Crozier's Operation

"In that case we should hurry; if they know about the men on the beach..." Stephen looked down at the midshipman, who was pale. "Are you injured, Mister Yates?"

"Need any help there, sir?" Branning asked, trying not to frown as he saw Shriver heaving poor Everett up none-too-gently.

Peter looked up at the doctor. "No, Sir. I was a bit - surprised. And ..." He swallowed then carried on: "They may try to take our boat. I wager they're from the ship Terpsichore is chasing. Go on, Sergeant - I'll follow with the doctor and the wounded." He tucked his pistol into his waistband and offered an arm to the doctor. "We must get to the beach," he said.

"I know, Mister Yates." Stephen looked around, putting his hand to his head; the voices formed a cacophony. "Private," he said, addressing the large Marine, whose name he did not know, "please help Shriver with Everett." He turned to Quinn. "You said that you had two wounded."

Branning looked almost unhappy, for all of a heartbeat, then he nodded. "Aye sir, " he said, slinging his musket and heading off to obey. Shriver scowled at him as he got close. That wasn't anything surprising.

"Give him here, you great oaf," Branning muttered, and wasn't surprised when Shriver let Everett's weight nearly drop before Branning was able to take hold of the wounded Marine. Just as well to him; it was too likely that Shriver would get tired of supporting Everett and drop him halfway back to the boat anyway.

Quinn indicated where Bell and Mallory were supporting Joyse between them. "Aye, sir." That was his entire squad now unable to fight back, though if anything else happened, they'd have to put their wounded down to return fire. And it was all of two hundred yards or so back to the others.

Where in hell had those Frogs sprung from?

Druon gathered his surviving men together, crouching low in the shelter of a wind-shaped bush. The Marines had, after a couple of farewell shots, withdrawn back to the track, and moved off towards the beach. If their ship was in the mouth of the Mondego, then the Hérisson would not venture in, and they would have to wait. But perhaps these men were not with a ship, but part of the garrison at Figueira...

They must be stopped from reporting the presence of French Marines. Druon watched as one man bound up the arm of his companion, and then gestured to the dunes. "We must get to the beach," he said. "Take care though..."

Thigh wound, shoulder wound, Stephen mentally assessed. "Mister Yates, if you are well, please run back to the boat; tell the men to be ready with whatever weapons they have, and to protect Mister Crozier."

Peter nodded. "Yes - though.... Yes, Sir." He took the pistol out again, and holding it firmly in his hand set off at a fair speed. It was different from his earlier run - only the thought of warning his men occupied his mind, as he angled up the dune as quickly as possible. He could see the shapes in the olive grove, but no one fired as he cleared the top, feet sliding and skidded down the other side, out of sight of the enemy. He ran for the gap that would take him back onto the beach itself, fifty yards or so from the boat and its crew.

Stephen watched the rest of the Marines jog after Yates as he hurried the wounded as fast as they could go. As soon as they had a clear view of the beach he craned his neck to try to spot Yates, and muttered a prayer of thanks when he saw him safely approaching the boat.

"Come on, sir," Quinn said. "Looks like you took a nasty knock there." The doctor didn't like being fussed over; he remembered that much from his time aboard Sophie, but he had to get the man back down to the others in one piece. Captain Bolitho would lay into him if anything happened to the Doctor, and he'd be lucky to come away as a Private.

He was last, as was only right, being the one in charge of the small party of Marines. He wondered what the French had been doing here. He'd have to tell the Captain as soon as they got back aboard, that much was for certain.

"I am fine, Sergeant Quinn; I am quite able to cope with a kno- Wait," said Stephen as he thought of something. "Go on ahead; I will catch up in a minute." He doubled back the few yards they had gone from his attacker's body, and he knelt down beside it.

The Marines had crossed the dunes onto the beach, taking their wounded with them, but at the last moment, the man in the blue coat stopped at the crest of the dune, and turned, running back down to the track. He stooped, beneath the level of the wall. He could have dropped something of his own, but that was where Monteiro had fallen. Was the sous-officier dead or alive? He levelled his musket, and took aim between the trees. If the man raised his head... Petit, a better shot, checked his priming and raised his musket too.

Stephen rifled through the man's pockets, and eventually found some folded papers in the man's breast pocket. The edges were soaked in blood, and Stephen thought that the Marine's bayonet had torn the corner; he held them up so that they would catch the light and allow him to read them.

Petit fired before Druon, in the narrow gap between the canopy of leaves and the top of the wall, at the sight of what could have been the man's grey wig. The ball hit the wall, richocheting Reason could not say where, and sending chips of stone flying in all directions. Druon blamed Petit for the fact that his ball lodged in a branch - although at least the line was true!

Stephen ducked over the body as muskets fired, and chips of stone slew around him. At least I drew their attention from the beach, he thought, then stuffing the papers into his pocket with his good hand he stood up and sprinted, counting on a few seconds of grace before they reloaded.

Petit and Druon were reloading. Prost finished pouring in the powder as the man started to run back to the dunes, levelled and pulled the trigger, but the charge misfired, scorching his cheek, and he dropped it, swearing. Ligier, lying on the ground with blood staining the bandage round his arm, thrust his musket at the man who had been helping him. "She's ready..."

This all suggests that he was carrying something valuable, thought Stephen as he ran, surprisingly calm as a musket ball missed his head by inches.

Druon rammed the ball home, aware that the man would be out of sight before he could fire. If he had Monteiro's papers - well, the language would prove a problem for the lazy British, who did not even try to learn another tongue. True, it would have proved a problem for whoever had to deal with them in Oporto, as well: Monteiro had not planned on being dead when they were handed over.

"We must attack them on the beach," he said. "They must not get back to their ship."

Billy stared into the trees without being able to see where the shots were coming from, and then turned his anxious gaze back on the doctor running towards them. "What are your orders, sir?" he asked Mister Yates.

"Get weapons - knives, anything you have... Sergeant. You are the expert." Peter felt relief at the sight of Dr Maturin returning across the dunes, but he hoped that Sergeant Quinn would not look to him for tactical decisions. Peter swallowed and turned to face the gap in the dunes, as the Marines came in, putting their wounded next to the still unconscious Dr Crozier.

If only they could toss Dr. Crozier into the cutter as easily as the other wounded, they might be able to push off. But then they would have to leave the sail behind, and Billy did not like the prospect of an open boat with no sail at all. "Preddie, Chase, get the sail, just knock it to and stow it. Mind the doctor."

None of the crew had weapons apart their own utilitarian knives, though in a close fight that could often be enough. If they were still alive by the time the Frenchies got that close.

Stephen came to the group of the beach, swaying. "We must be ready to repel an attack. Who is wounded?"

Before anyone could answer, there were shots from dunes.

A musket ball scraped along his arm from behind, and Quinn bit back a curse as he turned to see what was going on. The other Marines had dropped their wounded comrades by now. "Marines! Reload!"

Thank God for the Marines' training and methods of firing, which allowed for independent fire in much the same way as Light Infantry soldiers were trained. He could only wish they had more men, but he'd make do with the few he had.

"You Tars - any of you know how to use a musket?" he asked, once he was sure the Marines were concentrating on reloading their muskets to try to tackle the French.