OPORTO, 22nd May - Naval Landing Parties

"Dammit!" Cartwright burst out, nearly dropping his musket at the eruption of fire from above. It was almost raining musket balls at them. Something hot and sharp tugged at the side of his head, almost at the same time as a ball passed clean through his coat sleeve, just below the elbow.

So much for that. He felt carefully at the side of his head and discovered that there was now a crease in the top of his ear. Lovely. "What I wouldn't give for boarding pikes," he muttered in annoyance. There was no way they were going to get past this grate now, with so many Frenchman guarding it. He hated to admit it, but the sea officer's instinct to retreat was probably correct.

"Any ideas, lads?" Cartwright asked, directing the question to everyone.

"If you can't get us through, we have to go back," Deverel insisted. "We'll find another way in. Where the hell is everyone else?"

A young Defiance piped up. "Could we light a fuse on some of the charges and throw it at 'em, sir?" But the marines nearest to him shook their heads.

"We're right next to the powder magazine here, son. It would wipe out the Frenchies, sure, but it'd probably take us all with 'em, to kingdom come."

Outside there was chaos (though not quite sure what kind) . Men ran forward, then knelt, fired and sailors were joining them. It had been a while since they left their boat and the dead oarsman in it. A rain of musket fire came on them every half a loading cycle, since the men fired and moved to give the other the space. Realistically they didn't fire as frequently, yet it felt as if it were a constant thing.

A sailor fell to the ground, clutching at his gut, forcing the young Tar to hop over him, advancing forward. People were shouting, charging the wall, and there were many a casualty when the enemy was to defend itself.

There was a door, blown of its hinges. It stack something terrible. It was dark, and the floor seemed laid with liquidy muck which would have any lady cringe and turn, retreating a good deal of paces. Musket fire was heard from inside, but the echoes made the exact source rather undefined.

De Guarde was following one of the groups, one of the midshipmen, or was it lieutenants? A musket ball whizzed past, too close for comfort. A man behind him cried out in pain, clutching at his arm.

The seaman's idea was not a bad one, actually, once Cartwright thought about it a little. If it was possible to reduce the powder in one of the charges...

"Here," Cartwright said, pulling off his hat. "Dump some powder in here, just enough to make a little noise. I think we might be able to scare off our friends above us with some flash and noise."

Oxley gaped at the officer. He'd never before seen an officer actually pick up a musket and use it. All, right, he only had experience aboard two ships, and their previous officer had been about as useful as a paper fire-guard, but Mister Cartwright was completely different from the officer they'd had aboard Atalanta. Cartwright wasn't far off becoming a hero to the young drummer.

If they could care the French off for a bit, they might be able to blow this grating off the same way they had the other one... No, there was nowhere for the Naval men to hide from the blast.

He sheathed his sword again and took the seaman's knife Sam held out to him, carefully cutting a slit in one of the cartridges so he could empty out some of the powder. "That enough, sir?" he asked, looking up.

"That's plenty," Cartwright said, after glancing at the layer of powder inside his hat. Now he just had to set the hat up close enough to the grate to create the desired effect. He looked around at the men around him before the idea came to him. "Sorry about this, Branning," he told the big Marine. Branning looked at him blankly, not understanding, as Cartwright unfixed the bayonet from his musket.

"Get that fuse ready," the Marine lieutenant instructed, spitting his hat through the silver band with the bayonet. Then, keeping a wary eye on the grate, he inched forward. He only needed a few seconds to wedge the tip of the bayonet underneath the heavy grate, just enuogh to keep both hat and bayonet in place. Somebody moved overhead and Cartwright drew quickly back, his task finished. "All right, give me a knife and the fuse."

Foley was going to go crazy when he saw the state of the Lieutenant's uniform after this escapade, Oxley knew he was. He passed his brother's knife to the officer, giving Sam an apologetic look as he did so. He didn't fancy the chances of Mister Cartwright's hat - or Branning's bayonet - being usable in five minutes' time. He hoped the officer wouldn't make Branning pay for a new bayonet afterwards, like some officers would.

One of the Defiances passed over a length of fuse, a puzzled look on his face.

Like the others, Branning stared in confusion at Lieutenant Cartwright. What the devil was the man planning to do? Branning had never known an officer who would even think about sacrificing his own hat, never mind actually go and do it.

Cartwright looked around at them intently. "When this goes up, we'll have to get moving fast. Branning and Grattan will follow close behind me, and you Tars come up right after with the charges. We should have the room clear by the time you join us." He looked at Mister Deverel. "Ready, sir?"

Oxley wasn't sure quite where he fit into the scheme of things, but he pulled his sword out anyway. Whatever happened, he wasn't going to be caught defenceless. Sam looked as though he might have trouble getting to his own cutlass, and Oxley grinned, taking a couple of cartridges from him. Sam grinned. "Thanks, Tommy."

Deverel nodded. "Ready when you are, sir. Oxley! Keep a good hold of those cartridges."

"Aye, aye, sir!" the sailor and young Marine chorused together.

"Good lads. Get well back," Cartwright warned and cut the fuse in half with his borrowed knife. They couldn't afford to give the French any real warning of what was about to happen. That meant using the shortest length of fuse possible.

With one final glance at the grate, he started forward. And stopped short. Where there had been light through the grate, there was now only dark. The French were up to something, but he could not guess at what. He swallowed nervously and got moving again. They could not wait or they would lose all chance to complete their mission.

He cut a hole in the felt, just above the red and white plume, and quickly stuffed one end of the fuse in before too much of the precious powder could filter out. He glanced back to check that the others were well enough back, then he lit the fuse. He waited only half a heartbeat to make sure the fuse would burn true, then he scrambled back toward the others.

"Mister Foley's goin' to have a fit, sir," Oxley said to the officer as he rejoined them. He looked filthy, and now he was going to blow his hat up for good measure! Oxley had never met an officer like him before, ever.

Sam simply gaped at the way his younger brother was offering his opinion, unasked and Oxley shrugged awkwardly. "I'll 'splain later, Sam," he said. "If we get time."

And then the powder went off.

Despite himself, Cartwright chuckled. It was true. "I don't doubt he will, the poor lad." It would be awkward when the time came to apologise to his steward, too.

Any further comments were precluded when powder charge detonated, but instead of the clean pop Cartwright had been expecting, there was a heavier bang and the sound of something falling. That wasn't good. Clutching his musket, he crept forward to see what had happened.

"Ah. Damn."

Where the grate had been, there was now half a table, tightly wedged down into the hole that the grate had covered. The air was thick with powder smoke as well, far more than the small bit that Cartwright had used. They had created their own trap. Damned clever French.

Oxley coughed as the powder smoke got into his lungs and tickled his throat. He couldn't see what had happened; it was suddenly a lot darker, and there had been the sound of something falling. Mister Cartwright's voice was clear enough, though, as was the fact that the French had somehow managed to keep them trapped.

"What about the axe, sir? Could we chop through it?" Sam asked, unable to see clearly what had happened.

A careful inspection of the fallen table revealed that it was of sturdy construction, despite its fate. Cartwright tried heaving against the table in an attempt to move it, but to no avail. They couldn't go up around the table either, as the space on either side was far too small.

"If we had hours to spare, we might manage to hack through it," Cartwright said. He knelt down and prised something out from underneath the table. With a sligth, ironic grin, he held it up. "I think this belongs to you, Branning," he added and held out the socket and part of the Marine's bayonet, now blackened and shorn almost neatly in half.

With the exit completely blocked off, the stink was beginning to get worse. Oxley tried not to think about the state of his trousers and shoes. It stank like the privy at home.

Privy. Ugh... but maybe...

"Sir... If this is a drain for the privies, sir, could we get out that way, do you think?" Though he really didn't want to think about doing that.

Grimacing, Branning took what was left of his bayonet. Maybe he could have the armourer make him a new one.

"Maybe. They won't have any guards on the privies."

It was a good idea, if distasteful. Cartwright spared a final glance at the table and shrugged. Might as well get moving again. "Let's go for it, then."

Oxley really didn't want to go crawling around in the privies, but it was that or admit defeat and head back out ignominiously.

Now, if only they could find their way to where the privies opened into this drain...

They were going to have to dump or burn their clothes after this, Oxley thought. They'd never be welcome back aboard otherwise.

There. That looked promising. He stopped and pointed up. "Up there it is, sir. I think."

"Well it certainly smells right," Deverel said with a grim smirk and looked at Cartwright. "What do you say, lieutenant? Send someone small first? You," he said, pointing to the young drummer. "Or no - you there, you boy. Come here." He reached out and pulled a young Terpsy forward.

If it was possible, the stench had gotten worse. Cartwright peered up at the open hole above them and tried not to gag.

"I'd say it's the right place," he answered. "But hold on, sir, before you start putting just anybody up there."

Really, just because it was the privy didn't mean it was necessarily safe. Cartwright checked the flint of his musket and shook his head. If this was the measure of Lieutenant Deverel... "Give me leg up, Branning, and I'll take a look. Then we'll send up somebody small."

"Well be quick about it," Deverel replied impatiently. "And don't get stuck."

It smelled bad in there. Worse than he'd imagined ever encountering. It was dark, and rather unpleasant. The floors were probably covered in something a man would not want to lower a torch to, for the benefit of living in ignorance of what was there. He'd been silent in so far, following each of the orders, or suggestions in quick succession as the rest. But now they came with the ideas and he looked up as he was addressed and pulled forward.

"Sir?" Undignified, De Guarde thought, but nothing in that tunnel was really anything but. "Where to?.." No protest, though it was right there, at the end of his tongue. And then he wasn't sure whether there was to be a change of plans, and so stood waiting for the officers to make up their mind.

Oxley's mouth was hanging open and he shut it abruptly, though he was still staring wide-eyed. What sort of officer was this?

By now, Branning was accustomed to his officer having odd ideas. He set Cartwright's sword aside and laced his fingers together, so Cartwright had a place to put his foot. When Cartwright hissed "Up!", Branning straightened up from his half-stoop and hoisted his officer up.

Grattan shook his head at the spectacle and muttered, "Daft sort, Mister Cartwright is. Ain't seen the like!"

Sam coughed at the stench and covered the lower part of his face with his neckkerchief, though little did it help. "I wouldn't hang me mouth open if I was you, Tommy," he said, his laugh echoing through the tunnel.

"Quiet, Oxley!" Deverel hissed.

They all turned to eagerly watch Cartwright's progress.

Oxley grinned at his brother, gave a tiny jerk of his head in Deverel's direction and rolled his eyes. He held Sam's knife out to him. "Thanks, Sam," he said.