Crozier's Operation

It was done. Chase sat back, feeling almost boneless. He'd be happy if he never saw something like that again.

Mister Yates was leading the doctor away a short distance. The sailors watched for a moment before turning their collective gaze back to their unconscious coxswain. Chase pushed himself to his feet and walked hesitantly toward the two officers.

"Here sar," he said, peeling off his jacket and holding it out. Maturin looked half-ready to fall over. "Somethin' to sit on, or lie down on. If y'want," he added sheepishly and blushed.

Stephen looked up, blinking. "That is too kind, Cob Chase; I will sit only for a moment though, thank you. We must prepare to spend the night, I fear."

"Aye sar," Chase said, feeling a little foolish. Prepare for the night... the thought of spending a night away from his hammock seemed totally alien. He folded his jacket and set it down anyway, despite the doctor's refusal. "Just in case, then, sar," he muttered and headed back toward the others.

Peter grimaced. "There's enough wood for a fire, but no water, I'm afraid, other than what we brought with us. Which is little enough. Even boiling won't make the water drinkable - it's too salty."

"I wasted enough; I apologise," said Stephen morosely, looking back towards Barrow.

"No - I did not mean... No one deserves it more than you do, Sir. I drank more than my share," the boy said softly. "Had we known - we could have found a stream on the other side." He stared at the sea, at the water, running more swiftly now. Against the bright sky ... He stopped and blinked, then wiped at his eyes. It wasn't even necessary to use the telescope, but he did so anyway.

Quinn had overheard the discussion about water supplies and crossed to where Doctor Maturin was sitting. He crouched down next to the doctor, pulling off his hat as he did so.

"There's a full water breaker in the boat, sir," he said. "We're not going to run out of water before Terpsy comes back, and if it looks like we might, we're close enough to shore that we can take the boat to get more, sir."

He smiled, though it was a little forced. "Thanks for what you've done, sir, though you look all done in. If you tell me what to look for, you can rest and I'll call you if there's any change at all. In any of the injured."

Stephen saw the boy wipe at his eyes. "I am sorry I can do no more for Barrow, but be of good heart, my dear. We are at least safe from..." Yates was not listening, and instead brought the telescope to his eye. "What is it?"

Before he had an answer he turned to Sergeant Quinn. "Thank you, sergeant, but I am quite well. Your men should be fine, with the blessing. I am sorry that this has happened."

Peter was shaking, and if he had not had the horizon to help him line up the telescope he did not think he would have managed to focus on the tall shape, now detaching itself from the darker bulk of the headland.

"I think...." he said, and brought the glass down again, rubbing at his eye. It might not even be her, but provided she was British, he was beginning to think it did not matter. The injured - Crozier, Barrow and the two Marines - needed something more sheltered than this beach.

Stephen looked to where the telescope was pointing - there was certainly a shape on the horizon. He did not feel relieved - considering what had already happened to them. "What can you see of it, Mister Yates?"

"Ship! Ship-oh!" Spencer called as he returned with his burden of cobwebs and moss.

Peter had never seen the frigate from this angle, with all her sails aloft. He had seen her anchored in the Tagus, or at dock, but was uncertain. "I think it's a frigate," he said, raising the telescope to his eye again. "But it's hard to say for sure." It must be though, coming into the mouth of the Mondego like that. "She's flying our colours, though. I'm sure it's the Terpsichore, Sir!" He held out the telescope, as if hoping that one of the more experienced sailors would confirm his guess.

"It's the Terpsy!" Young called back to them, a grin on his face. Now all would be well, he was certain.

"It ain't your fault, sir," Quinn said. "Could've happened any time we came ashore, for anythin'." He looked up as someone reported a ship. She looked very like Terpsy to him, but he'd let one of the sailors give a positive identification, rather than risk raising anyone's hopes only to have them dashed if she turned out to be another frigate entirely. Though he didn't think there were any other frigates around here that would fly British colours and the same ensign as Terpsy.

And then one of the sailors called that she was Terpsy, and he felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. It would be good to have their wounded back aboard where they could be treated properly and be able to rest in the cots in sickbay rather than on the cold stony ground of some Portuguese spit of land.

the Terpsy. Back to pick them up, and M'clure grinned and turned from his peering at Barrow. It seemed that if the good was going to come it would come in groups as well, as he spotted Spencer coming back with the..ingrediants Dr Maturin had asked for.

Again he glanced over to the Doctor and decided that if it was just a pooultice, well, he could do that himself, couldn't he? "Bring them here, Spencer."

Peter swallowed. That was wonderful - no, not wonderful: too much had gone wrong. But to see her coming back for them .... He closed the telescope, and almost dropped it before stowing it in his pocket. From the inside of his jacket he took the flare and the tinder box, and then hesitated.

He should fire it, obviously, but if wasn't the Terpsichore... No, Young was definite, and he would send the signal, of course.

"Dr Maturin, I am sorry. We must put the wounded back in the boat - we need not row far, but we must... Chase, Young - make sure everyone is back here."

"Of course, of course, Mister Yates," said Stephen, standing. He handed the jacket back to Cob Chase with a word of thanks. "Are the two men I sent out returned?" he asked, looking around. "As, yes, so they are, thank the Dear."

He was momentarily puzzled- was something else to be added to the mix? it ahdn't been mentioned and they had nothing anyway- so he lay them out on the nearest unsandy spot he could find- his own legs. His jacket was still somewhere under Dr Crozier, he thought.

Moss inside cobwebs and then onto the hole, he decided, looking up to see Doctor Maturin standing. Well, if he was going to come over, maybe he'd better wait a while.

Stephen saw M'Clure, sitting the the ground with... "Are those the ingredients for the poultice?"

"Yessir. Spencer just returned with them...Was goin'ter make them up tilkl I saw you here, thought there might be more tricks to it." That wasn't quite coming out how he'd hoped but he didn't know how to put it another way.

"Is it just moss inside cobwebs packed onto the hole, sir? With the reed in or out?"

"What?" asked Stephen incredulously. "The catheter is to drain the blood from the lung until it stops of its own accord! And you were about to - God in heaven! The cobwebs and the moss must be mixed with paraffin oil and wrapped in brown paper, and it can only be bandaged on when he is not drowning in his own blood! Tricks, forsooth, tricks!"

M'Clure drew back, suddenly finding the package intensly interesting. "Sorry..." he muttered. Not that he could possibly have known, but still. It was no more than he deserved, probably. Where in the world were they to get brown paper from? On board, easily, but here...less likely. paraffin oil was probably in their own lift, but paper...
"I'll go and fetch the oil then." he said, unsteadily, looking about for somewhere to set the moss and cobwebs on.

"Give it to me - there is no use, no use at all in any poultice until all the blood has drained. Hell and death!" Stephen felt close to despair. He obviously could not leave his patients at all; even if it was the Terpsichore that had come to rescue them he would have a long night of it.

Peter fumbled with the oilskin wrapping round the flare, and then looked at it with misgivings. It was a rocket, and as such dangerous to use. No one had actually told him what to do with it - just fire it when the operation was finished and they were ready to leave the beach.

He thought of the risk of it misfiring - hitting one of them, or just fizzling out into the water, the ship sailing past, or even setting men ashore to fall foul of the Frenchmen that had attacked them. Pride, once again, had to take second place to practicality. "Sergeant Quinn," he said, looking up at the Marine. "Do you know how to fire this?"

GLumly he stood and traipsed back over to their little craft, assuming, and rightly, there'd be something in their stock of nav-aids resembling the required oil.
How could he have been so thoughtless and stupid as to cause more difficulties for the Doctor, then? "Will this do, sir?" he offered it with diffidence and a lowered head, unwilling to cause any further trouble.