OPORTO, 22nd May - Naval Landing Parties

"You would, sir," Cartwright said, nodding. "I hope they achieved their intended result. They did certainly put some of those French on me quickly enough!"

"Indeed they did. The disguise was a good idea as well, though it seems to have put you in as much danger from us as from the French, who most likely did not expect to see one of their own blowing up their guns."

Noticing Cartwright's own coat on the floor, Bolitho added, "You might want to put your normal coat back on before venturing out. I would hate to have any of our crew make the same mistake that I did and think you to be an enemy."

Good. He would hate to think he'd created such a wonderful mess for nothing. "I think it was worth it, sir, all things considered."

That didn't resolve the matter of his coat, though. By rights he should put the horrid thing back on. He prodded it with his shoe. "I don't know that I should, sir," he said. "Somebody's likely to shoot at me for smelling awfully if I do."

Bolitho had to admit that Cartwright was correct. His coat did smell rather offensive.

"That may be, but they'll certainly shoot you if you leave that coat on. Perhaps it might be best then if you went without a coat for the time being..."

"Sir!" Chandos cried breathlessly, stopping short at the door and staring at the Frenchman who was actually their own marine lieutenant. "Mister Bush says his respect and they're about to explode the magazine, sir!"

He stripped off the blue coat at once. "A fine idea, sir."

A midshipman appeared with the news that the powder magazine was prepared for demolition. So Lieutenant Deverel had accomplished his mission. Cartwright wondered if his Marines were still with the sea officer.

"Shall we go see the fireworks, sir?" Cartwright asked, picking up his coat with plain reluctance. Now that he was done crawling around in sewer tunnels, he was not interested in being anywhere near the heavily-stained coat that had borne the brunt of that particular abuse.

"Thank you Mr. Chandos," Bolitho said to the midshipman. Then he glanced back at Cartwright. "Yes we shall, Mr. Cartwright. I would greatly like to know that our mission has finally been accomplished."

"Right, lads, time to get out of here!" Deverel cried to the seamen and marines in and around the magazine. "Ready, Branning, with the fuses?"

"Ready sar," Branning answered. He hoped his flint would spark even though the powder was damp. The others were on their way out to a safe distance, leaving Branning by himself. He grinned, not minding that one bit.

"Then have at it, man," Deverel answered with a grin. He would at least wait with him and watch, feeling only slightly envious that he could not pull the trigger himself. But the marine deserved a share of the fun, and his own hands were unsteady. "Death or glory!"

The row of explosions shook the building a bit. Some dust came from the walls above him, shaken free with that. He had no idea what was going on outside except that his side might've been able to break free, and he was on his own to do the same. Some of the Frenchmen persisted at the door, while the main body ran out after the marines and sailors.

He turned for the other door and moved through. There was a stack of weaponary there, possibly kept there to be more quick at hand. He wasn't any longer surprised why the men were eager to enter. He looked at the remaining cartridges. Could they be of use to have some of the collection rendered useless?

He slid a chest against the door, knowing that the other side would soon be broken in. "..Lets just hope that ain't the only way out." He thought to himself. He kept his eyes on the other door, which lead to rooms he had to inspect. There was a less noisy way to render muskets useless. At least if the second one failed on him.

Just as he was working on that, he heard the door to the privy cave in. He pushed the chest open, and forced in as many of the muskets as he could. Had the powder poured at the top. He took a swig from the bottle left behind by a Frenchman. Alcohol. "Add a lil' bit o' this." But of course not used on the powder, not to get it wet and useless.

He heard the banging at the door.

Everything was ready. At their next attempt, he'd backed to the only way out.Another thrust at the door, his musket was discharged, which set a flame rushing for the chest. The boy did not wait to see whether it would explode or not and dashed through the other door, his pockets weighing down on him just a little now.

Now that the charges were stacked up ready to go off and set off the French powder, Oxley had managed to reclaim his hat, which had suffered less than he'd thought. He crammed it on, staying next to Sam. He'd blinked when Branning just charged straight through the door of the magazine. He'd seen so many strange things today. He'd always remember Mister Cartwright pulling at the grating, and then going up to have a look for a way out. He wondered where the officer was, even as he watched Branning and his brother's Lieutenant - Deverel, he thought the officer's name was - fiddling about with the fuses.

The next room had been void of the Frenchmen, and sported a single window out into the courtyard. He paused to catch some of his breath. He ran towards the window then, peering through just to have a vague idea of what was going on. He pulled himself in again looking at the set of stairs. Up again, not exactly where he needed to go. Straight forward and past the stairs was a path he could take. Maybe there was a staircase downwards further ahead.

The walls had caved in some up ahead. Old structures not able to take as much of a beating or shaking no more. Behind him he did hear the explosion, and grinned to himself. "Jus' stay put, ye Frogs!" He shouted over his shoulder even if he knew that they'd not hear him, or possibly understand.

Only too happy to oblige, Branning primed his musket. Thankfully, there was a spark when he squeezed the trigger and the fuse was lit. "Better go now, sar."

Cartwright and the two sea officers were back outside, being briefly greeted by a pair of Marines who had taken cover to watch the powder magazine's destruction. One of them had grinned broadly upon seeing the state of Cartwright's coat but said nothing about it.

Two men were running toward them from the magazine, one of them easily recognised by his size. The charges must be set and the fuse burning. They waited.

There was a strange feeling in the air. He couldn't see what had just transpired, he did not know that there would be loud explosions come a few moments. But there was just this feeling as if the whole fort was holding its breath.

He paused. He heard men running a floor higher. The French might've abandoned their fight or had seen what the British were planning and were now trying to get as far away as fast as they could. There was nothing to save there. He turned and ran for the second window, - past the stairs that lead up and from where footsteps were heard, running.

Something was not right. He remembered the orders and cursed. He understood some of the French shouting which only confirmed it.

"Got you!" He heard a French speak just a moment after he was lifted of the ground by his collar. He had to give it to the man, it was not just anyone who would grip filth so easily, and he was covered in it.

"Merde."

"Yep." The boy responded and as the man reached forward, he twisted around enough and bit hard at the hand.

"Salaud!" The Frenchman shouted as he released his hold on De Guarde, who bolted past him and into the dark.

The fighting in the courtyard had begun petering out, so Johnson had gathered a couple Marines and gone into the fort's main building to clear it out of its French occupants. A few of Terpsy's seamen appeared to join them and the whole party started their search with a lethal eagerness.

And here at last were the north party, men from Defiance, Phoenix, Confidence, and Tartar, along with Terpsichore's Lieutenant George and his men.

The admiral strode forward, looking clean and untouched. "You there, corporal! Have they - " But his question was interrupted by the enormous explosion that knocked him off of his feet.

Where the hell had this admiral come from? Johnson saluted, annoyed that he had been interrupted so unpleasantly. The powder magazine blew up at that moment, however, and the rippling rush of air from the blast knocked the man from his feet.

"I think they have, sir," the corporal replied, keeping his footing without apparently trouble. "Should've held onto something though, sir. Blast-wave's pretty strong."

The admiral swore at him, though it was more a reaction to his own indignity than anything that the corporal had said. A midshipman pulled him to his feet, getting little thanks for the assistance. "Are you a Terpsichore man? Where is Captain Bolitho?" he asked the marine.

Johnson suppressed a grin when the admiral cursed him. It wasn't his fault that the fat idiot had fallen onto his arse!

"I am, sir. Ain't seen the cap'n though. He's probably taken some lads and gone looking for whichever Frog's in charge of this lot." Johnson shrugged. "Maybe you could lend us some of your lads, sir? We were going to rouse out the Frogs that're hidin' in here, when you turned up."

Admiral Croker stared at him, shocked by the insolence of a marine corporal giving an admiral suggestions. But of course he was right. "Lyon, take your men through the building to clear it of all French. This corporal will assist you."

Like he would simply 'assist'. Johnson glanced over his shoulder at his small party. "C'mon lads. We got work to do."

The group moved off, followed closely by Lyon and his men. When they were out of the admiral's sight, however, Johnson halted the group. "You, Lyon. Split your lads up into two groups. I'll mix my lads into both, and we'll each take one off huntin'. Got it?"

Corporal Lyon stared at the marine, affronted by his assumption of authority. "Now look here!" he began.

A gush of air and dust threw the boy of his feet as the building trembled and shook with the force of the blast. He coughed, shielding his nose and mouth with his arm, which all too soon he regretted. The sleeve was still covered in slime and stank terribly. He coughed again covering his head as stones came to be dislodged and fell to the ground about.

"Merde!" He heard in the distance his ears ringing a little. There was another curse a bit closer and the boy pushed to his feet, his head hurting where he'd struck the wall. He turned looking at the French. "...You.. you've lost. Surrender y'selves." He shouted at them, coughing as they did, wary of them though. "Surrender!" This time in French.

"Glad you agree," Johnson said, deliberately interrupting the other corporal. "Ware, with me. Robbins and Dyer too. Everett, take Pringle and Williams with Lyon here."

Now with that arranged, he favoured the other corporal with an indulgent look. "Preference for which floor your lads take first?"