OPORTO, 22nd May - Naval Landing Parties

Lyons frowned but answered loftily, "We'll go upstairs. Come on, men! Where are the stairs?"

Johnson pointed. "That way."

Everett gave Johnson a discontented grimace before heading for the stairs with the Defiance corporal and his men.

The answer to his demand was a misfire. He stumbled, not exactly from being hit - the musket hadn't fired a musket at him after all, but rather from not feeling all that well at all. His head was still feeling just like he was having a terrible hangover and the damn ringing hadn't exactly stopped either.

A portion of the wall came away under his touch and he scampered backwards watching the small hole appear right before his eyes.

The Frenchmen knew they were defeated by now. The enormous explosion could only have been the powder magazine, and if they did not want to be killed or taken prisoner, the time had come to flee. The single boy was not important. They turned and ran.

He wondered how soon it would be, that they would realize, that that direction was barred by a door that had succumbed under the explosion of the chest. He spared a glance at where the stairs were. They were only leading up.

He turned back to the hall he'd been following so far. Well, no way to go, but that. Soon, before the French learned of their mistake. The smoke was still rather thick, though it was beginning to set, leaving fine dust on the floor and the boy's footprints, where he stepped.

The Defiances that Lyon had left behind were eyeing Johnson warily as their own corporal moved off. Johnson grinned wolfishly at them. "Let's show 'em how us Terpsies fight, Ware," he said. Ware lifted his musket and grinned in response.

"Let's go," Johnson told his group. "You," he said, pointing at one of the Defiances, "keep an eye out behind us for any Frogs."

He stopped to cough again and saw the flapping coat tails of a pair of men, disappearing into the gloom. There was a sharp cry and then one seemed to have disappeared with the sound of rumble and falling stones.

He felt alongside the thicker wall, continuing step by step, a bayonet clutched in his hand. The musket dragging behind him, like a boy's toy. he heard more sounds, and paused as some men descended the next set of stairs, but again knew to pick the opposite direction. Safe, for now.

But the men descending the stairs were speaking in English. "Cob, this way!" one of them hissed.

English? French didn't call to each other in the tongue of their enemies, not that he knew of. "Over 'ere.." he called, surprised how his voice sounded in his ears, so quiet. He coughed, keeping his hand from his mouth this time. Smelled bad enough as it was. He pulled the musket up a little, and shouldered it. Well, the Frenchmen were up ahead and behind them. Or would be soon.

It was nice to hear an English word again, though he allowed his hopes to remain low, till he was certain.

Thompson coughed on the dust settling around them. "Anyone know what we'm lookin' for?" he asked, speaking to nobody in particular.

"Hear that? Someone's over there," Bakewell said, pointing in the direction of the weak English voice.

What? Chase brought his cutlass up and called, "Who's that?"

Wasn't sure he knew the voices, maybe. Wait, he could. "..Terpsy." Came the first word of his tongue. He adjusted the musket and lowered the bayonet. "Are you British?" He called back, blinking against the dust and walking forward.

"Course we're British, lad!" laughed Bakewell, moving forward to meet him. "And Terpsies too. What you doin' in here, lad?"

"'Course we're British," Thompson called, and glanced at the sailors. "Here, lads, let me or Bakewell go first, so's he can see the jackets, do."

Chase shrugged. "Arright." He lowered his cutlass and leaned back against the wall, hoping the Marines would hurry up so they could get back to searching for that room with the wine casks in it. It had to be somewhere around here, one of the Defiances had said it was.

"Who'sum t' captain of Terpsy?" The boy took a step back. He itched to rub at his eyes, but having his sleeve soaked in the filth of the privy, the sewer and all else, to get any of that into his eyes would be near certain some sort of disease waiting to happen, and possible blindness.

He held the bayonet loosely in hand, a bit higher than before.

"Cap'n Bolitho, lad. What's a Terpsy doin' buried under all that there muck for, anyway?" Thompson said, putting his bayonet up so it was no longer pointing at the youngster, who seemed to be nervous of them, and rightly so.

"Blimey, he smells worse'n them bilges," Taylor muttered, covering his nose with his neck-cloth. Chase was inclined to agree. What the devil had the boy been dunked in?

"Thompson?" The boy recognized the voice and the bayonet was down in an instant. " Duty'... 's a dirty business." He gave the man a chuckle, glancing at the sailors behind him.

"'s me. Buckles." He paused. " We'um.., gone in t'... wrong way up." He motioned vaguely in the direction.

"He's been up and down the privy," Bakewell said. He himself had been through the tunnel but had not been subjected to quite the same degree of filth. In fact, no one else had, apart from Lieutenant Cartwright. He and De Guarde had been the only unlucky ones in the privy itself.

"Ah ha, hey Cob, lads, come looka here!" Butcher called back to them with a triumphant laugh.

"Aye, thought it was you, lad. Dunno what you've found to go swimmin' in, though. Smells like you fell in a privy or summat." He grinned. "You could stand to be put under the wash-deck pump for a month, lad. Any Frogs hereabouts, though? We'm tryin' to make sure this buildin's free of 'em." He turned to Bakewell. "What was he doin' crawlin' around a privy for, anyways?"

Buthcer's call distracted him. It did not sound as though it boded well.

The privy? Chase and the others inched away from De Guarde, their expressions disbelieving. What could possibly entice anyone to go crawling through a privy?

"Whatcha found, Butcher?" Seward asked, only too glad for a distraction.

"Told you. We went up a drain," Bakewell answered patiently.