Crozier's Operation

Several of them did, and they reached out their hands to take them. Billy wanted to, but he couldn't find the breath to speak. He fell onto his side, and when he looked down there was blood on his hands and his shirt and his best blue jacket.

"Two of - whoever's the best shots - take Everett's and Joyse's muskets an' powder and come help us get rid of them bastards before they do any more damage, will you?" Quinn said. It was not quite an order - he couldn't issue orders to the sailors, not being a Navy petty officer - but it was damn close to being one. And it'd give the sailors something to do, and the Marines a bit of support.

Jim Spencer looked around for Billy to volunteer, but it was obvious that he was in no state to fire a musket. Taking charge he said, "Cob, you and Jack take 'em. Preddie, hurry up wi'the sail! Just throw it in. Grab a pin or sommat. All right, Frank? Got your knife?"

Stephen was kneeling down by Joyse, his left forearm hanging lose. "It has not hit the heart, or any major arteries; if it keeps on bleeding I will remove it, but it is too early right now."

Joyse groaned, more from the thought of losing his arm than from the pain and shock. If he lost his arm, how would he fire a musket? How could he be a marine at all? He would be retired home and would have to live in his pension, never enough to support the family. "Please don't!" was all he could say before falling into a black dizziness.

Always sure to rush in where he was not needed, Saint-Laurent hobbled along as fast as he could to where the shots were coming from. He was just in time to cry out with a stream of profanity as Monteiro fell, with an additional stronger outburst as he saw Monteiro's papers taken - by Doctor Stephen Maturin, who was running back to the beach while he watched helplessly from the grove. "Kill him!" he screamed to his men, pointing wildly. "Kill the little man! Shoot him!"

Unlike Spencer, Chase was more concerned when he saw Barrow slump down. "Cox'n's 'it!" The topman cried, stirring up sand as he dashed toward the downed sailor. "Sir! Over 'ere, sir!"

Peter hurried across to where Barrow was, and was rather disconcerted at the amount of blood. But Dr Maturin was already busy, and there were other things to worry about - the French Marines seemed to have stopped for the moment, but were likely to attack at any moment. "Bridgens, M'Clure - do something for Barrow."

He watched as the men followed Barrow's orders - without the sail to act as awning, it would become unbearably hot on the beach. They had to make a decision.... "Doctor - should we try to launch the boat? We can put Dr Crozier and the wounded in - and they won't be able to follow us - we can be out of range in ... very quickly."

Stephen turned around, to see Barrow topple over, his chest covered in blood. "Barrow!" He stopped and fell to his knees in the sand beside the coxswain. "Barrow, stay awake; look at me, now."

He turned to face Yates. "At the moment they have us between the hammer and the anvil; we could at least be out of range. Sergeant?"

Quinn looked down as the Doctor addressed him. "Sir?" he said, noticing Barrow was covered in blood. That was not a good sign... not good at all. Three men down, four if you included Mister Crozier, and for no reason that he could see. Why were there Frenchmen out here?

Stephen had taken off his jacket and was pressing it firmly to Barrow's chest, but the blood, and the slight rattling of the breath... "Mister Yates has suggested we get into the boat and row out of range, while we are in this lull."

"Will you be able to look after the wounded in the boat, sir?" Quinn said, thinking quickly. "If not, we could land further round the coast - those are Frog marines, not land soldiers, sir." And command would revert to the Navy men, which meant Yates, though possibly Chase would be able to advise him, as Quinn could not.

"I think, if it would mean no further danger to the wounded, that we should do as Mister Yates suggests, sir."

"I think being out of range of those muskets would be more beneficial than solid ground. Young, Butcher, load the doctor onto the boat." Stephen looked down at Barrows with a icy feeling spreading through his belly; if the ball had gone through Barrow's lung, then there was no hope. And he had asked that he be able to operate on land... "What makes you think they are Marines?"

Druon turned his head as the annoying civilian ran up, screaming as usual. As if he had any authority over the Marines! No one had the faintest idea what he was doing there: Monteiro had been in charge, and had been the only one to talk to the clerk. "Shut up, Sir," he said quite mildly for him. "You stay quiet, and shut up, and we may take you back to the Hérisson with us. Or not." He glared at him. The man had no idea of how to behave on a clandestine mission.

It wasn't just the little man that had to be killed - it was all of them. And it didn't seem as if they had a ship in the offing, either.

"The jackets, sir. And their equipment. I've fought Frog marines often enough to know what they look like, sir." He watched the sailors carefully getting Doctor Crozier back into the boat.

"Maybe they're from the ship - vessel - Terpsy's gone after, sir," he suggested. "Didn't look like they had a boat, though."

"They were certainly landed here for a reason," said Stephen, thinking of the papers in his pocket and casting an agonised glance at Barrow.

Quinn knelt and pulled open Barrow's jacket. The seaman's checked shirt was red with blood, but it seemed to be from the side, rather than the middle, of his chest. He didn't think it looked the frothy, pink sort of blood you got if someone had taken a bullet in the lungs, but he couldn't be sure of that, and wouldn't voice an opinion on medical matters in front of Doctor Maturin.

"Seems to me, sir, that you've had a bit of a bang on the head," he said, standing again. "You need to rest, and the best for you to do that ain't here." He turned. "Marines! Into the boat - and mind the surgeon or I'll have your hides. Yes, Shriver, I mean you!"

He turned back. "We ain't goin' to have much room. Does he need to be lyin' down, or can he sit? If he can sit up, put him on a thwart next to one of my men, an' I'll take his oar."

"If it is absolutely necessary for him to sit up, I think that he must," said Stephen, a black despair coming over him. If the lungs were punctured, lying down would do Barrow no good.

Quinn tried not to sigh. The doctor seemed to be despairing of Barrow's life, Yates was only a boy, and it seemed to have fallen to Quinn to get them out of this mess. If they'd only have had Colburn or Rutland with them, things might feel so bleak.

"Right sir, will you get into the boat, then?" Quinn asked. They would nip round the headland and see if they could gain enough time for the Doctor to look at Barrow, and maybe submit to having his own head looked at. It had been a bit of a nasty bang that Frog had given him, after all.

"I will, once the others are in. I counted ten to begin with; how many do you think you disabled?"

Peter had left the decision to leave the beach to the Sergeant - his opinion on whether they could hope to hold their position on the beach was worth a lot more than Peter's. He watched as the sailors got the boat - with its cargo of wounded men - into the water and held it there for the others to board. The French - having looked to their own wounded, were now coming onto the beach and the Marines were firing back as were the sailors who had appropriated the muskets. The range was still too far for the pistol to be of use, and Peter had tucked it back into his waistband, hoping the powder would not get wet as he boarded the boat.

"There were two downed for certain, sir," Quinn said, scrambling into the boat, careful not to kick anyone. He held out a hand to Yates. "Need a hand boardin', there, sir?" he asked, aware that the boy might be more agile than himself and his Marines, but he was also smaller.

Peter reached out for the hand - the Sergeant could lift him without much exertion, and things were too dangerous to waste time being self-sufficient. Pride goeth before a fall, and a fall was what they did not need. Barrow looked very ill, but the surgeon's assistant was doing what he could. "Come on doctor," he pleaded.

Stephen gripped the gunwhale with his right hand, but he could not make a fist with his left; he blanched at the pain the attempt caused. "Do we have everyone?"

Peter counted heads - they had the same number as they had started with. He took his position by the tiller. They would have difficulty in hoisting the sail, but the rowers could quickly take them out of range. Then they could either land ..."We're all here. Do you think we could cross over - to the other side of the river? They couldn't get us there, and the tide will help carry us."