Beating to quarters

Allen had been watching Hardy and Branning and all the others helping the captain, but then he looked over at Quinn and saw that the sergeant was holding his head. In all the hubbub of the battle, he had nearly forgotten that Quinn had been injured early on.

"You alrigh' there, Sarn't?" Allen inquired, walking over to Quinn.

"Bloody head feels like a broadside's goin' off in it. I'll be all right -there's worse wounded round 'ere than me."

He could kick himself for allowing himself to get so distracted that the Frenchy had been able to clout him one. He wasn't proving worthy of his stripes so far today. He needed to think...

With the fighting over, the next task consisted of rounding up the French prisoners, disarming them, and herding them below. Carefully avoiding moving too quickly lest he aggravate the cut on his chest, Johnson worked his way through the groups of jubilant Terpsies and dejected French.

"Take their weapons from 'em, you lads," Johnson barked. "Mister Colburn, get some men for escorts, get these bastards stowed up below. The hold will do."

Wishing that Quinn would go and get some help for himself, but not about to give him any suggestions, Allen simply nodded and started off towards the ladder that led to the gundeck. Perhaps he could help out down there.

Descending the stairs, he caught a glimpse of the carpenter's mate moving someone out from behind a gun--and he was shocked when he saw that it looked like Lieutenant Leat.

"Is that Mister Leat?" Allen exclaimed, hurrying over to Taylor. It was indeed, and he appeared to be badly hurt. "We need to get him back t' Terpsy! He needs help--an' fast!"

Of course Mister Leat needed help. Taylor grimaced. "Well help me get'm up, will ya?"

Corporal Johnson was yelling from for'rard, the surgeon was being fetched to tend to the Captain, the Tricolour was no longer flying... everything was under control.

Sergeant Quinn gave a satisfied nod... and slowly crumpled to the deck, still clutching his musket.

"Alrigh', alrigh'!" Allen snapped.

Bending down, he took hold of Leat's prone body and helped Taylor to heft the lieutenant up between them. No easy task, considering he had to manage hanging onto his musket as well, and Leat's unconsciousness made him a dead weight. But at last, they succeeded in getting him into a position in which he could be carried.

"Should we take him back through one o' th' ports? I think it'd be too hard t' take him back up on deck."

(Continued from here)

Crozier arrived on the deck of the Victorieuse, looking around in dismay. "God have mercy!" he gasped. He rarely got to see the immediate aftermath of the battle, usually being occupied in the orlop for several hours after. He grabbed a passing marine. "Where's the captain?"

John heard the stir of a new arrival with hope. Briefly he looked round, searching for the doctor he convinced himself must have arrived.

"Now ye'll be hearing all about it, sir, you just wait." There was relief, but also a dogged determination to do hi best until the more skilled man could do something better.

Taylor grunted. "Prolly better through the ports. Hey there, boys, bear a hand here, sharpish!"

Mister Leat wasn't light by any means, and getting him back through the gunports would be no easy trick without help. Fortunately, there'd be plenty of help. Watts the boatswain himself was coming quickly over, with a handful of other seamen.

[OOC: Night all! And seeming as I am currently out of it, lump me anywhere you wish - but preferably towards the orlop. ]

[ooc- we could just, err...loose you, somewhere. *eyes the body* orlop it is, i guess, though. sleep well!]

Someone was calling his name. Quinn groaned and tried to fumble a hand up to rub his eyes. At least, he thought he groaned... he couldn't be sure of anything any more. And it was nice down here, even if it was dark.

"Sarn't! Sarn't Quinn, wake up. I got the doctor like you said!" Oxley looked around, worried. He'd never seen the sergeant like this before. He'd seen plenty of other people knocked out, killed, whatever. But he'd never seen a Marine Sergeant lying on the deck like this.

"Hang on sir, we'll get you back t' th' Terpsy righ' away," Allen said, though Leat obviously could not hear the reassureance.

With a good deal of help now, they were able to get Leat through the nearest port, moving the lieutenant as carefully as they could. Once back aboard the Terpsichore, they proceeded to take him down to the orlop at once.

[Continued here]

[OOC: Night! I think Leat will be in good hands now...]

Finally. The sawbones was there. Shuffling to keep their own balances, Hardy and Branning gently lowered the captain down to the deck. Relieved to be free of the sea officer's weight, Hardy moved automatically to let the sawbones get in close.

Branning asked, "Should we get the sarn't down below too?"

Dr. Crozier wrote:Crozier arrived on the deck of the Victorieuse, looking around in dismay. "God have mercy!" he gasped. He rarely got to see the immediate aftermath of the battle, usually being occupied in the orlop for several hours after. He grabbed a passing marine. "Where's the captain?"

Vining jumped. He hadn't expected anyone to grab him like that. "Up on t'quarterdeck, sir," he said, pointing aft. He frowned, hoping everything was all right, before turning back to help herd the sullen French prisoners below.

"Thank you. Yes yes, Branning, take the sergeant. Captain, can you hear me?" Crozier gave Westdale a nod and pulled back the shirt when the man had lifted his hand. A nasty slice, tricky too. Crozier did not like it. Lieutenant Bush was hovering anxiously, though to his credit he was in full command of himself and the men jumping to obey the orders he bellowed. "Captain, you need to stay awake for me." He flipped open the lid of his box and produced a bottle of hartshorn. The smell alone was enough to revive Bolitho with a start.

"I'll be wishing you luck with that, sir." John muttered, wriggling out of the way and standing well back from the powerful hartshorn. Though he was pleased to see the smell seemed to work, and please too not to be hearing anything, yet, about his attempted treatment.

Bolitho opened his eyes at once upon catching a whiff of the hartshorn Crozier had placed under his nose.

"What...what...oh...doctor..." he gasped, "Yes..yes of course..."

He was trying valiantly to obey the doctor's order, though his pain and weakness made it increasingly difficult to do so. But Bolitho was determined to keep himself conscious, for as long as possible. If Crozier said he must, then he must.

[OOC: Going off for a while now, but I'll be back later. In the meantime, just assume that the captain is hanging in there. ]

"Aye sar," Branning said. "C'mon Hardy, be useful an' help here."

Looking annoyed, Hardy was already getting a grip on Sergeant Quinn's coat.

"All right, sir, everything's all right," Crozier murmured soothingly as he pulled the captain's shirt away. "Just a cut on your side, but never worry, and Mister Bush and Mister George have everything under control..." He glanced at the marines as they took charge of their injured sergeant. Obstinate man should have stayed below. "Westdale, find something to carry the captain on, flat. Run for'ard and look in their sickbay if you need to." He tried to weigh in his mind the advantages and disadvantages of simply carrying the captain down to the Victorieuse's sickbay.

"Aye sir." No doubt there would be some appropriate planks somewhere, and no doubt the sickbay would have the best ones nearby, true, all the obvious answers that would be up on deck having been removed for the battle. He ran, hunting for a board, and wrestled it out again, trying to hurry without falling on his way back.

Briefly, he placed it down right next to the captain, and sunk back into the background, watching the marines battle it out with their sergeant.

Oxley had stepped back when Branning came up. "'E won't wake up," the drummer said, looking worried. "I tried, but 'e wouldn't wake up. Is 'e goin' to be all right?"

(OOC - I'm for bed. See you tomorrow.)

"Do not let him fall," Crozier instructed as the men lifted the captain on his plank. He walked along beside them, keeping pressure on the wound himself. "All right, captain, we're just going down to the sickbay. Then we'll have you sorted. Careful there, Preddie." He had decided to use the French sickbay as it was easier to reach while transporting the captain. "Nice and easy, mind your step."

Mister Bush was pacing back and forth like an anxious mother hen, yelling at men to make a lane. "You men, clear that wreckage! Make way for the captain!" He looked soberly at the surgeon as their group passed. "Is there anything you need, doctor?"

"Thank you, Mister Bush, but not at the moment."

The lieutenant nodded and looked at his captain with a touch of anxiety before returning to his numerous duties.

Crozier looked around the sickbay as they entered. "There, that table please." He eased the captain off of the wooden plank that had served as his stretcher and onto the long table. "Thank you, men. That will be all. Staring at him won't heal him any faster, so leave me to my work. Westdale, wait. Find me some water, please - fill that white basin with clean water."

For a short while, Bolitho had been experiencing a weightless sensation, as though he were somehow floating. At first he blamed it on his pain-induced delirium, but gradually he came to realise that he was being moved about on some sort of flat surface. The men must have made a makeshift stretcher to carry him.

Then suddenly, the sensation disappeared. Bolitho felt himself now lying on a hard, stable surface, and he guessed that he had at last been deposited in the orlop. Slowly, he forced his eyes open and peered around. A blurry figure was nearby, and it took only a few moments of blinking for Bolitho to see that it was Crozier.

"Thank you...doctor," he rasped, "I'm sorry...sorry to have caused such a...such a fuss. I would not have...wanted the men to..to see me like this..."