By Cape Mondego

Was that a surly voice or was that a surly voice? Westdale peered back and was pleased to see the bumped, bruised form of de Guarde crawling along, and making rather good time. Nothing wrong with him, then.
Cheerfully he called back, "Faster'n yer." as hand over hand he moved more yards up the rope. The shadow of Terpsy's side was visible now when he tilted his head back.

"'Yer got long'r hands.. no wonder. " He muttered back, placing a hand before a hand, pulling himself further along the rope. He glanced at the sea beneath him and how close he was to it. One slip and he'd be drowning.

He shuddered at the thought, and came seconds before he'd freeze and be unable to go either up, or back to the boat. He breathed in sharply. The masts were so much further away from the sea that they felt safe. He grit his teeth and quickened his pace. "'ol bones, have a quick'r one." He added.

"'M not t'one hanging there sea-gazing" he shot back, feeling the increased angle as the rope rose towards her sides. THe clatter from the surrounding hands was louder, clearly, only a few feet away. The veiw along her deck was one he didn't often see this low down, and he looked at it complacently for a while. Lovely thing she was.

SLower now he came upwards, peering over the rail and preparing to lever himself over and towards dinner.

De Guarde followed slowly, biting his way through the last pieces of rope. His arms were not too eager to hold him, but his will to preserve himself was stronger.

Once Westdale was up, he followed suit, a few paces later. "Yer' sure taken ye time to admire t' ship though. " He murmured.

George nodded as the last of the rowers came back up the ropes. "Get those boats secured," he shouted and went forward to ensure that all was done properly. He nodded to Kinsella. "See the men have water and get them below for dinner - we'll need every hand to work the ship if the wind dies on us again." He looked up and shouted "Let fall!", an order passed back as the ship spread her sails to catch the wind.

As the way came off the ship, the angle righted itself and the table levelled. The regular movements died away completely, to be replaced by nothing more than a gentle rocking. After a long silence, Raoul finished his coffee and stood up. "We're not moving," he said. "I am going on deck to find out what is happening."

He turned and went up the companionway to the boat deck, crossing from there to the stairs to the quarterdeck.

At the foot of which stood Private Turner, grumpy at the failure of the chase and the lack of entirely tangible prize-money. "'Fraid not, sir."

Raoul stopped, frowning. There was movement on the ship, but still the same rolling. Something was happened at the front of the boat, and men were climbing up the ropes. "I wish to speak to the Captain," he said politely. "To find out why we seem to have stopped."

"Captain's busy, sir," said Turner, with a creditable appearance of civility. "And you're to remain below. Sir."

Dr Maturin was on a beach, and the ship was just ... motionless. Raoul tilted his head back to look up at the quarterdeck, but the rail hid his view of the officers, or their view of them. "The ship is not moving," he said absently. "I don't see how the Captain can be too busy to spare me a couple of minutes... " He gave a quick smile to the Marine, and moved again towards the stairs.

Turner stepped to block the bone-headed Frenchie, shifting his grip on his musket. "Captain said no disturbing 'im, and you below decks. So git down or ye'll be dragged down. Sir."

"Don't... " But the Captain was king on his own deck, so it seemed, and this Marine part of his loyal guard. "Very well," Raoul temporised. "I will not disturb the Captain. Perhaps Lieutenant Leat is available. It is that I am concerned for ...."

"That Froggie ship?" said Turner, then remembered himself. "Lieutenant Leat is also busy, Sir. Sailing the ship, you understand. Now, below, if ye don't mind."

Once Westdale was up, he followed suit, a few paces later. "Yer' sure taken ye time to admire t' ship though. " He murmured

"And don't she deserve it?" He turned to pull a face at the boy coming over the side, looking as tired as he felt. "Hang on a tick, de Guarde...hold out yer arm?"
It looked like a stain on his shirt, though it may very well be blood.

"Me arm? Which?... n'. .what for?" He asked not feeling like he was willing to play any games. He was hungry, aching, tired and it felt like there was not a day different from another what work was concerned.

Raoul puzzled that through. "... for your surgeon, and the others. He must return for them. And I do not think your Captain would require me to stay below, if you are not actually chasing a French ship - and you are not, are you?" They were not doing anything, except spreading out along the yards. The air here was still, but perhaps ... Raoul crossed to the side rail to improve his view of the empty sea.

"No, not any more. Damn Frog bastards got away," said Turner, looking at the captain with loathing, as though being pleasant to a Frenchman had banished all their luck. "So now we're bloody rowing back. And Captain's orders are Captain's orders, so move it."

"Just want ter look at summat. Here." He tipped his head to have a look at the offending limb. "Yer cut yerself when yer fell from them breeze. Clap a hand ter't and yer'll dry up soon enough."

He looked round the disappearing men. "Least we've time ter eat afore we've ter put them sails up." That had been a brooding thought for a while now and he was pleased, in a way at least. It meant food.

"Rowing?" Raoul said with surprise, ignoring the rudeness. He leaned out over the rail to look forward. Was that what the activity was all about?

"All right, sir, that's enough," said Turner, losing patience. He slung his musket over his shoulder, and took the captain's arm. "Below with you, as the Captain said."

He glanced at where Westdale was looking, and had a scowl sure and present. "..t' boat's bloody fault. Shouldn't have shifted like that.." He would have followed the suggestion but for the bruise forming there too.

"..don' think I need t' hold t' it." He answered instead and made a step in the direction of the companionway. Food was food, and their mess table would not come to them, nor would their loaded plates.

" Le's go..." He hesitated, and looked across the deck, noticing the marine and the Frenchy. "..look't 'im!" He spoke rather coldly. "'tleast he saw now wot' kind his own are."

well it wasn'tt hat big a cut, though he decided he'd look at it after dinner, see fi it was bleeding.

"Wha...?" he turned and eyed the Frog, "Yer know, mebbe 'e ain't lookin at where they ran away." he suggested softly, heading towards mess, "He looks more like he's a-looking fer t'Doctor, or somesuch."

A troubling thought struck him. What if he was looking for an attack on the men they were about to rescue? Surely this couldn't be an elaborate trap?

"Don't trus' a Frog.. that's all we ought ter be knowin'. N' Lookin' fer t' doctor?.. I doubt that. " He shook his head, believing it not for a moment. He followed with a patter of feet, the prospect of food a fair motivator though he would have done far better if offered the chance of some rest.

The Marine had not done more than lay a hand on Raoul's arm, and the French Captain ignored it, but asked, in an interested tone: "They were towing the ship? With boats with oars? That is ... That is not possible."

"It is and they is doing it - going back for our surgeon, and our mates."

"Ah," Raoul turned to look at the Marine, with relief on his face. "That is ... I am glad, if the ship is going for them. That was what I wanted to know. But ... How long will it take, if men must row? The ship is - must be - very much heavier than the boats."