Crozier's Operation

"Not at this moment," snapped Stephen, watching the continuing drip from the reed.

When was the bleeding going to stop? Clearly any attempt to stop it would be useless, especially with the frayed doctor standing over him...though he knew it was all important and worthy information and he'd just as easily given up or bungled the whole thing if he'd been left to his own devices. But being growled at wasn't comforting.

Brown paper. He could look for that while he waited, given there wasn't likely to be any immediatly forthcoming, anyway.

Quinn smiled at the young midshipman. "Aye, sir, I do. Here, I'll show you, shall I?"

He crossed to the boat and fished around for the rocket's firing stand - two legs and a shallow metal trough which he set up, aiming it so the rocket would fall over the water.

"Here, you put the rocket in there, sir," he said, indicating the metal trough. He pulled out a cartridge and primed his musket pan. "Would you like to do the honours, sir?" he asked, offering the weapon to Mister Yates. "It ain't loaded. You just need to put the pan to the end of the fuse, cock it and pull the trigger. I'll help if you find it a bit heavy, sir."

[OOC: Thank you - I didn't have a clue, and would have looked for a milk-bottle...]

Of course, Peter thought, taking the musket and angling it so that the priming didn't fall out, but was by the fuse. Then he cocked it, and it was heavy, stiffer than the pistol. He smiled nervously and wanted to put one hand on the rocket to steady it, in case he jostled it... He pulled the trigger and there was - a flash in the pan. When the brightness of that died away, he could see the glow running up the fuse.

Stephen clenched his jaw, feeling dizzy. Damn M'Clure, damn those Marines, and damn the Terpsichore for abandoning them. A rest, a rest, for Christ's sake, then one patient, now four, and unable to trust anything to an assistant - a sleepless night ahead, and the taste of blood still in his mouth.

The flare was lit, M'clure suddenly realised. Of Course. paper. Or the closest they were going to get, at any rate. Gingerly he approached Yates and Quinn, wary of getting in trouble with any one else.
There was the wrapping lying on the ground. He bent to retreive it, "May we use this?"

"Come away from it a bit, sir, before it goes off," Quinn said, holding a hand out ready to grab the lad's collar or arm in case he needed to pull him clear.

Quinn frowned at M'Clure. "O' course, sir. Ain't no use to us any more."

(OOC - I just remembered the Congreve rockets in Sharpe's Enemy and the signal rocket thing in the Hornblower episode Loyalty. Or was it Duty? )

"Thanks." he picked it up and scurried off with it. THe bleeding wasn't likely to have stopped, but he didn't want to get in any more trouble. Best to have everything ready ahead of it being needed. Less likely of getting reprimanded, that way.

Stephen turned away from Barrow to glance at Crozier, who slept peacefully - he walked across the check his pulse in any case. The wounded marines would have to be loaded onto the boat after Crozier, who would still be lying down, and Barrow - sitting up would be best for him. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

The boat-crew watched the rocket intently, as if it was the only object worth any interest. The glow ran all the way up the fuse, then disappeared. Chase felt himself holding his breath in anticipation of the rocket firing.

With a whoosh, the rocket was off, speeding skyward. Williams whistled in admiration. The sky was lit up by the rocket's flare. Chase thought it was eerily beautiful. He lowered his gaze toward the horizon and the ship that had been spotted. Spencer had spotted her first and Young had identified her as their Terpsy.

"Spencer, keep an eye on that ship," the topman said. "Rest of ya, stay close here. Might be shovin' off 'fore too much longer."

Stephen covered his eyes and groaned.

The loblolly boy looked at him nervously, afraid to speak and be reprimanded like poor unfortunate M'Clure, but alarmed by the doctor's demeanor. Had he taken sick from Billy? Was that even possible?

"Not long now, sir," he said, almost whispering.

"It will be if you do not help the Marines into the boat, Bridgens - after Mister Crozier, for the love of God!" said Stephen, still covering his eyes. The flare was flashing in front of them, making his head pound.

Peter had gone to ask if the Marine who had helped row before - McEwen, he thought - would do so again. They would return to the ship as a good boat's crew should. They would be a credit to their coxswain, and to the ship. But he kept his eye on the ship, and felt enormous relief to see its shape change, and the golden flash of a single gun. Peter counted to three before he heard the boom.

"She's coming for us," he said softly to the doctor, who stood, eyes closed and swaying. He ran sticky fingers through his hair, and breathed a sigh of anticipated relief.

Stephen nodded, eyes closed, in an attempt to maintain some kind of professional dignity. "That... is very good news, Mister Yates."

Peter laid a hand on the doctor's arm. "They have got Dr Crozier into the boat, and ... Gently there, watch that leg!" He smiled, though the doctor could not see, with his eyes closed. "The Marines are being helped in now. Would you like to come? The ship will be with us in no time."

"Yes." Stephen opened his eyes again, blinking in the dying sunlight. "We must get Barrow in without dislodging the reed."

"Oh, yes - Shall I cut another couple - just in case? You might want to replace it on the ship..."

"Yes, very wise, thank you. That is why we needed to find cobwebs and moss here..." Stephen looked back to the ship. "Is there anything else we need to do?"

Thank God the captain had allowed them to use his barge, Quinn thought. It was the largest of the boats Terpsy carried, with plenty of room for the wounded. There was even enough room for Barrow to lie down as well as Doctor Crozier, if necessary. He watched the sailors carefully lifting the injured surgeon into the boat and crossed to Doctor Maturin.

"We're ready for you and Barrow now, sir," he said quietly. "If... if you need him to be lying down still, there's room in the boat for him to do that, sir." He was worried about the surgeon - he'd grown snappish and short with people, which meant he wasn't feeling right. But he couldn't say anything; Maturin out-ranked him, and he'd only get asked about who was the qualified surgeon here if he did express his concern. He knew that from experience.

"He will find it easier to cough sitting up," said Stephen shortly. "But the Marines - Everett should keep his leg up."

"Aye, aye, sir," Quinn said in reply. Why was it that Doctor Maturin always grew short and querulous when he was tired or injured? For that matter, why did doctors never look after themselves?

He wished he had the authority to tell him to stop pushing himself too far. He'd make himself ill if he wasn't stopped, Quinn knew that much.

Stephen nodded to Quinn and turned away, unable to help in lifting Barrow into the boat with his numb arm, but holding the reed in place. "Handsomely, now."

Peter hurried over, as the doctor made sure that his charges were settled in the boat as comfortably as possible. He moved swiftly, though they certainly would not leave him behind, and found an older stand of reeds. The wall had been broken here, allowing the sea to find a way round, and cut off the island, but the mud allowed the growth of reeds, and he cut four of the biggest. The creek was already getting deeper, and the mud softer. He slipped twice in the mud while cutting the reeds, and scrambled back to the safety of the wall. There was a carving on one of the stones that he had to clamber over that made him stare, but there was no time to linger, nor did he feel much like giggling. Barrow still might die, as might any of the others, and he would have to report to the Captain that he had allowed their force to be driven away by a party of French Marines.

He looked from the boat, to the ship, and back, and began to trot along the shingle, now much narrower than when they had arrived.

It looked like everyone and everything was settled or well on its way to being so, apart from Barrow. M'Clure trailed alongside, keeping an eye on that reed as the man was lifted and sat, out of the way of the rowers. He had a feeling that if that came out he'd may as well throw himself into the mud and grovel for his life without the prerequisates from dr Maturin.
It might even be more pleasant.