I find none in it. It takes a constant mastery of dislike and apprehension, and afterwards I hate to think on it. But I must agree with your father, most strongly, however much I dislike to. To argue in the cause of violence, I mean, not to agree with your father. You chose to join?"

Peter grinned at the thought of his father. "You'd agree about a lot of things, Sir, I'm sure. He does not like violence either, but there is a war on, and God is on our side against the French... Yes, I thought it was what I wanted to do. My uncle ... But I think he was probably desperately unhappy, however happy he sounded."

Stephen looked at Yates. "Are you desperately unhappy?"

Peter closed his mouth, and looked back at the awning and the sailors. They wouldn't have heard, surely... "I ... was so happy to be back on land," he said, knowing why he had been happy. "I wanted to run - to run away, I mean."

"To return to land, or to escape the sea?"

The doctor's voice was so kind, Peter had to breathe in deeply to stop himself... "I'm sorry, it's nothing. I just thought I could get away. That I would like to... But I shouldn't trouble you with it. I came back after all." He smiled. "When I found the dormice."

Stephen smiled. "You did; I am most grateful to you. It was very kind." He gently reached out into his pocket, and brought out the dormouse. "I think I should let him go free again before I board again." he looked back to the midshipman. "It is not nothing, if you wish to talk. I am a doctor; I can say nothing to anyone of anything you tell me, and I would not even if I were not a doctor."

"He was on his own. He'll be all right. If you let him go, he'll find his own way, or stay here." Peter drew a line with his toe, and then scuffed at it. "I let them think it was the battle and Julian... But that wasn't it, not really. That just took my mind off it."

"He is mature; as you said, he will be all right." Stephen brought the mouse up to his face and watched it, lest the midshipman find his gaze intimidating. He knew his eyes were odd, and unusual, and some had said disturbing, and sometimes they were useful and sometimes they were not. "What was it?"