Crozier's Operation

"I will, so," said Stephen. "It would be unfair to him otherwise, and I have no time, no time at all..."

"He'll be all right, though. He's old enough to take care of himself."

"But he must be set down somewhere where he will have a chance at least; in the shelter of some grass, lest the birds notice him on the open sands."

"There are orchards - well, something like orchards, though not like what we have at home - On the other side of the dunes, I mean. He'd be safe there, or safer, from hawks."

"Perhaps later. I think right now we should go to the men though; showing a confident face, I need not say."

"Yes, Sir." Peter felt that he had had practice at this, and looked up with a genuine smile. "Will that do? I am confident that they will come back for us, at least. But I'm worried for Dr Crozier."

Stephen smiled at the midshipman. "It will indeed. We will say a sudden attack of heatstroke, and that you are quite recovered - as I hope you are." Stephen looked towards the awning. "As am I, but there is nothing to be done. If he is to wake, he will be as likely to wake up here as in the sick-bay."

The hot sand crunched underfoot. "It would be more pleasant here - the air is fresher than in the sickbay. People go to Scarborough to recuperate, after all, and this is just warmer." He returned the smile. "I think I am. I feel better, anyway."

"I am glad to hear it, Mister Yates, said Stephen as they came to the awning. He knelt by Crozier, to check his pulse and breathing, and to confirm with M'Clure that there had been no change.

Peter watched the doctor for a moment, but he did not appear about to panic - not that he would, but Dr Crozier seemed unchanged. He turned to Billy Barrow, who as coxswain was in charge in his absence. "Is everything well?" he asked.

No change at all with Mister Crozier - but Stephen had not expected any, for someone would surely have interrupted his conversation with Mister Yates had that been the case. He stood up again, stretching, and decided to walked up the beach to the long grass, where he could release the dormouse.

[These people have nothing to do with Raoul - they are just using his account because he is French]

Sous-officier Monteiro of the Marine Infantry led his small group towards the beach where they would rendezvous with the Hérisson. They were running late, but the ship would wait for them - the information they had been gathering was too important for them not to. Then back north.

They had come so far undetected, watching out for those British soldiers that remained in Coimbra, but this time, the presence of redcoated soldiers so close to their destination meant that they might need to do more than lie low. The Hérisson could be in danger if its nationality were suspected. Monteiro - as loyal a Frenchman as Bonaparte could desire, despite his Portuguese ancestry - signalled to his men to spread out and assess the strength of this inconvenient group of soldiers.

Stephen continued walking, occasionally casting a look over his shoulder to check where he was in relation to the awning. He drew the dormouse from his pocket, and held it loosely in his hands; one of its feet scratched against his right palmar aponeurosis. He carried on walking, up from the beach, looking for at least some long grass to release the creature in.

The Marines had managed to find a surprising amount of wood and were on their way back to the beach. Quinn hoped that Doctor Maturin had been able to talk to Mister Yates and set his mind at ease. He wondered idly what it was that was troubling the midshipman, though he knew the doctor well enough to know he would never betray a confidence.

"Come on, Shriver, pick your feet up," he said, noticing the big Marines was lagging behind. He would swear the man had been sent to try him - he was the only one out of Terpsy's Marine detachment that Quinn had ever had any real trouble with.

Peter watched the doctor walk across the beach. He might have to cross the dunes completely - there was little grass on them, on the seaward side. His head was lowered, watching the little dormouse in his hand and Peter sent his good wishes towards the little creature. It would survive. The doctor would see to it that it had a good chance.

The men were beginning to get restless - no more than that, so far, but he had nothing to tell them - the frigate had gone and would return. That was all he knew.

Monteiro's men lay flat in the shelter of the stone wall protecting the olive grove from encroachment from the dunes. He counted six of them to begin with, loaded with wood as well as muskets. That should be no problem. Except that they were Marines like them, not land soldiers. Merlot grinned his gap-toothed grin, and levelled his finger. The others, more practically, were getting their muskets from the bundles of nets and stakes in which they been carrying them.

"Come on, keep together, you lot! Shriver, Branning's got twice as much as you and he ain't draggin' his heels. Never known anyone so bad." Something didn't feel right. Quinn couldn't put his finger on what, precisely, was not right, but it was enough to make him want to get back down to the relative safety of the beach.

There was a stone wall several yards ahead, with olive trees growing behind it - that would do nicely. The mouse was twitching now, staring around out of its huge, dark eyes. "Do not worry, honey; only a little further," he said soothingly. Animals were so much easier to deal with than people, he thought; they were a refuge just as much as music was.

One of the marines was shouting at another - the sergeant's markings were quite clear. British Marines were clearly cut on the large side, he thought, looking at the target. Slow - lazy, and stupid rosbif. Monteiro couldn't see the sea from where he was, nor whether there was a ship there - if there was, it would be better to let this group rejoin it and leave. The Hérisson would be standing off, and come for them later. But there was someone else now, coming up from the beach.

Stephen heard Sergeant Quinn shouting out of sight, over the edge of the hill and down beyond the olive orchard. He nodded to himself, and to the mouse, in relief. It would not have done to show any worry in front of Yates, but he would feel better when the group was reunited at least.

Monteiro raised a hand to Druon to keep a watch on the Marines, and moved across to where he could see the other man - small, in a blue coat and a grey wig. With something in his hand. Crouched beside the twisted trunk of an old olive tree, and hidden within its shadows, he watched as the man approached the wall, apparently quite unaware to the presence within the grove.

"There, my dear. Go n-éirí an t-ádh leat," said Stephen softly as he put the mouse down at the base of the wall - it did not look back, but immediately scampered into a hole between three stones. He stood up, and looked into the orchard; he liked olive trees, for they were so symbolic of his youth in Spain and Catalonia.

In the shadows cast by one gnarled trunk was a man, staring up at him. In the grass of the orchard, men were readying muskets, and Quinn's voice could be heard again. Stephen ran.

Monteiro swore and ducking under the branch ran after the man, vaulting the wall with one hand. No time to use the musket, and anyway, the others would better use the element of surprise. He ran after the man, hoping that he would not call out - and that he would not run straight into a larger group.

The choice was before him - the group, or the Marines. It would have to be the Marines - there were only two with Mister Crozier, and men armed only with oars, but if he could veer around the orchard, and find where the Marines were, they would have a chance to head the musket-bearing men away from the beach.

He heard someone swear in French behind him, and he risked a glance over his shoulder - the man who was hiding beside the olive tree was chasing him. There was nothing to lose in shouting now. "Quinn! Ambush, in the olives!" He turned the corner, and there were no Marines to be seen. "Quinn!"

Somebody was shouting, calling his name. It sounded like the doctor. Quinn unslung his musket. "Drop the wood," he said. "Now! And come on!"

Down the path and round the bend towards the beach... and there was Doctor Maturin, running full pelt towards them. With a blue-jacketed man chasing him.

"Doctor!" he called