By Cape Mondego

If the wind would turn any lesser, they'd have to take more sail in. No use in having the fabric beat itself erratically enough to cause itself damage. Of course, if the wind decided to pick up just then and be in the favourable direction, they would have to do it all over again.

They could only hope that not all would turn against them, for it would be a struggle then, to reach the land. With the men straining their bodies at the ropes, and above against the sheets of sail, they managed to shorten another, saving it from its untimely wear. Some gazed up expectantly. Would the wind pick up again?

Too fickle to spare the sails.

Though as the surface of the sea was skimmed there were telltale signs that there was yet a breeze to be had. A stronger one than the earlier. All come just after they've gone and completed their task.

SUch was the way fo the sea, grumbled westdale to the man near him, as they loosened their hold on their ropes again, letting out what they had just pulled in as a steadier breeze caught them.

But it lasted not long enough, slowly dying away to a trickle almost as small as the one they had had before, adn again they pulled in their canvas, unsure whether their next order would be to out oars, or to stay put.

"Let fall." Came the order, with the familiar piping of the bosun and his mates, when the wind picked up.

"Sheet home! Lively there." Came another. The lady wind would do well to divert the minds of men towards their tasks, rather than to mull over their lost prize money and what it promised for each.

And then it hadn't lasted. And it remained so till it died completely. De Guarde glared up at the sky, for the miss Fickle of the Wind had been most gracious in acting as a spoiled girl, a waft here, then none.

He glanced down, expectant to hear what the next order of action would be. Scanning the sea at this time, it remained quiet and calm.

"I have heard no gunshots, nor running out of cannon... Yes, it must be the only explanation of such a manouevre."

They were turning; Padstowe was certain of it now.

"We shall be with them soon now then, and both doctors will be safe with us once again." That was if Crozier lived; but no one aboard voiced any doubt that it would be otherwise, and so he would not be the one to do so. "Dr. Maturin is of a harder material than his outward appearance may initially suggest; but then both you and I know that already."

Raoul looked at him rather quizzically. In many ways that was true - Dr Maturin was hard enough where it came to determination. But physically, he had shown that he was not immune to the effects of injuries, and his determination to continue on the course he had set for himself, despite physical weakness, to refuse to sleep, to eat, even to rest ... This voyage should have given him time to do all those things, and with Mr Crozier to help him with the remaining care of Captain Padstowe....

"He is human - he cannot keep pushing himself. As he did in Lisbon, despite his injuries. I tried there ..." He looked down at his hands on the table. "He will drive himself too far, if his friends do not stop him."

Padstowe frowned.

"Yes," he said flatly, lowering his voice and dropping the facade of cheerfulness. "He will, though I do not know how on earth we are to stop him at the moment unless one of us suddenly develops the power of mind-reading. He was the only doctor aboard when Crozier received his injury, and we could not halt his determination then. Barely. We cannot even begin to think of halting him until he is returned to us, and though it is a worry I will not permit myself to voice it until he is back. It will ohnly upset people already uoset."

The wind did not pick up, and though the ship was now pointing in the right direction, she would come no further - with the tide working against them as well - if men were but to stare at the masts and hope for more wind. A few faces turned expectantly to their officers. To the captain, to Lieutenant Leat, Bush, George. Waiting for the order.

Leat tightened the his hands which he held gripped behind his back and glared at the sails, cursing silently. Why, of all times, did the wind have to drop now?

He cast a glance at the captain who was only standing a few feet away.

"Shall we order the boat away, sir?" he asked, for all he tried not to sound as if he was trying to best the captain with a forward solution. But they needed to get back to the doctors, and it seemed like the only way they'd get anywhere...

Bolitho frowned as he too glared up at the unmoving sails. First they had lost the French ship, and now the wind. That was more than enough to lose in one day. He'd be damned if they lost the shore party as well. They needed to get back to them at all costs.

"Yes, order the boat away, Mr. Leat. Wind or no wind," we must get back to shore," he said, then added, "And have the men stand down as well. Obviously there is no need to remain ready for a fight we will not be having."

The men stood prime and ready. Listening to hear the order, which they would have later as easily followed. They suspected what might come. If it were a short spell of work, then it would be fair enough, as long as it didn't mean that they row themselves all the way to the closeness of land.

None had wanted that. "Wot' they sayin'?" Came a question from the left, and a nudge, and murmur back, a speculation perhaps but not yet the knowledge.

Mr McNish had joined the other officers on the quarterdeck, who were either scanning the sky in the hope of the tell-tale signs of a wind, or examining the adjustment of the sails, the masts and considering their options. He saw the glances of the seamen, and remarked under his breath to his friend, the third Lieutenant. "I don't know what they're expecting us to do, George. We canna change the winds for them."

"No, and I'm sure rowing wasn't what they had in mind, either." George nodded and suggested: "Stand the men down, I think, Sir, and the larboard watch should have dinner - it is more than time, and they will pull the better for being fed."

The men looked hopefully to the sails again and to the sea, for the wind could well be seen rippling the surface if it were to come. No such indication though, to grace them.

De Guarde craned his neck a little to see better, but try as he might there was also no wind to carry words about, and he was not one to have learned to lipread.

"Very well, Mr. George," Bolitho nodded. Though he wanted to get back to shore as soon as possible, the third lieutenant had a valid point. "The men may stand down, and the larboard watch can have dinner. They will need enough energy to row, after all."

Leat had been about to carry on his orders when Bolitho ordered the larboard watch to stand down. That would mean the starboard watch would be the boat crews for the timebeing, and he would order them away now, before they lost their enthusiasm for action - of any kind.

"Mr. Watts, starboard watch to the boats and rig up some cables forrard; we must make headyway at all costs!"

Should the wind still have not risen by the time the larboard watch had eaten, then they could take over.

Finally the order came for them to stand down. Oxley returned his cartridge case to its home as the men around him put the various implements needed for firing the cannons away, before heading up to the weatherdeck.

He needed to tell Foley what had happened between him and de Guarde since the younger boy had, so unexpectedly, accepted his apology. Right now, though, he didn't have to be anywhere for a bit, though hopefully they'd be able to have dinner soon - he hadn't realised how hungry he was.

Starboard watch to the boats. Larboard watch to eat dinner. The order had reached all of the men, and the watch destined for the rowing, began to gather by the boats. None would've been mightily thrilled, least of all though the also hungry former middie.

He looked sceptically to the sea. Nope, the wind still refused to show it's beautiful face.

The Marines gathered amidships, briefly, before tramping below to return their muskets to the arms-locker. Corporal Johnson was none-too-pleased by getting cheated out of a fight and his mood reflected that plainly. He found something wrong with each Marine handing his musket over, but none of them were surprised by that.

Foley, the steward, went directly to the wardroom once his musket was turned in. He managed to get to his officer's cabin only a couple of minutes before Mister Cartwright appeared and he helped the lieutenant change out of his best uniform. Topside, pipes were calling shrilly, accompanied by the dull thundering of bare feet. More work yet to be done.

"Bleedin' tragedy, this," Tom Shepherd grunted, sneaking a half-full plate away from one of the mess kids. He bolted down the food quickly and left the plate on the nearest hanging table, then collected his drum and hat. Time to 'relieve' his brother for a bit. It was a long-running trick of theirs to swap places during meal-times, usually after Quarters, so they ended up getting two meals apiece instead of one. Not something they did too often, though, and only when one of them was duty drummer.

While the larboard watch and the marines had gone to feast, the starboard one had filled in the boats. The cables were rigged, and oars were waiting in the hold of the sailors. Tall and slim, broad and hardened by the years at sea, even small as De Guarde, have been ready.

The oars were then laid into the water. Beneath them a flock of fish had swam away, a good deal further one had jumped, flicked its gray, silver belly to the sun and dropped in again. It was followed by a nother in succession and then the sea surface looked to have been rather undisturbed again. The men glanced at Terpsichore and the figurehead that resembled the ship as much in grace as her sailing. A lovely face carved out of the wood, the muse, her unblinking eyes felt as if locked on them, waiting.

There was less grumbling now, though there were some who hoped the wind would pick up - none had dared to curse it, else risk it to become the storm none would survive. Never was right to curse the wind.

Oxley agreed with Tom Shepherd. Why couldn't they have had a fight? It just wasn't fair, making them hang around like that for no reason. He grinned as the other drummer slipped away; he knew their trick though not many others did that he knew of.

It had been a strange old morning by anyone's standards, and he had a lot to think about, and he wondered when Foley would be around to talk to for a bit. It had been the older Marine's advice that had made his mind up for him to apologise, really. Before talking about it all, Oxley had just planned on keeping as far away from de Guarde as he could.

Up with the oars, forward with them, down into the water and push. Out of the water again, forward in time with the others and back into the water to push. The rope had become taut and the rowing became harder. Their progress minute as opposed to what they had earlier, when resistance was small.

It didn't take long for the men to begin sweating in effort. Their shirts clung to their backs, outlining the muscles that rippled beneath. A splash of an oar that came in contact with the water was a welcome change to the heat, though the salt dried later and itched.

De Guarde breathed heavily, his usually pale cheeks red, a thin sheet of sweat on them. No wind still, but they have also just begun. His lips were pursed in effort. The damn ship would have a snail run past her! Another splash and he felt some water sploosh inside of the boat. He slipped his feet into the puddle then secured them against the side, for the rowing for him, did not feel as if just an ordeal of hands.

When Mister Cartwright was presentable again, comfortably back into his regular sea-going rig, Foley tidied up the cabin and headed for the messdeck. He wasn't as disappointed with the lack of a fight as some others. Fights did awful things to uniforms and kit, and setting it all to rights again afterward took days.

"You lads left anything grub for the less fortunate?" Foley asked playfully as he peered into the nearest mess kid. He typically messed by himself, owing to his additional duties, but today was a rare treat. Higgins, the cook for his assigned mess, scowled. The expression seemed out-of-place on Higgins' boyish face.

"There's plenny left, 'less yer picky."

--

Seward sucked a fat drop of sweat off his upper lip and spat it over the gunwhale. This had been a huge waste of a day, hadn't it? First setting the two sawbones ashore with a full bloody escort, then spotting and going after that Frog. Now they were heaving at their oars, trying to gain the barest bit of headway in the absence of any wind. An absolute waste, this.

Somebody behind him cursed and was promptly admonished by the midshipman in the sternsheets. Seward grimaced. They'd never had this much trouble before this cruise... before De Guarde had come aboard. It felt unnatural to think such a thing, but the more he thought about it, the more it was true. There had been few problems aboard Terpsichore until that damned boy had joined them.

His arms were beginning to ache and burn. How much longer were they going to be at this?

Oxley looked up to see Foley coming for'rard and sit down at Higgins' mess. It was a pretty small mess today, it looked like - seemed some of those who'd gone ashore were in it. Before he could talk himself out of it, he'd picked up his own plate and mug and crossed over.

"D'you... d'you mind if I sit with you for a bit?" he asked, feeling a little shy. It wasn't the time of month to swap messes, and this wasn't the way it was usually done. "Only, I'd like to talk to Mi... Mister Foley, here."

Show a bit of respect and they'd be more likely to let him, hopefully. And pretty much everyone knew what had happened yesterday.

"C'mon an' welcome," Roberts said cheerfully, moving over so Oxley could sit down. "Just mind you don't eat too much from our kid, Higgins ain't much for cookin'."

Higgins scowled again, while the others laughed. There were a couple smirks when Oxley referred to Foley as 'Mister', but any ribbing about it was prevented when Foley himself etched as much of a bow as he could while seated.

"At your service," the steward said with an easy grin. "Looks like you got some proper food for yourself, at least."

"Grattan can cook, even if he don't know how to fold a shirt right," Oxley said. He looked across at Foley. "I done... well, I 'pologised to him, 'cause you said I should do what I thought was right, like. An', well, he said he was sorry too, which I never 'spected him to say."

He didn't feel properly comfortable talking about it in front of the other Marines, but pretty much everyone knew he'd been in a fight even if they didn't know why. And none of them would go talking to any of the officers about it, though somehow Oxley didn't mind if Foley passed it on to Mister Cartwright. Stewards talked about things with their officers all the time, didn't they? And it wouldn't be official, either, done like that.

Foley was nodding, while the others looked confused. It wasn't hard to see they had no idea what Oxley was talking about. He knew exactly what the drummer meant and was proud of the boy for it.

"Might've told you the Shepherds will do near anything for a laugh," Foley said, the lie coming easily. He glanced over his shoulder to where one of the Shepherd twins - he could never tell which was which - was bolting down his food. "Ain't that right, Shepherd?"

The boy looked up and declared, "Whatever it is, it's a bleedin' lie!"

The Marines chuckled. Roberts said, "Never can trust them two not to get up to somethin'."