Working Ashore

Deverel led them out of the alley, right into the path of the oncoming horses. "Get back!" he said to the men behind him, holding out his arms as if to shield them. "Docker, take them to the boats. Get on with you!" This was addressed to the dull young midshipman at his shoulder. To the provosts he said, "Go on, back to your captain or whatever he is. None of this concerns you or me, but you'll have to knock me over if you want to come through." He laughed recklessly, even as he wondered what the hell he was thinking.

Sykes reined in his horse sharply, glaring with consternation at the blue clad figure blocking the entrance to the alleyway. Bloody officers! Behind the man, he could see the retreating backs of the others whom they were supposed to apprehend and he cursed the man's rank which prevented him from just riding him down. They didn't have time to waste playing games like this.

"Don't bloody tempt me," snapped Sykes, swinging down from his mount and advancing on the sea officer. "Now. If you don't mind stepping aside. Sir." He made a grab for the man's arm.

The provost's grab was far more effective than he ever could have imagined, not knowing that Deverel's arm had been perforated by a French musket ball only days before. In a quick instant his face blanched and reddened, presaging a furious yell of pain. Had it not been his sword arm that was damaged, he might have caused serious injury to the provost without thinking. As it was, he was reduced to an awkward swing with his left fist.

The yell startled Sykes--moreso than the blow--and he recoiled momentarily, before lunging forward again. He grabbed the officer by the shoulder this time and all but flung him against the side of the alley. "Go!" he shouted at the other provost, jerking his head in the direction the others had run, and using his body weight to keep the other man flush with the wall.

The running midshipman looked back at the sound of the agonized yell. "Mister Deverel?" cried the dim-witted Docker, torn between the conflicting emotions of cowardly obeying an order and bravely disobeying to assist his lieutenant. After a moment of anguished indecision, he decided to delegate brave disobedience to someone else. He pointed to a few stout fellows at the back. "You there, go and help the lieutenant! Everyone else follow me!"

"Preddie!" Chase cried, stopping short and nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to turn back toward the mouth of the alley. The provosts had a hold on that lieutenant. Like bloody hell! Both sailors dashed toward the sea officer, only too ready to drive off his assailant.

Deverel clenched his teeth in fury and decided there was nothing for it but to use his boots. Damned army was worse than the bloody French!

The young middy waved at them. It seemed the Lieutenant was in trouble now, and that wasn't right, not after he'd come to help them out.

Thompson stopped, shoes skidding a little on the cobbles, and turned to dart back to the Lieutenant's aid.

"Here, you lot've had your fun now, leave him be. He's an officer, can't you see that?"

If this was Chatham, he might even risk throwing something at the provosts because he knew he could get away from them, there. This wasn't Chatham, with its familiar lanes and alleys, though, worse luck.

Fun? The sea soldier had to be off his head, Foster thought, clutching frantically at the saddle as the beast beneath him lurched forward into a trot. Oh, God. Why did they have to give them these damned Kelpies? What was wrong with going on foot?

Somehow, Foster managed to urge his mount into a canter, bearing down on the group in the vague hope that they would turn and run rather than do something stupid. Or brave. Which was the same thing in Foster's book. The horse, however, seeming to sense her rider's incompetence was having none of it.

As she drew near the advancing members of the work party, she balked, skittering sideways and crushing Foster's knee against the alley wall. Yelping in surprise and pain, Foster cursed helplessly at the animal who responded by tossing her head contrarily and yanking the reins from his hands, leaving Foster clinging to the saddle for dear life.


The officer's kick caught Sykes in the shin and the provost gave a low, toneless growl, yanking the lieutenant away from the wall. It had been his intention to toss the sea officer out through the mouth of the alley, grab his horse and rejoin Foster in the chase -- he saw no point in tangling with an officer when there was smaller and less well-connected quarry still at large -- but when he chanced to look, he saw that Foster -- the idiot -- hadn't made it more than half way down the alley. Not only that, but some of the work detail was coming back, presumably to their officer's defense. Hell.

So much for that plan. Sykes tightened his grip on the sea officer's collar and arm."Now that's right touchin', that is," he sneered, half marching, half dragging the lieutenant down the alley towards the others, "C'mon, sir. Best go say, hallo."

"At 'em!" Chase barked, his bare feet slapping over the cobbles. This was ludicrous. Bloody worthless provosts! A few long strides would bring him close to the pinioned sea officer and the bastard holding him. If he could cut around Mister Deverel sharply enough, he could bull into the provost and knock him down.

Foster's mare shied away as one of the seamen went barreling past her, nearly unseating her rider who was by now pressed flat across her back, his fingers locked into her mane for purchase.

Sykes gave the lieutenant a shove forward, hoping to propel him into the path of the advancing tar, and took a step back. His hand went instinctively to his sword hilt, but with these odds, even he knew better than to escalate. "Foster!" he bellowed, "Get off that bloody animal and get over--" His last word dissolved into a fervent curse as Foster, who had somehow managed to recapture the reins, yanked back overmuch on them and was neatly bucked off.

Deverel stumbled forward but immediately whipped around to face his assailant, reaching awkwardly, painfully, for his sword and transferring it to his left hand. "Damn your eyes, sir!" he blustered, enraged but also in shock at having received the injury from a provost in his own country's bloody army.

Sykes leapt back, freeing his own sword from its sheath. So this was how the bastard wanted to play, was it? Glaring furiously at the sea officer, Sykes took another step back. His gaze darted to the seaman and then back to the lieutenant's blade. "Come on then!" he snarled, trying to mask his fear with bravado. It was a transparent display. Musket, bayonet, fists: that was how Sykes fought. He could swing a sword, but he couldn't go toe to toe with an officer and win, and he knew it.

"We're British same as you... you... you...!" Words failed him. These bastards needed to be taught that you couldn't treat an officer like that and get away with it. Looked as though the officer was about to engage in a sword fight with one of the provosts. Bloody hell. Thompson was pretty glad he'd joined the Marines, if this was what that Army was like.

Deverel had not exactly expected the man to stay and fight. He had no intention of killing a British army provost, even in the midst of his own rage and pain. Had he been at home it might not have been a problem, but such things were considered untidy in the navy. "What the bloody hell are you doing?" he asked, incredulous. But if the man wanted a fight, then who was Deverel to deny him? "Teach you to assault an officer," he growled through clenched teeth, advancing.

What the bloody hell was he doing? Sykes couldn't believe what he was hearing. The obeisances commanded by a commission were many, but standing peaceably still to be skewered by a blade was definitely not one of them. At least not in the army.

Movement out of the corner of his eye momentarily drew Sykes' gaze, a lapse of focus which nearly proved fatal as the sea officer chose that moment to strike. Stumbling backward in a panic, Sykes turned the thrust -- barely -- with a clumsy, downward stab of his own. "That the best you can do?" he shot back, retreating another step and swinging wildly.


From where he lay on the cobblestones, Foster moaned weakly. He needed to get up. It was the one clear thought which seemed to penetrate the haze of pain. Slowly, he pushed himself into a sitting position, then to his knees, gritting his teeth until he thought his jaw might crack. God, but it hurt.

Not far away he could see Sykes and the lieutenant, their blades drawn and the two tars and the marine closing in. What the hell was going on? Bracing himself against the alley wall, Foster struggled to his feet.

There were swords drawn now. That meant caution needed employing. He adjusted his course and quickened his step. That was caution enough.

"Boarders away!" Chase cried as he leaped at the sword-toting provost.

There was a cry from close by his right and then something crashed into Sykes, sending him sprawling. His sword slipped from his hand and went skittering across the cobblestones as he hit the ground.

Deverel watched in mute amazement as one of the seamen tackled his quarry. Still dazed with the pain in his arm, he watched the unfortunate provost take a tumble before remembering himself. With slight difficulty he sheathed his sword and reached out to take the seaman's shoulder before the man could become overzealous. "All right, my good man, that's enough. Thank you." Clutching his bleeding arm, he stared down at the provost and shook his head in bewilderment. "Bloody hell."

The conflict seeming to be at an end, Docker decided it was time to venture forth and assert authority. He pointed at a couple of Terpsichore fellows. "You men. Uh. Help Mister Deverel back to the tavern. Or to the boat. We'll take you back to the ship, Mister Deverel? And the rest of you..." He trailed away in indecision.

Deverel cursed his midshipman with feeling. "I'm not going back to the sawbones like this, bloody butcher. He'll probably put the ball back in just for spite."

He had been assigned the relatively uninteresting duty of overseeing the repairing of boats ashore only after much assurance to the surgeon that he would not reopen his wound. How much risk could there be in standing about watching the men do something they already knew how to do?

Sykes struggled free of the seaman and got to his feet. His blade lay within reach, but he knew better than to go for it. Shifting so that his back was to the alley wall, he regarded the officer and the others warily; he was only now beginning to realize precisely how bad the situation was.

Movement at the edge of the group caught his attention; Foster had finally arrived. The other provost's face was drawn and white, and there was something unnatural about the way his left arm hung at his side. Sykes gave him a disgusted look. Bloody useless.

Ignoring Sykes, Foster limped closer. "Sir," he said, addressing the officer because he couldn't think of anything better to do. It was then he noticed the blood on the lieutenant's uniform and froze. If there had been any colour left in his face, it would have drained. If Sykes had done that.... Foster had to shut his eyes as another wave of nausea swept over him. "You're hurt, sir?" he asked stupidly when he was able to speak again.

"Of course I'm bloody hurt!" Deverel bellowed.

Foster winced and dropped his gaze. Impossible, that's what this was, this whole bloody fool's errand. They couldn't physically force a larger group of men into compliance, and any authority they might of had was undermined by the presence of the officer. And now Sykes had gone and assaulted the lieutenant and....Foster suddenly found himself struggling not to burst into tears.

He took a breath, then another, pulling himself - or what as left of him - together. He tried again, "Do you need assistance?"

"Assi--"

"Shut it, Sykes!" Foster snarled with uncharacteristic ferocity, "Just--Don't speak. Don't....think."

Deverel opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. He was in fact speechless. These provosts who had been attacking them only a moment before were now offering assistance?



"He got shot when we took the French fort," Docker explained. "A surgeon can sew it shut again."

"Oh shut the bloody hell up, Docker!" Deverel snapped.