By Cape Mondego

Bush's remark had outraged not only des Sablieres and himself, but his own commanding officer, Padstowe was glad to have noted. And it was unsurprising - such a remark addressed to a gentleman in such a fashion, even with the enemy in sight, was unacceptable.

"With your permission, captain, I will stay up here a while before joining the Capitaine below. I would wait to see if she can can be identified."

And leaving the shore party, though undesirable, was not so desperate an action, Padstowe reasoned to himself. They had tents with them and a consignment of Marines - so even in theorecticalkly friendly territory as they were, they should be safe enough until the frigate returned. Which if the sail proved to be friendly, would be quite soon.

Raoul hesitated at the top of the steps leading down to the gun deck, wanting a last breath of fresh air. But Private Allen was following him, and he had to carry on, pausing only momentarily on the gun deck to look along the row of cannon, each with its own crew waiting. One or two turned to look at him, and he stared back, before making his way down to the wardroom.

As Raoul went below, his reluctance more than obvious (And who could blame him for that? Padstowe thought), the Captain turned back to the rail, squinting in the direction of the small fleck of white on the horizon. As he breathed in of the stiff, salt air he felt the letter secreted in his breast pocket crinkled gently. It had been found in the post bag that came aboard with the Admiral that morning, and Captain Bolitho had not wasted a minute in handing it over to him.

Padstowe had, however, wasted quite a bit of time putting off opening the missive. He had at once recognised the handwriting and felt his stomach sinking, but for all his prevarication he knew he could not put it off for much longer, and decided that he would attend to it when he went below to join des Sablières.

The ship was turning now, a significant amount of canvas loosened aloft, leaving Mondego bay behind. If the mysterious was sailing towards them as they were sailing towards her, then it should not be long before they knew to which nation she belonged.

Bush watched with satisfaction as the Frenchie went below. He growled under his breath, jealously protective of his captain's sanctity. A passenger approaching the captain uninvited, on the quarterdeck, and him a prisoner and a Frenchman of all things! And during maneuvers when a strange sail had been sighted! And actually reprimanding the captain! Bush's righteous indignation burned hot. That he himself had been reprimanded by the captain was not altogether pleasant. He spared a glare for the army officer who was allowed to remain on the quarterdeck, leaning on the rail like a foppish lad on a ballroom balcony. Damned army.

"Slater, get those men for'ard and get all that rubbish cleared away!" he bellowed, glaring at a few tools forgotten by the sailmaker's crew.

Padstowe gave a sideways glance to Bush. He had so far been out of the way of the Lieutenant, having only met George and Leat, who seemed to be of a less conflicting temperament; but now he had he wondered whether the man was like this always.

"My apologies for the Capitaine's forwardness, Mister Bush," Padstowe said, as Bush was still in earshot. "He is not wholly apprised of nautical courtesies, as neither am I, plus he is very attached to the doctor. His concern momentarily got the better of him."

Bush nodded, accepting the apology. It would have been outright rudeness to do otherwise. Then he stepped out of Bolitho's hearing and spoke to the redcoat in a quietly dangerous voice. "It is an honor reserved for very few to stand on the quarterdeck. And on the quarterdeck, the captain is not addressed. One does not speak unless spoken to. And a passenger does not dictate his own wishes to the captain or protest against his orders. We are in the king's service, and we are the king's men." Not Buonaparte's, he wanted to add. "This is the king's ship, and we have a duty to fulfill. I hope you understand that, sir," he finished, his voice suggesting there might be dire consequences if he did not understand.

Padstowe's expression hardened a fraction, and he automatically straightened to face Bush, though out of necessity his good hand remained on the rail to keep his balance.

"First of all, Mr. Bush," Padstowe said, his tone quiet and dangerous to match Bush's. "We are all the King's men, and we all have a duty to fulfil. mine at this moment in time is to secure the safe conveyance of my prisoner to our army in Oporto, no matter who I may upset by treating him as an officer under parole. And secondly, do not even for a moment consider, sir, that I have anything but respect for the Navy and its traditions; but not being of the Navy myself I am not wholly familiar with every single one. If someone will point out a tradition to me, I will respect it, and I am only sorry that the Capitaine felt it necessary to voice his concern for a man who saved his life."

Bush could take this as either Crozier or Maturin; the truth was the same for both men.

"And should you suspect that I am paying deliberate disrespect to the Quarterdeck by leaning on the rail and having my jacket undone, I wish to state that I did ask of your second lieutenant whether such concessions to my current indisposition would be taken as offence. He assured me they would not."

"I would never accuse you of that disrespect, sir," Bush assured him heavily. He would not accuse him of disrespect, of course, but that did not mean he would not still take some offense at his untidy presence leaning over the rail while Captain Bolitho was near. But as Bolitho did not voice an objection, Bush would attempt to accept it. Indispositions were all very well in their place, after all, and he softened ever so slightly. But their place did not include disturbing the captain to argue about his course of action. "But I would thank you to keep your - paroled enemy prisoner - from dictating to the captain where his duty lies. A French prisoner dictating to a captain on his own quarterdeck that he must not investigate a strange ship that flies from us?" He gave Padstowe a reproachful and incredulous frown.

If a passenger had no rights on board a Royal Navy ship, how much fewer rights did a French prisoner have? Raoul reached the wardroom in a mood of ... not anger, he knew: he had nothing to be angry about. No strong emotion at all, just irritation. With no one to let it out on, as all the officers were on deck, preparing to chase a ship they had not even identified as an enemy, abandoning Dr Maturin and their own surgeon - and his assistants! This could mean the difference between saving Mr Crozier's life, and losing it. And - if this was a French ship, what was it doing in these waters? No one here knew what he and Stephen knew about the activities of the ring of smugglers based in Lisbon, and their connection, however mercantile, with the French espionage ring. Stephen - the shore party might be in more danger than anyone here knew. No - Captain Padstowe must know about it.

He drew a deep breath. The wardroom was empty, with every officer on deck. Markham stuck his head out of his pantry to say: "I've stowed everything away. If I makes something for the officers, you can have a bite. Otherwise, I'll be at my station." He nodded to Allen, who had followed Raoul into the wardroom, and Raoul, feeling more irritable and in need of a coffee, turned into his cabin and ... If it had not been impossible due to the angle of the ship, he would have slammed the door. Whoever thought that this would be a safer or more pleasant way of reaching the British Army....

One of the assistant stewards was still clattering the dishes away when the Frenchman stormed through and shut his door. He gave Allen a look between a grin and a grimace and said loudly, "If Monseer don't like the ward room, there's always the hold, eh?"

"Yeah, you're righ' about that," Allen said, "But I don't think it's bein' in th' ward room that's got him all mad."

He assumed that the Frenchie was just smarting over both the tongue-lashing he had gotten from Mr. Bush, and the Captain telling him to go below. But really, what had he expected after talking to the Captain like that on the quarterdeck? Alright, maybe the first lieutenant had been a little more harsh than he should have been, but still. It had been mighty bold of the Frenchie to speak out and actually question the Captain's orders right on the quarterdeck. And while Allen felt a bit better about the Frenchie after their conversation the previous evening, he was still a Frenchie, and a prisoner to boot. He needed to mind himself aboard ship, especially where the Captain was concerned.

Well, whatever the cause of the Frenchie's agitation, it was plain that he wasn't going to go anywhere any time soon. That meant that, technically, Allen's duty had ended for now. But knowing that the Frenchie was supposed to be guarded at all times, and seeing as there was no Marine posted on sentry outside the cabin, Allen decided he'd have to do the job for a little while at least. Heaving a sigh, he positioned himself by the door.

"An' here I thought this wouldn't involve any sentry duty," he muttered to himself.

After what seemed like a disagreement between the guests and officers, was over, they could again concentrate on the ship that they were pursuing. With the added sail, Terpsichore was able to make more headway, advancing towards the unknown sail. With added sail, it brought them to close distance between themselves and their game somewhat more rapidly, and would enable him to recognise more of the ship and hopefully replace doubt with conviction upon the identity of the sail.

Thompson was leaning on his musket in an effort to take some of the weight of his still-swollen ankle. He leaned forward, trying to get a better glimpse of the other ship.

Finally, finally, she broke out a flag from the mizzen masthead. He sucked in a breath even as the yell came from aloft: "Deck there! She's a Frog!"

Mr Tadcock nodded. He had handed over the watch to Mr George at noon, but not gone below; all of the officers and midshipmen who did not have other duties were on the quarterdeck, watching the chase. In practice, of course, what they did now was down to the Captain, who was watching the - confirmed - French ship with as much interest as anyone else. Who but a Frog would run from a ship in these waters? And what was a Frog doing this far south...

"It's a frog!" the sailors on deck repeated, surreptitiously passing the message along to their friends below. The news passed through the gundeck and even down the companionways to the messdeck, reaching even the wardroom. "They said she's a frog!" Danny Milburn shouted gleefully to a friend as they ran for the powder room.

As the shout came from above, Bolitho closed his eyes briefly. Though he had been hoping against hope, it now turned out that the ship in question was French. Of all the times to encounter an enemy vessel... He thought about the shore party. But there was nothing for it. As a frigate in the King's Navy, they were obliged to engage the enemy. They must.

Then he thought of something else. Dr. Maturin was ashore of course, but so was Dr. Crozier and so were all of his assistants. Which meant that they were left with no surgeon and no surgeon's assistants aboard. They would be going into battle with no one on board who had medical experience.

No, wait. That was not entirely accurate. Bolitho recalled, though he had been rather delirious at the time, that Westdale had aided him when he had been wounded during their last battle. He had seemed to have some medical knowledge. At least, Bolitho hoped he did. Since he was all they had, Westdale would have to try and do his best to care for their wounded.

"Beat to quarters! We shall engage the ship when we close the distance," he ordered, then demanded, "Where is Westdale? I must speak with him at once!"

Thompson heard the call for Westdale and passed the message on, wondering why in the world the sailor was wanted. He wasn't one to go getting into trouble, unlike some men Thompson could name. He heard the summons being taken up below, on the gundeck, and turned to look aft at the captain, frowning a little in curiosity.

Raoul had been sitting on the cot, his hands gripping the wooden frame, waiting. Nothing happened - the angle of the ship remained the same or nearly so, indicating that they were still running with the wind in the same quarter - which mean that they were getting further and further away from Dr Maturin. He tried to persuade himself that his concern for Dr Maturin was purely practical - the doctor would help him once they reached Oporto, and he could not totally rely on any one else, not even Captain Padstowe, who might arrange his exchange... It was complicated, of course, by the conversations he had had with the doctor, which made the question of an exchange so very much less appealing. But he could explain that to the Captain, so...

But he knew that most of his concern was for the doctor - for Stephen. Who should not just be abandoned, regardless of the value of the ship they were chasing, whether in monetary or military terms. But even if he could speak to the Captain, he could not persuade him to turn back. So he waited for the sound of guns being readied over his head, or for some indication that the end of the chase was in sight.

COnfused, Westdale made his way to a respectful distance near the captain, glancing out at the sail in plain veiw.
"Westdale, sir!"
What on earth had he done wrong? He honestly couldn't think of anything, anything at all...surely they'd let him back to his gun soon enough? Else there'd be all sorts of trouble getting enough to fire, given the men on shore and all.

Bolitho turned at the sound of Westdale's voice.

"Yes," he said with a nod. Noticing that the sailor's expression showed that he seemed to be expecting a rebuke, Bolitho promptly assured him, "You have done nothing wrong, Westdale. But I do have a very important task to give you."

Well that was something. He relaxed somewhat, still standing stiff as the captains attention was on him, a not hugely common occurance.
"Yessir?"

"Seeing as both Dr. Crozier and Dr. Maturin, as well as all the surgeon's assistants, are ashore at the moment, and seeing as I do not know if we have anyone else aboard with medical experience, I would like you to act as the ship's temporary surgeon if the need arises. Are you up to that task?"

Before Westdale could respond however, there was a shout from above. Hey - deck there! She's gettin' away, sir!

Bolitho silently cursed, and stared out at the clearly retreating French ship. He needed to give chase, but at the same time, they would be moving further away from the shore party. He silently cursed again, then turned back to Westdale, still wanting his reply.

Unthinkingly, Westdale ahd turned at the cry, looking out accross the water.
"Of course, sir." He said, "Happy ter, sir."

Which just meant he'd have to go down and look through what was set up- possibly not even the chests as a table, yet. "Err...would yer have a copy of the key ter Dr Croziers cupboard, sir?" It was worth a try, and he was sure there was plenty of things in there that, if he didn't need, it would at least be interesting to look at. And maybe there'd be some instruments left in there, too, given there was at least one full set left behind on land.

"No, I do not have a key to the surgeon's cupboard," Bolitho shook his head, "I would think one of the surgeon's assitants has a spare, but of course, they are ashore as well. I would recommend checking the sick bay, just in case. Perhaps a spare key might be tucked away in there."

[Would the Captain have a spare key? I really don't know...]

Padstowe stiffened.

"I will endeavour to do my duty, sir," he said calmly. "Now if you will excuse, I think I ought to be going below."

So he turned and he did, perhaps noting that later he may regret the possibility of giving offence to the First Lieutenant, but at that moment the matter did not trouble his conscience.

Raoul was not in the wardroom; which was not (like many other occurtances that day) surprising. Having succeeded dodging the furious activity of the sailors below and above decks padstowe leaned heavily against the wardroom table, glacing over to see the Marine allen standing sentry at des Sablieres door. That answered the question as to where the capitaine was at the moment - yet it did not answer the question as to whether he should leave the Frenchman well alone or to give him consolation. Padstowe let out a dismissive snort. The idea was laughable; what consolation could he give? He was not even certain whether des Sablieres cared for his company; and along with offending him, Padstowe admitted that Bush's remarks had made him think somewhat on how trusting he had let himself become of his captive. He had bguilt himself an image of des Sablieres' character which was honourable, compassionate, patient - if a little given to wild impulses - and an almost unbreakable humour. But how much of this was a role played by the Frenchman? How much of the des Sablieres within Padstowe's head exist in the real des Sablieres?

Again he became aware of the letter's presence within his bosom, and for some reason that seemed to decide his actions for him. He shuffled over to the sentry, gave an apologetic expression and knocked softly.

"Capitaine? It's Padstowe."