Beating to quarters

In spite of his pain, Bolitho managed to smile at Chase's exuberance. He took advantage of the Frenchman's faltering to deliever another hard thrust at him, hoping that the man was finally too weak to fight back and would wisely surrender while he still lived.

He stepped forward again and levelled his bayonet at the Frenchman's heart. "It's over. Tell 'em to haul down them colours," he said, wondering where Chase had come from, pushing past him like that.

Blinking, Lefevre stumbled back. The hard punch to his jaw had stunned him. There was a bayonet now levelled at his chest now, and the English capitaine's sword was striking forward. Lefevre clumsily parried but, in his dazed state, couldn't muster the coordination to counter-attack.

"Hmph," was all he said, as he jabbed the point of his sword down deep into the deck timbers. Let them consider that his surrender.

At last, it seemed the French captain had finally surrendered. Satisfied, Bolitho lowered his sword--but only slightly, not entirely trusting that the man would not try another attack.

"Well done Chase, Quinn," he said, his voice quite winded now, "The ship is ours. Pass the word to the rest of the men."

As he spoke, he felt another sharp stab of pain pass through him. Hesitantly, Bolitho glanced down and saw that his white waistcoat was quickly turning red from the wound in his side. But he was not about to show weakness now. Instead, he raised his head again and turned to watch the reaction of the Terpischore's crew upon hearing the news of their victory.

Grinning, Chase thrust his axe into the air. "Huzzah!" He smirked at the sullen-faced French captain before dashing off into the rapidly-separating mass of men.

"Ship's ours, lads. Huzzah fer the cap'n!"

John looked about him, belatedly realising Chase had disappeared.
He looked again, listened. Grinned. Those magic words, surrender, despite the wretched Frog not seemingly able to finish a sentance, the taking of a ship!
Any aches they might feel later were forgotten, overwhelmed by glee, celebration. He turned to the man next to him, "Well there, and didn't we say we'd be takin her?" It came out breathless, but that wasn't going to stop him joining in the cheering, neither.

(ooc- I leave ye fer a few days and look what ye get up to. *grins* ah well.)

Quinn stepped back cautiously, prepared for anything the Frenchman might do.

"Someone get that bloody flag hauled down," he said, not even risking a quick glance round the deck.

A red coat pranced down the quarterdeck stairs, the French tri-colour bundled up in his arms. It was Hardy, Brandeson's steward.

"Brung you this, sir," the Marine said happily, shoving the flag at Bolitho.

John looked up. Wasn't there anything their enemy could do properly? Sergeant Quinn had truly pointed out the flage was still flying. Pity he wasn't close enough to take a bit of it, as it came down.
Would have been nice, something to look at later.

he narrowed his eyes. Was that blood on the captain?

The rush of battle now having abated, Bolitho was at last beginning to feel the effects of his exhaustion and his injury. He managed to accept the flag that Hardy gave him, but as he stared down at the French tri-colour now in his hands, he found his vision was swimming in and out of focus. For a moment, he swayed unsteadily on his feet. Then he lost his grip on both the flag and his cutlass, and he felt himself start to topple forward as his legs gave out under him.

The British huzzahs sounded throughout the decks of the Victorieuse, though Leat neither heard nor joined in with them. He and his boarding party had successfully secured the French gundeck and the men had been on their way up the companionways to join the main fighting on deck when Unfortunate Ned's luck had taken a turn for the worst. A French sailor had come out of nowhere and caught the lieutenant off guard whilst his sword was still stuck in another man's ribs, catching him a shocking blow to the head which had opened a great gash along his hairline around the side of his head. In the confusion nobody had seen him go down, and the Frenchman had run on, assuming his victim was done for.

Three quarters stunned, Leat had crawled the short way across the deck to the shelter between the guns leaving a trail of blood behind him - vaguely mindful that it would not do to be caught under foot. There he lay still, wholly unconscious, his pale face covered with blood from the scalp wound and another sabre cut in his left arm, held close to the body.

"'Ay! lend a hand there, t'captains hurt!" it was a poorly suppressed cry, and he was next to the man without even thinking about it, a reflex his uncle had gifted him.

It was blood- a lot of it too. He moved to press down on the cut and listened to harried calls and men arguing over who was to carry him.

"Sir!"

A clash of voices called out at the same time and nearly half of Terpsy's crew rushed forward. Hardy beat them all to the actual act of catching Bolitho, as he had only been half a pace away, but he was surprised by the man's weight coming down all at once. He managed to stop the sea officer's fall only by dropping his shoulder and tucking it underneath Bolitho's chest. It was not, Hardy reflected, the most comfortable position ever. But at least the captain was mostly still on his feet.

"Use his neckcloth!" Hardy gasped at Westdale, who was helpfully putting some pressure on the cut in Bolitho's side. "An' some lad bear a hand here, don't matter who!"

Quinn turned at the voice and was just in time to see Hardy help catch the Captain, though his musket clattered to the deck as he moved. He'd have chewed the Marine out for that at any other time.

"Branning! Bear a hand there and help the Captain back to Terpsy. He needs to see the surgeon!"

He looked round. Where was Lieutenant Bush, or George?

Bolitho was dimly aware of someone grabbing hold of him before he hit the deck. Even with his blurring vision, he was able to discern that it was Hardy. And someone else was applying pressure to his wound. Westdale, he thought it was.

"Thank...thank you Hardy....Westdale," he mumbled, slowly slipping into oblivion due to his loss of blood.

"Ye'll have ter take it off him, then, I dursn't stop t'pressure." John was trying to be firm, but had no wish to bruise anything...though it was a fine balance between that and there being nothing left to bruise.

"Sergeant, ye'd better not move him till this is tied up." he looked around breifly for a shirt he could purloin, but was more interested in the blood beneath him.

"And ye shouldn't talk, sir." he added, old training bubbling through when needed, as he'd always trusted it to do.

Quinn stooped to tear the shirt from a dead French sailor, and passed it to the man tending to the Captain.

"Will he be all right, d'you think? What else can we do for him?"

"Here, I got him," Branning said brusquely, slinging his musket across his back. Really! Hardy was barely bigger than a sapling, how did he expect to handle the captain's weight, when the man had just gone limp?

Hardy looked somber. "Cheers, sir," he muttered and allowed the bigger Marine to take some of the weight off his own shoulder. He wasn't going to completely give way, of course, and after a moment the two Marines managed to support Bolitho evenly. Then they waited while Westdale went about his work.

"I'm no surgeon, sir." John was absently glad of the space that was being kept around the captain though, and accepted the shirt calmly.

"ye can get him over there as soon as ye can, once we've tied him up, like." And that was going to be difficult. Breifly he lifted his hands, wincing a little as the blood continued to flow, and placed the wadded shirt on as quickly as he could, leaning on it firmly. "It would be best ter wait just a touch longer first, sir, ter see if it could be stopped, you see."

Lieutenant George came aft looking for the Captain, the bandage round his head no longer neat and white. He saw the group round the fallen man and hurried forward. The sailor Westdale seemed to have taken charge, and to be dealing competently with the wound. "Dear God!" he said. "Westdale. Well done, man. Should we send to ask Dr Crozier to come over here, for the Captain?"

On the Frog's gun deck, Mister Watts the boatswain was directing his men in the task of gathering up their dead and wounded. There were several Marines scattered amongst the seamen and they too were at work. Thankfully, though, there were relatively few fallen Terpsies to be collected up.

Taylor, the carpenter's mate, popped up from behind a gun to wave a rag-wrapped fist. "Mister Leat's here!" So saying, the seaman carefully dragged the lieutenant out from between the guns where he'd fallen.

Grateful for the help the men were giving him, Bolitho nodded slightly, unable to say or do anything else. Branning and Hardy were holding him upright now, and Westdale had made a makeshift bandage for his wound. Surely that would hold him until he got to Dr. Crozier. He was slipping in and out of consciousness now, and he feared it would not be long before he went completely out.

John was glad of the suggestion, fully aware of his own shortcomings and the dangers of trying to carry a man thusly bleeding back to the Dr.
"That would be a help, sir, if he ain't too busy. If ye could get him to know where the cut is, it would help some."

Doggedly he refused to lift the makeshift bandage to see how the bleeding was, though it certainly seemed less. "and you, sir." he suddenly remembered this was the captain he was speaking to, and moderated his tone, "If you could stay still, sir, it would be very good."

Quinn looked around. The Terpsies had done themselves proud, that was for sure. His head was starting to hurt again, despite the bandage that had replaced his hat... and he'd have to find his hat when he had a moment spare.

Oxley was standing just behind Lieutenant George as he spoke, and looked up at Quinn. "I'll go f'r 'im, Sarn't. Ain't much else I can do here."

Quinn nodded, clasped his head and barely saw the lad dash away, heading back to Terpsy.

Perhaps somewhere deep down in the darkness Leat was aware that someone was dragging him feet first across a floor, and that it hurt. Perhaps he could have been panicking - the same recurring nightmare of his childhood, brought on by such close association with the dead, of being buried alive, of screaming for help and nobody taking any notice as his father screwed the coffin lid down on top of him... but if that was the case it did not show, and he remained still and silent; not even a moan passing his lips as his limp body was unceremoneously brought out from his place of shelter.