OPORTO, 22nd May - Naval Landing Parties

"Shall I go and report to the admiral, sir?" Bush offered, hearing Croker's voice shouting in the distance.

"No Mr. Bush. I'll do it," Bolitho said, trying not to sigh at the thought of the aggravation he was about to face.

"I must report to the admiral too," Deverel said, recovering his senses with urgency. The explosion of the magazine had been a brilliant success, and if he was to gain promotion - perhaps even given command of one of the prizes, even the ship carrying news of the victory back to England - then he must see the admiral now and report while the joy of triumph was fresh. Admiral Croker was a man given to impulse rather than careful thought. "I'll go with you, if I may." He staggered to his feet.

Bush eyed him doubtfully. "I think a trip to the surgeon might be more in order, Mr. Deverel."

"No, no, I assure you..."

"You there," Bush interrupted, looking at Sam Oxley. "You're from his ship? Defiance, is it?"

"Yes sir."

"Help him back to the boat, along with the other wounded of your crew who can be moved. Terpsichores, you seamen will do the same for our injured. Mister Cartwright, you and your men will take the prisoners to the northwest block where they are to be under the charge of the marine captain from Defiance. You may leave a guard for these stores, but I had better not see any loitering."

And Bush strode off with the captain to the accompanying sounds of Deverel's feeble and petulant protests.

He'd have wished for a knapsack like the ones that the land soldiers had. He wasn't interested in what the Frenchman had on him - not one to steal from the dead - . The look on the man's face was unnerving enough and had the youth step back. The dead eyes staring.

He was nervous. He'd never done something like this, let alone in his current position. Leave it? For someone else to find? Report it being found would only mean that they would take it. There was no such thing as finders, keepers. But if he were to hide it and be found there would be trouble. He knelt forward and took a swig. Ok, that didn't really do any good. Getting drunk did not. His hand shook a little as he corked the bottle again and pushed it deeper into the dark. Till he knew how to do it, he'll leave it there and pray nobody else would find it.

Straightening himself, he was quickly returning to the group, seeing one lieutenant gone, and one on the leave with the captain. Perhaps...?

And that, Cartwright thought wryly, was that. At least the sea officers had given him a more easily-followed direction than trying to protect the wine store would have been.

"Nobody goes in, Bakewell," he said to the Marine, aware that he hardly needed to repeat himself. "I'll send another lad to assist you."

Bakewell nodded. "Aye sir."

"C'mon lads. Time to babysit some Frenchmen."

Some of the sailors laughed, others kept their remarks to themselves. When they could have gone to see through the fort and perhaps discover another such storage as the presently guarded, they were ordered to stand outside with the prisoners of war to guard.

De Guarde glanced at the equally smelly marine and began after the others. The clothes were clinging to him and he had a distinct urge to have a bath. A good long scrubbing, just after his head stopped hurting. "All of us, sir?" Could be just the marines or the sailors and them for all he knew.

Cartwright shook his head. "No, you sailors will do as Mister Bush said. My Marines and I will take charge of the prisoners."

Shows for not paying enough attention. Of course the sailors were meant to take the wounded back to their ships. Which wasn't half a bad thing, now that he thought of it. "Aye, sir."

He glanced over at Thompson. He'd liked to have stayed with the marines perhaps, but couldn't and wouldn't press a debate on that. "..See ye'm by t' ship if no sooner." He said cheerfully to the said marine before he turned to follow the sailors. He'd stumbled a little at the turn, but straightened himself soon enough cursing under his breath.

Oxley gave Sam a half-smile. "See you, Sam. You take care now." He glanced at Cartwright. "What do I do, sir?" he asked, feeling in the way again. And like the rest of the drain party, he was sure he stank, though probably not as much as Mister Cartwright and de Guarde did.

The sailors were heading off to their appointed task with Chase leading them. They, at least, would have plenty to do to distract them.

"Come along with us for now," Cartwright answered. "Though I'm sure it'll be easy for you to slip off shortly enough. You've got things to tell your brother about, no doubt!"

"Aye, aye, sir," he said and grinned a little shyly at Cartwright. "Yes, sir. You won't mind, sir?"

De Guarde spared a glance at the older Oxley. Once they were outside and the light was strong, he could note the resemblance of the man. There was no doubt that they were brothers. Certainly not twins, but the resemblance was there as certain as day. This was whom he heard being called while in the boat. Not Oxley the drummer, but Oxley the Tar. Interesting how they've met but by chance and in a situation that had been rather comical, if one thought about it.

He averted his gaze when he realised he was holding it. There up ahead was Chace, and soon they'd turn and enter one of the buildings where sailors have fought and now waited injured, to be carried back to the boats. Terpsies, Defiances, Confidences, and more. Just he didn't know which ships had taken part. Not quite yet.

"Not the least."

There was another corporal coming toward them, but he was one of theirs. Corporal Johnson. Of course. Cartwright returned the corporal's salute and said, "We're to take charge of the French prisoners. Follow us back outside."

"Aye sir," was Johnson's reply, as his small party fell in behind the others.

"Mister Cartwright, sir," called Lakey. "Beech here took a cut in the leg. Can I help him back to the boat?"

Beech did have a nasty slash across his leg, Cartwright saw. He nodded. "Go," he said.

"Mister Cartwright, what do we do with these women?" asked Dickin, indicating a trio of angry looking ladies.

"Keep them with the rest." Cartwright pointed at the group of prisoners. "And watch them closely."

"Mister Cartwright, Mister Cartwright!" cried McEwen, running up to his group of marines. "There's some of them Frogs is wounded, and I can't find Captain - uh, the captain from the Defiance to ask him where to put 'em..."

"Mister Cartwright, I found these horses here and I was wondering..."

"Mister Cartwright, that building's on fire and I think there's more food in there..."

"Mister Cartwright, do the Frenchy officers go with the rest?"

The clamour of voices and questions came, of course, all at once. Cartwright lifted a hand for silence. He wouldn't create more confusion by hurrying through answers or decisions.

"Wounded to the left side of the group. Make sure all of them are unarmed, McEwen, then try to find a surgeon. You, Holing, leave the horses to the Defiances." Cartwright turned to look where Vining was pointing. There was indeed smoke issuing out of that building. "Get some sailors and whatever buckets or basins you can find, and put that fire out. Take Roberts and Mallory with you."

That left the French officers, who were staring at him in suspicious disbelief. Cartwright felt himself grin just slightly. How galling it must seem to them, to be under the charge of an officer who did not have a coat or hat.

"Keep them separate from the rest," he said. "Or they're likely to try stirring up resistance."

"Yes sir," the men replied in a scattered chorus, moving to go about their duties. It was the somewhat tedious epilogue to the battle, but it all had to be done.

"Beg pardon, but is that your blood, sir?" Joyse asked.

Blood? Cartwright frowned and glanced down to see what Joyse was talking about. Oh... his left arm was still oozing blood and the shirt sleeve was heavily stained red. He had completely forgotten about that.

"I suppose it is," he said, sounding amused.

Joyse gave him an uneasy look. "Maybe you oughta get that looked at, sir?" he suggested. "The Defiance done brought her surgeon over..."

"After the other wounded have been seen to." Cartwright would not demand any surgeon's time with what was really only a shallow cut. He tore off the sleeve from where the bayonet had slashed it and wrapped the strip of linen around the cut.

"Tie that for me, will you?" He asked Joyse. "It'll hold for now."

Joyse moved forward to comply but hesitated, wrinkling his nose slightly. "Don't mean to be disrespectful sir, but you're real dirty," he commented. "Hadn't you better maybe wash that off first? There's a pump back there..."

The Marine had a point. Where was his head? Cartwright unwrapped his arm and nodded. "Of course." He headed toward the pump Joyse had indicated and managed, clumsily, to wash both his arm and the torn-off shirt sleeve.

He had only just returned to the small cluster of remaining Marines when he heard an astonished, "What you done t'your rig, sir?" His face flushed at once. Foley had finally found him.