OPORTO, 22nd May - Naval Landing Parties

Oxley took the handkerchief, irritably knocking his hat off because it was getting in his way now, and wrapped it around the officer's arm before gathering the cartridge back together. He shrugged and dumped them in his hat, figuring that would be an easier way of keeping them together than trying to hold them in his arms. He ran a hand through his hair and looked down at the officer.

"You all right, sir?" he asked.

There were plenty of Frenchmen on the walltops. Cartwright peered cautiously around the corner of an open archway at the blue-jackets standing and crouching on the thick stone as they fired down at the attacking British. There were also cannon emplacements at regular intervals. Good.

He glanced down at the stained and ruined mess that was his red coat and grinned slightly. The blue wool jacket felt strangely heavy on his shoulders, but it was clean and less obvious than the red. His disguise was not perfect but it would be enough to suit his purpose. He adjusted his stolen hat and stepped out onto the rampart. All he needed was thirty seconds...

Deverel looked at the handkerchief on his arm and the boy who had tied it for him. "I'm fine!" he answered with an odd cheerfulness. "How's that door, Oxley?"

"Coming sir," Sam answered, ducking down beside them to dodge the musket fire. "Slowly."

"Where's that lieutenant of yours?" Deverel asked the drummer. "We could use some cover here."

Oxley opened his mouth to reply to that question before realising it wasn't directed at him, and closed it again, turning to see what was going on elsewhere. Another figure had appeared on the wall-top, looking sort of familiar, though he couldn't place it.

Across the courtyard Deverel could see the other half of the Terpsichore's marines. They were firing on the men on the wall. He had no idea where the Defiance marines had gone. If they could just have cover long enough to break open that door...

"Marines! Terpsichores!" he called. He turned to the drummer. "Lad, what's your sergeant called?"

He reached out for the sword he had dropped and hissed through his teeth. Now his arm was beginning to hurt.

"Sergeant Quinn, sir," Oxley answered, wondering what was going to happen now. He heard the hiss, and picked the officer's sword up for him.

So far, so good. The French were too busy exchanging fire with the Marines on the ground to worry about a fellow blue-jacket. Cartwright swiped his palms dry on his trousers and walked casually toward the nearest cannon emplacement. He needed one of the powder charges kept by the gun carriage.

Kneeling quickly by the neatly-arranged stack of charges, Cartwright grabbed one and cut a small slit in it using a dagger he'd found in his stolen coat. It was important that he leave a trail of powder on his way to as many other cannon emplacements as he could get to before he was noticed.

He made it to three guns before a blue-jacket spotted him and shouted a question. Cartwright's mind fumbled to come up with a reasonable response, but he had never taken well to the French language. All he could come up with was a curse, which he shouted back. Not the best idea ever, but it worked. He dropped what was left of the powder charge and knelt, hurrying to strike a scrap of flint to the dagger. Some of the French were turning their fire his way, which was no good. Ah! A spark, and the thin trail of powder was lit.

Cartwright was on his feet and running, repeating that one curse as he went. The walltop was about to blow up, what could it hurt?

"Sergeant Quinn!" Deverel shouted in the direction of the marines. He turned to the drummer. "Where's that big man gone? We need this door open. Hell..." He trailed off and heaved himself to his feet, sword in his left hand, as a pair of Frenchmen came around the corner running to them. "Oxley!" he shouted in warning as he leapt forward to meet them. Sam looked up from the door and hesitated for only a second before joining him, swinging his axe.

Oxley had his sword out almost before he knew what was happening. He could fight, though it wasn't something he liked; most soldiers were bigger, heavier and stronger than him. But he wasn't going to go down without a fight, or let them take out his brother... the thought crossed his mind that it was the older brother supposed to look after the younger one, but he didn't have time for that now.

Across the courtyard, Quinn heard the shout and saw what was happening. He grasped Vining's shoulder. "Get one of them Frogs!"

When pursued by French soldiers on the walltop of a seaside fort, the best place to take cover may just be behind a cannon. Cartwright did exactly that, after a lucky shot carried away his hat. Today must not be his day for keeping hats.

A few seconds after he dropped down behind the gun carriage, the first of powder charges went up. He grinned. That would distract the soldiers on the walltop enough to give the lads on the ground time to finish their work.

Deverel swung his sword with zeal but less skill now that he was forced to use his left hand instead of his right. But the pain in his arm made him angry, very angry, and the anger added to his enthusiasm allowed him to cut down his opponent. The distracting explosion on the wall probably contributed too.

The seaman was having less luck - it was difficult to fight against a swordsman with an axe - until the drummer joined him. The distraction also worked in their favor, for when they all paused to flinch, the Frenchman was felled by Vining's shot.

The explosion on the wall certainly attracted attention, both from the British and the French. Bolitho had just cut down an attacker when he heard it, knowing it had to be a positive sign. It may not have been the powder magazine, but at this point, anything blowing up seemed good.

"We need to rejoin the others!" he called to his own party. Not only were the rest of the men on the other side of the courtyard, but so was the powder magazine. Bolitho took down another oncoming Frenchman and then starting running off across the courtyard.

There went the second powder charge. Cartwright flinched away as a musket ball slapped against the other side of the gun carriage, but he had to move. There was still a fight going on. He grabbed one of the charges from the stack next to him and slit it open. A distraction was needed so he could get back to where he'd left his coat.

The third charge blew up as he finished preparing the last one. This one would be impressive. Cartwright struck flint to steel and took off running again, very keen to get well away from that gun carriage before the charges underneath it went up. He was in no hurry to get crushed by a heavy cannon and its carriage.

Were the Frogs blowing themselves up? Johnson looked up toward the walltop in amused curiosity, in time to see a gun carriage lift straight up off the rampart from the force of the explosion underneath it. Some of the seamen nearby were cheering as the Frogs on the walltop scattered.

"Get after 'em!" The coproral cried, stirring back into motion. There was no sense wasting the time that they'd been given by the chain of explosions on the wall.

"Branning!" Deverel shouted, having finally learned the big marine's name. "Get over here and open this door!"

"Aye sar!" Branning called, appearing from around the building's corner. He sized up the splintered door with a critical eye, then moved back two paces. Sam Oxley yelped in wonder and surprise when the big Marine ran straight into the door, using his weight to knock the wooden portal almost clean off its hinges.

Deverel choked back his momentary shock and followed him inside.

Branning stood two paces in from the broken door, looking around slowly. "Reckon this is it, sar."

"I reckon you're right, Branning," Deverel replied with a satisfied grin. "Oxley - both Oxleys. You're Oxley too, right?" Deverel said to the drummer. "Bring the charges in here, and the fuse."

"Aye sir," both Oxleys said. They went to work setting the charges at various points around the magazine, glad to finally have found it.

Branning moved back to the doorway and looked up toward the walltop. The fight was still raging, though it seemed that some French were deciding that they'd had enough. "Wunner where Mister Cartwright's got to," the big Marine mused.

As it happened, Mister Cartwright was clattering down the stairs leading down from the walltop, a handful of Frenchmen hard on his heels. His plan to distract them from firing at the others was clearly working very well. At least he had managed to recover his coat, even though it was well beyond saving. There was a door off to the side as he came flying around a corner in the passage and he wrenched it open, ducking inside and shutting the door again in time to elude the pursuing blue-jackets.

"Well that was fun," he muttered to himself, relieved.

As he ran, Bolitho heard two more explosions go off along the wall. He was already running across the courtyard, but he veered off in the direction of the wall, hoping he might find some of the Terpsichore's crew there. But upon reaching a passage near the wall, instead he caught a glimpse of a group of Frenchmen charging in his direction. Quickly glancing around, Bolitho spotted a door nearby, which he quickly wrenched open. He went into the next passage--and nearly ran smack into a Frenchman who was standing by the door. Immediately Bolitho went on the attack, coming at the man with his sword at the ready.

A blur of dark blue something came into the room and almost collided with him. Cartwright's brief respite was over, as the man brought his sword up with the clear intention of attacking. And of course it wouldn't be just anybody either, but Terpsy's captain.

"Not a Frog!" Cartwright burst out, lifting his hands up, away from his sword. This was only a little embarrassing.

Bolitho froze with his sword in mid-air. He had been in such a mode of attack that he nearly toppled over from the momentum, but fortunately he regained his balance. And thankfully he had halted his motion not a moment too soon. The man in the room was no Frenchman--it was Lieutenant Cartwright dressed as a Frenchman.

"Good Lord...Mr. Cartwright!" Bolitho gasped, "What on Earth are you doing?"

That was a good question. Cartwright was beginning to wonder that himself. He glanced down at his red coat, which lay in a stinking heap on the floor. "Blending in, sir. Couldn't very well have gone up on the walltop with that on."

"Well, I would certainly say you succeeded in that," Bolitho remarked, trying not to dwell on the fact that he had almost killed one of his own officers, "So you were up on the wall, then. Am I right in assuming it was you who caused those explosions?"