Crozier's Operation

"Druon!" Monteiro shouted, as he failed to stop the man alerting the others. No point now in concealment, and they rose, almost in unison and leveled their muskets and ...

Monteiro threw himself at the man he was chasing as the muskets fired.

Quinn was ahead - too far ahead - he would not reach them in time. He shouted again, "Ambush - the olive-"

The man slammed into Stephen from behind, both of them crashing to the floor as muskets fired shots above their heads. Stephen's head bounced off the ground, making stars explode in front of his eyes, but he kicked at the other man furiously.

Peter heard the sound of musket fire, and stared as if expecting to be able to see through the dunes. But if Quinn was shooting - or if someone was shooting at their Marines - then it was up to him to take charge here. The doctor had disappeared behind the dunes. "Beech, McEwan. Stay here and guard the doctor. Barrow, stay here. If any of you have weapons..." He jumped up into the boat and took his pistol. "I'm going after the doctor."

Muskets! Damn it all...

He sprinted forward, cursing the treacherous footing, so unlike the smooth planking of Terpsy's weather deck.

Ambush... there was an olive grove further along the track, and it could only be there that an ambush would be laid.

He levelled his own musket, dragging back the flint as he did so and pulled the trigger. If they'd done for the Doctor...!

Monteiro brought him down, but a well placed and very heavy boot caught him on the knee, and he shouted with the pain. "Merde. Bâtard!" and brought the butt of his musket round, swinging it at the man's head. The sound of muskets was accompanied by a spatter as one of the balls hit the wall and sent splinters of stone flying around them.

Branning dropped the heavy load of wood at once and scrambled to unsling his musket. The unexpected disruption of what had been a fairly pleasant afternoon mildly annoyed him. There was that odd little doctor too, the one who'd opened up Mister Crozier's skull so neatly, being chased along by a man in a blue coat.

There were other blue-coats rising up almost out of the ground. A moment later came a ragged volley of musket fire. Branning flinced reflexively but managed to lift his musket to his shoulder and squeezed off a shot. Beside him, Everett toppled over, gasping out a curse. Somebody else was down as well. Branning dragged out his bayonet as he started forward, following after Sergeant Quinn.

"C'mon lads!"

Druon was muttering under his breath as the ambush failed to clear the path completely of the damned rosbifs. The men - two had fallen, Le Brun and young Pascale, the boy lying at his feet with eyes open... - the remaining men were fixing bayonets, and Druon managed to get his to click into place just as a very large, very angry marine charged at him.

Stephen saw the butt of the musket swinging around to the left side of his head - a death blow in his current state. He managed to block it with his forearm, but cried out from the pain it caused, before his arm went numb and limp. He punched at the man, aiming for his throat.

Peter had the sense to stop running and prime and cock his pistol before coming over the tail of the dune. In front of him was the wall to the orchard, and within the enclosure men in blue coats - half a dozen still standing - with muskets and bayonets, facing Sergeant Quinn and his redcoated marines. But between him and the Marines was the doctor, with another blue coated man lying half across his legs and battering at him with the musket. The doctor's cry focused Peter's attention and he ran towards them.

The man moved out of the way, and Stephen's punch only hit his shoulder, serving to infuriate rather than disable. There was shouting, and shooting, and the man punched Stephen in the face; he retaliated by bringing up his head to smash it into the man's nose, pulling his arm back for another punch.

For such a small, insignificant man, this fellow was putting up as good a fight as a brawler in the backslums of Marseilles. Monteiro avoided the first punch, aimed at his throat, and punched the Englishman in the face. This gave him only a temporary respite, and the man brought his head up to crash it into Monteiro's nose. He managed to turn his head, so that the blow struck him on the cheek and eye, sending a slashing pain through to the back of his head, and making him release his grip. The blow from the fist rolled him off, and his one good eye saw a short white-faced boy in a blue coat - a mere boy! - pointing a pistol at him.

Stephen did not sit up, not trusting himself to stand and knowing that if there were still balls for the muskets flying about he was safer on the ground - he had left his catling with the other instruments after the operation, damn him for a fool - he gasped for breath as his attacker rolled off him, and he cradled his left arm to his chest. He felt like his head was about to explode, the ground, the man's fist and then his face, but a small blue figure solidified over the two of them.

"Stay back!" was all that Peter said. He was already levelling the pistol, pointing it at the man's dark, angry eye. He could not hesitate - the man - a French Marine? - was reaching for something, moving and Peter, his teeth clenched tightly on the inside of his upper lip, pulled back the trigger and fired, just as he had fired the shotgun at home, but this time the man's eye blossomed like a flower...

Peter sank down at the man's side, teeth gritted, pulled him off Dr Maturin as another volley of musketry passed over their heads. "Aim for the Frenchmen, damnit!" he shouted, and then looked down at the man he had rescued. "Are you all right, Sir."

Somehow, Branning managed to overtake and pass Sergeant Quinn in his headlong rush to help the undersized doctor. The big Marine swung the butt of his musket at one blue-coat who'd managed to fix his own bayonet only moments before, then moved swiftly on to the man who was more directly threatening the fellow called Maturin.

Mister Yates was there now, too; his pistol shot hit the blue-coat standing over Maturin, carrying away the side of his face. Cheering, Branning lunged forward with his bayonet and helped expedite the faceless man's end.

"Here sir," Branning cried, reaching down with one hand for Maturin, "clap on, sir, I'll getcha outta here."

Stephen opened his mouth to shout at Yates - to tell him to run, drop, anything but make himself a target, but instead there was a pause, and then a pistol-shot reverberated around his head. And then Yates, pulling the man off of his, his face so close that Stephen could see the barrage of emotions playing across it. "Fine," he croaked in answer. "Down." He tugged at the midshipman's coat, trying to pull him onto the ground in case of more musketry, and willed his head clear.

And then a Marine, enthusiastically bayonetting the man, offering him a hand. "Down," he said again, feeling the pain in his arm, praying that it was not broken. "Fine." His voice was too loud in his head. "Help others...

Down? Branning frowned for a moment, confused, then it occurred to him that Maturin must mean for him to kneel and reload his musket. That made sense. Branning dropped down to one knee and fumbled to reload.

"Have you outta here in just a minute, sir," the big Marine said, feeling cheerful despite the less-than-ideal situation.

Branning - big and smiling and so very reassuring - was there. If they did have to run back to the boat, he could carry the doctor, who was so thin that he would probably weigh less than the wood... Branning was kneeling, reloading: Peter, his shaking hands responding as he concentrated on his task, concentrated on controlling his hands, put powder and ball into his pistol, and then, ready, looked down at the doctor.

Who was white, under skin that has been tanned under fiercer suns than these, leaving him a horrid sallow colour. Another musket shot from further up the track, where the British Marines were trading shots with the French. "I'll look after Dr Maturin," Peter said. "Come back when you've dealt with the Frogs."

"Can't very well leave you, sir," Branning replied, shifting his position so he could bring his musket back up to his shoulder. "Might be more of 'em, see."

He fired again and decided it was time to get both officers back toward the rest of the Marines. "C'mon now, sir, time to get movin'!"

Monteiro had been scuffling with the naval officer - why hadn't he fired at the man? But by the time he himself had recovered - after being rocked by a glancing blow from a musket butt - Monteiro was lying flat, dead no doubt. Which left command with Druon. "Fall back," he shouted. The wall offered no protection now - a couple of the damned rosbifs were already across. The gnarled trees of the olive grove might help - give each of them some shelter as they reloaded. At least their blue coats made them less obvious in the tangled shadows.

On the track, one of the Marines - a big man - was standing guard as a much smaller figure tried to support a third, the man Monteiro had tackled. "Fall back," Druon shouted again.

[OOC: And now I go - again: Back much later. Kill as many Frenchmen as you like...]

Stephen's head was beginning to clear from the blows - his vision was beginning to clear at least - and he stared at Yates for a long moment, reeling, as the boy reloaded his pistol. He looked up at the big Marine, who seemed almost cheerful. He swallowed, feeling faint and nauseous, but he knew that this was only a symptom of the concussion - only...

"I am fine, Mister Yates." He cradled his left arm to his chest as he stood, legs shaking; he was glad of the midshipman's support. "Where? To the boat, or the sergeant?" he asked, carefully enunciating the words. "There were ten, in the trees."

"The beach - we should all go there." Peter looked into the olive grove, where some red coats could be seen, one loading a musket behind the thick trunk of an ancient tree. If there had been ten Frenchmen, there were fewer now, but the line of their retreat would probably bring them out by the dip in the dunes. "Beech and McEwan are there, and the sailors with whatever arms they've got. We'll be a help."

"I agree - they must be warned," said Stephen. "I can walk; I am fine. Private, pray tell that to your sergeant."

Quinn directed his men to spread out. Unlike the redcoat infantry - most of then, anyway - Marines had more independence of thought. The tight-packed ranks and co-ordinated fire would never work on board ship, something he was grateful for now.

There were about ten of them, he thought. No - had been ten. There were two, three, dead bodies wearing blue, but there were also a couple of Marines down. Quinn couldn't see who they were and whether they were dead or injured.

The blue-coated men were making a withdrawal over the wall to the trees. Should Quinn go after them? No, it was far more important that they got back down to the beach, where Crozier and the others were.

The other Marines were either loading or standing ready to fire, waiting for his orders.

"We'll fall back to the beach, lads. Carefully now," he said. "Doctor, can you make it or do you need help?" He turned to see who was still with them. "Shriver, get Everett. Mallory, if that's Joyse down there, you and Bell bring him along, will you?"

Damn. Damn it all. This was supposed to be friendly territory. what were those Frogs doing here?!

"I am fine," said Stephen through his headache. "You have injured?" He saw the man called Everett being pulled to his feet none too gently by Shriver, one leg bloody.

"Yes, sir. Dunno how badly though - won't be able to find out till we're down with the others." He saw Grattan stoop to grab the two fallen muskets and wondered if any of the seamen were able to fire muskets. If they could, it would help ease the burden on his men a little. The wounded men's muskets could be given to a couple of the sailors, while M'Clure checked the Doctor and his two men over.