Crozier's Operation

"That sounds eminently sensible, Mister Yates," said Stephen as he gingerly put one foot into the boat, holding his arm close to his chest.

Peter stretched out to steady the doctor, as the sailors at the stern gave a last heave to set the boat in motion and leaped in, almost in unison. A shout, and a volley of musket fire came from the French Marines, who were almost at the high water mark - but that meant they had to reload now, and they could not both run and reload at the same time.

"Aye, we've got everyone," Quinn said, and rapidly unbuttoned his jacket, pulling it off before he reached for Doctor Maturin's hand.

He twisted round to have a look across the river. "Might be a bit of a pull, sir, but we should be able to manage it, yes. If we need to set the sail, the sailors should be able to manage that easy enough. Have you still got that rocket the Captain gave you, sir?"

Stephen gripped Quinn's hand and steadied himself as the boat tipped from side to side; he sat down suddenly. Immediately he was looking at Barrow, Joyse, coming to again, and Everett, stoically clenching his jaw, and then back onto the beach, where the Marines were getting closer - and a slim, tall figure he was sure he recognised, pointing at him...

Peter nodded. He had the flare, in its waterproof wrapping, tucked inside his jacket. "Terpsichore will be able to find us, even if we aren't where they expected," he said, happily watching the northern shore recede, as the sailors pulled to the oars. There was a Marine taking one, and rowing very competently, although he too had removed his jacket , and his black stock, to give him the freedom the sailors enjoyed.

Stephen nodded in relief, resisting the temptation to lay his head on the gunwhale and sleep. His legs and hands were trembling, and the headache which had been with him since Obidos had reached a roaring intensity which was becoming frighteningly familiar. "Bridgens, how is Barrow?"

Quinn nodded and glanced towards the shore again. "Seems one of the don't want us to get away," he said, noticing one of the French party gesticulating wildly. "He ain't in uniform, neither. Wonder what's going on over there, then."

He twisted to look over his shoulder. McEwen had taken an oar, stripping down to his shirt to do so with the maximum comfort, though Quinn thought the braces he word to hold his trousers up probably weren't as comfortable as the sailors' leather belts.

Peter kept looking back, but the men on the shore were just stick figures now, and even if they ran, they would not be able to follow them, without a boat. But it wasn't over - it wouldn't be over until they had returned to the frigate, where the wounded could be properly treated...

And what was happening on the frigate, which had sailed without any medical men at all? How could they fight? Well, from what some of the sailors had said, the surgeons on some ships were so dangerously unskilled that having no surgeon was probably better. He looked at Dr Maturin, who was swaying and shaking in his seat. "Doctor? Did that man injure you?"

Pride and sense warred for a moment in Stephen's mind. "I hit my head in Lisbon; the villain knocked it again. I will be fine," he said, staring over Yates' shoulder.

Quinn noticed that the Doctor avoided Yates' eye, and shook his head, privately wondering if the Doctor ever looked after himself and took his own advice. Well, when they landed, he was going to make sure Mister M'Clure took a proper look at him, even if it meant he'd have to get the sailors to tie him down. He was far too valuable for them to risk losing him because he wouldn't look after his own health. And hadn't Corporal Crompton got knocked over the head, declared he was fine... and been buried at sea not two days later?

It had, of course, been the dormouse. If he hadn't given it to Dr Maturin - if he hadn't hidden from Sergeant Quinn and found the dormouse - Dr Maturin wouldn't have left the beach to release it, and been hurt by that Marine. Peter stared bleakly at the doctor, and at the long chain of events - starting perhaps with breaking his arm - no, starting with reading his uncle's letters - that had led to this, and to the doctor looking so very ill. He swallowed and smiled. "We'll be fine. Don't worry, doctor."

Stephen could not manage a smile, but his nodded, a soft expression on his face. His eyes darted from Barrow, whiter than the sail, and Crozier's inanimate face, and back to Barrow. He looked away to the midshipman. "Thank you, Mister Yates. And to you, Private - forgive me, I do not know your name-" He face crumpled, but it took him less than a second to compose himself. "Thank you."

McEwen looked quizzical - what had he done, really?

"Aye, that be fine, sir," he said in his soft Scottish accent, as he pulled at his oar.

Mallory, holding Barrow upright between McEwen and himself, nodded. "Just doin' our duty, sir," he said.

"I meant to-" He pointed to Branning, but then gestured around the boat. "To all of you - I don't not know your names - I am sorry-"

Peter stared forward over the heads bent to pull at the oars. It was slack water at the moment, but the tide would at least push them into the river,where it narrowed. It would be far worse if the tide would go the other way. If the north shore had sandy beaches, those on this side seemed to be more muddy - not ideal for landing at low water. And, quite possiby, difficult for the Terpsichore. They could not go too far inland. He angled the tiller to take them down the coast.

The Marines looked at eachother and grinned. "'S all right," Mallory said. "We'd interduce ourselves, but mebbe that ain't so easy in a boat, like. And you took a nasty bump, sir."

Stephen was frowning in concentration. "Not so very... Are you a doctor, sir? Private? You are not... Ah, thank you, yes. They are still on the beach."

Billy coughed, spattering more blood across his shirt. He was staring aft like the rowers, straight at little Mister Yates who had taken the helm. Spencer must be rowing. Spencer would make a good coxswain.

His cough had caught the midshipman's attention. "Mister -" he began before he was interrupted by another cough. After a moment he found his breath again and looked at the boy, now more a young man. "Weren't your fault. Nobody..."

M'Clure, who'd been patching the rest of the wounded up, grinned to himself as he heard those words from Dr Maturin. He wasn't well, clearly, but he wasn't leaving them any time soon, by the sounds of it, if he was still telling men off for trying to take care of him.

The grin slid off his face as he reached across to wipe the blood off Barrow's chin. "Easy now..." he tried, though there was little he could do. True to form as always, he was trying to reassure someone else, despite the bloody mess he was fast becoming. M'Clure blinked suddenly and twisted round to check their progress for a moment.

Peter's jaw was beginning to ache, and the muscles in his arm trembled, kept steady only by a painfully tight grip on the tiller. To release the tension he turned, his eyes narrowed. "Yes, Sir. They can't catch us, unless their ship comes for them, and the Terpsichore will see she doesn't. We shall put in as soon as we can..."

Stephen visibly winced when he saw Barrow cough up the blood. "Try not to talk, Billy," he said raggedly.

Billy glanced at the doctor. True, it was painful and difficult to talk, but he had so many things he wanted to say. He wanted to tell Mister Yates to hold the tiller more gently. He wanted to tell Spencer to make sure and get the boat back to the ship. He wanted to tell Cob Chase that he could have his knife. He wanted to ask them not to let him die on the shore. He would much rather be in the boat, on the water. "I'm sorry," he said, encompassing everything and everyone. He wanted to tell the captain he was sorry. But the boat would be right - Spencer and Mister Yates and Sergeant Quinn would see the boat right.

M'Clure bit his tongue in not reprimanding Barrow for talking. So long as all he said was those two words...well. Telling a man not to talk was tough, especially when he was in bad shape, like this.
"It's alright...." he muttered, closest and therefore nominally in charge of wiping away the further blood which had come out with the two words. He was sure they'd feel Billy missing, but was equally trusting of things continuing to happen, if not as they had, at least adequately. Not that he was going to say that now.

Peter looked at Barrow, and then lifted his eyes to the doctor's face. They were still some distance from the shore, but he continued to scan it for a safe landing place... "Is there anything... " he whispered to Dr Maturin. The only thing they could do was row for safety.

Stephen looked at Yates.