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At Portsmouth the "Surprise" took on more than just provisions. It had docked along with a dozen more ships under orders given directly from the Victory. Since he had broken the news to the crew a couple of weeks before, Aubrey had been amazed at how such good fortune as being chosen to work with the flagship had had on the morale of his men.

Good humour, dedication, conscientiousness…all were in good measure aboard Surprise now. And that was lucky for now they were to play host, at least for a short time, French prisoners who ha been captured over the last two years or so, prisoners of war, who were to be given in return for British prisoners.

They had left Vlissingen and joined with other ships heading towards the dockyard. His men had cheered heartily when the "Victory" had come into view and, in that moment, Aubrey had remembered thinking that actually, in the scheme of things, it was better to be the captain of his own ship, with his own men, rather than that of the "Thorn", something about which he had fantasised when the ship had been docked.

"The ship is safe, and at its best in harbour," he remembered Hardy commenting one evening, perhaps in an attempt to soothe Aubrey's ill-temper. His outlook towards the doctor had softened over the months – Hardy had shown himself able around the ship despite his pomposity still towards his men, and had slowly earned their respect.

"But that isn't what ships were built for," Jack had replied. And, as he had borne the ship west into the English Channel he thought he had glimpsed the rig of the "Thorn" again, square white and flat against the horizon. No, for sure. He was glad now to be one of the chosen ships of the fleet to be commanded by the Naval flagship. All he had had to do was to wait.

And now his orders were clear. Three score French were now aboard for the short yet significant voyage to the French coast. His men had been hospitable and polite to the prisoners, and continued to be civil. Their disposition was not reciprocated: the French men, though they knew they were to be returned to freedom in their own country, berated and cursed the salts at every possibility.

There was a knock on the door. Narrowing his eyes Aubrey shouted for the owner of the knock to open the door. Blakeney, his eager features searching for Aubrey, stepped over the threshold before closing the door behind you.

"Sir, it's the prisoners, sir." Blakeney's eyes were alive and keen, his words tumbling out of his mouth quickly. "They've turned on the doctor, sir."

"Mr. Blakeney," began Aubrey, but was interrupted by a second knock on the door. Before he had a chance to invite this visitor in too Jack looked in amazement as the door was thrust open and his second lieutenant burst forth.

"Mr Mowett – " But it was clear that berating the man for his manners was irrelevant. He was shouldering the French medical surgeon, a prisoner of high prestige and whose manner aboard had been entirely the opposite of the other French captives.

"He's been stabbed, in the stomach sir," breathed Lieutenant Blakeney quickly. "I've sent in Captain Howard to suppress them. I think Dupuytren was trying to calm their…patriotism."

Patriotism. Yes, that is what he had euphemistically called the attitude of the French when he had spoken to his crew. They were yearning their freedom, as were the British who were to be exchanged. They loved their country, as did his men, Aubrey had

"Rest him there, Mr. Mowett." Aubrey pulled two large cushions from his Queen Anne chair onto the oak boards of his cabin floor. "Mr. Blakeney, fetch Hardy, would you?"

"I thank you sir." Guillaume Dupuytren managed as he lowered himself with Mowett's help, onto the cushions. "It will not be long…I think…that we are to leave you. I think you will be…happy…for us to be gone."

"Hardy is a good surgeon, doctor," Aubrey, bent at the knees, came down to Dupuytren's level and smiled at the man. "The best. He is your contemporary, so to speak."

"Indeed, I am aware of Doctor Hardy," replied Dupuytren, pressing his hand to the left side of his chest. "It will be an honour to be treated by one such as he."

Quite right, thought Aubrey as he returned to the other side of his desk. In both respects. I will be glad to be free of the prisoners. And you are to be tended by the best. And when our respective flagships face one another, you will be treating the wounded.

"I am honoured to meet you, Doctor," Aubrey continued. Looking at his second lieutenant he added, "you may go about your duties, Mowett."

"Very good, sir."

"Indeed?" Dupuytren knitting his dark eyebrows together.

"Doctor Stephen Maturin," Aubrey continued. It was important that this man remained alive of any of the prisoners – he was valuable: his safe repatriation meant that more British prisoners would be released in his stead – and therefore Jack's personal responsibility. "I believe you trained together in Paris."

Maturin had often spoken about Dupuyren during long evenings together. Now he the doctor would tell his memories of Aubrey's friend while he was being attended by Hardy. He would then offer the man his cabin – at least that would offer him some security from attack again before they arrived at the French coast.

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He had been making good progress. Having reached the border between France and Spain the master spy had crossed into Andorra, mainly as a diversionary tactic but also because he had met the Bishop of Urgell before.

Having listened to the man's grievances and complaints against the French government because of its interests in Andorra's co-title, had helped the Bishop to gain support from Catalonia to help create an inconvenient diversion to Bonaparte's army. He would gain a reasonable welcome here, a full stomach and possibly even intelligence to the location of any amassing of British troops.

A bitter, but necessary step, he knew. He owned property of sorts in Catalonia. The temptation to use a few days to renew his acquaintance there. But he hadn't a few days – he barely had the time to visit Urgell.

Once he had located the army he must ingratiate himself into the officer ranks. He knew slightly more about the British army than the navy, but even then his knowledge was slight. Nevertheless he must find out the information he needed in order to make his next move. He had to make it work: he must find a way.

But for now, as the precipitous castle perched on a rocky outcrop that was the Bishop's palace came into view, good company and even better food awaited him and, gratefully, these indulgences took precedence in his mind as his weary legs bore him onwards.

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…Stephen Maturin…Il est mort…

I struggle with English at the best of times, thought Harris to himself: so how sure am I that I've just heard what I think I've heard? He hoped he was wrong, but Harris had a horrible feeling that he wasn't.

Matthew Harris had found it difficult to keep the former surgeon's name from his mind since he had heard it spoken in a babble of French between the two men who had walked by. He had recognised one at least: tall and thin, the man, whose words had been twisted and devious, had been the one to give him the choice of telling him all he knew and being freed, or prison and eventually death.

What did he know about anything? Yes, he had been in both the British Navy as well as in the King's Own Rifles, but he was a footman, a simple worker, nothing more. Nothing would convince the man otherwise, of course, and it had taken a burning for him to express convincingly enough to the man that he was ignorant of a great deal.

Food had been brought to the dim, dank dungeon on twice since Cicely had been taken away – one plate at a time. Food for one. He wasn't expecting her back, at least not yet. Harris moved further towards the dull light which was penetrating the corridor again. Morning had arrived again and with it, more prisoners.

They seemed to be civilians this time; none of them were dressed in a particular uniform or style. They had been accompanied by one of the French soldiers who had taken him to the tall man and, because they were already shackled, appeared to be being moved from one place to another.

Perhaps they too were to be released, as he had chosen to be. Perhaps it would even be that day. Harris moved uncomfortably: his shirt was now sticking to his back where his wound was now healing.

Where was Cicely now? They had surely found out that she was a woman. How would the thin man deal with that? Would she be freed too, or would her fate be different? Or worse? Even though he thought that she had been stupid in so many ways, he had found the girl likeable and genuine. Harris hoped they would meet again, even if it did mean they were both in prison. And then he could at least find a fitting way to break to her the news he had had the misfortune to overhear…

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Cicely's treatment in the large prison building had been nothing less than civilised. With great mindfulness Joseph Fouche had himself attended the rooms in which she had been confined to ascertain her level of comfort. Being used to far less than the moderate surroundings he had provided Cicely had replied to the positive.

And that was the last time she saw the man. Cicely had spent the remainder of her time contemplating the future, feeling the knot of tension in her stomach that told her that if she did not succeed Stephen would die. She knew that one wrong move, one false step, would be the end of the both of them.

The guard who had dragged her from the cell that she and Harris had shared two or three days before had brought her food and clothing – the former was something which could actually be described as food, not the homogeneous mush which masqueraded as such in the lower jail cells. The latter had filled her very heart with both joy and apprehension – they were the breeches and tunic of a seaman.

The guard had been very stiff in his manner too – polite but brief in his interactions with her and, had there not been a small window which overlooked a courtyard Cicely may have gone mad with uneasiness at the undertaking before her. The French soldiers, servants and the occasional prisoner being marched across the cobbles had kept her mind apart from the none too distant future.

As she dressed, Cicely realised she was missing something. The undergarments which accompanied the beautiful dress that she had been hitherto compelled to wear were entirely unsuitable for a mizzenlad, not least because they did nothing to disguise her breasts – just the opposite in fact. So when the guard had entered the room while she was systematically destroying a beautiful and expensive garment it was testament to his professionalism that he turned on his heel and left immediately, knocking on the door half an hour later before re-entering.

Cicely was now herself again, that is, she was Robert Young. Or rather, she was not. Fouche had, in his last meeting with her, pointed out that there may be several questions the British may ask her to ascertain her credibility as a prisoner, such as her place of birth, age and so on.

Whatever pseudonym she chose must be sound or questions may be asked. And, of course, Robert Young would not be that wise for, apart from a record in the logbook of the "Surprise" no other record of this young man existed.

The guard took Cicely through the doorway and along a corridor. The rooms she had occupied were on approximately the second floor of the prison building so it did not surprise her that she had to descend some steps. Out of the ground floor door Cicely found herself walking upon the cobbles which she had witnessed others crossing not an hour before but this time with other people, some in tired, distressed uniform, others in workaday clothing.

And not just men – here and there were a smattering of women holding tightly to the hands of young children or, in a few cases, babes in arms. Clearly the French Revolutionary policy of taking any of the enemy they could find had paid off. Or perhaps not, judging my the numbers – so many people to feed and account for.

At the large metal gate which stood between the end of the cobbled courtyard and a rough stone area other men dressed as she was were being shepherded together. The guard pushed her in the direction of this crowd, said something quickly but indistinctly to the two officers who were clearly in charge of this group before looking at Cicely again and turning away. The look said it all – thank God I haven't got to look after you any more.

She turned to follow the soldier's retreating steps before looking past the group of men, through the gaps in the gate and outside. The rough stone-laden area became smoother and dropped a little – it was a quay area and beyond it ships, of all types, were anchored. They were British ships and they were a sight to behold!

Around her men who were obviously destined to be working in lowly positions upon some of these vessels clearly thought so too and many were goggling at the fleet, chattering to their neighbours, tones of hopefulness and joy at their forthcoming repatriation. Just ahead of them all was, of course, the flagship. Bold in her markings, and more glorious than her depiction in oil painting that hung in Jack Aubrey's cabin, she stood proud, as a woman in her prime might do, her hair loose and her face beaming with happiness.

Cicely was so close, she knew. Not far from her destination, and her task. It would just be a case of making sure she boarded the correct ship and, by the sound of the conversations around her of the ever-growing seamen, the competition might be stiff. She would have to think –

"…Cicely! CICELY!..."

On hearing her name Cicely turned and looked back at the large prison building, searching for the owner of the voice. It didn't take her long to find them – being led up some steps adjacent the oak door from which she had herself emerged was Matthew Harris, somewhat bedraggled and hunched in stature, but nonetheless his cheerful face beaming in her direction.

Cicely felt her heart pound. Of course! The group of men who he was with would be brought over to the ever-increasing mass of seamen and he too would be freed. How good to see him again.

She watched as Harris's group was stopped when they all reached the top of the steps and assembled into a line. She could see him mouthing words to her which, due to the gusty autumn wind, she could not catch.

"Harris!" Cicely shouted back, but the breeze took it. And it was just as well, for one of the officers who was guarding her group had raised his hand as if to lash out in response for her talking. Cicely shrank back, silent, but looking at her friend. Never mind, he would be over there soon enough.

But they weren't. Instead of heading towards them the men, possibly a score or perhaps a few more, were led to the right and through a now open gateway behind a high wall. She saw Harris try to shout to her again but was prodded severely in the side. Why were they going that way? Surely this group too would be joining them to be released?

At the same time the iron gate before her group was opened by one of the officers. The men surged out onto the quayside. Already some of the British ships had wharfed and were unloading people, presumably French prisoners as part of the exchange. These men were being herded to one side by other officers and her group were made to form a line to the left as they were marched through into the cobbled courtyard behind them.

Cicely followed the line of men with her eyes before turning bodily. She saw the last of Harris's group go through behind the tall white gate and it shut behind her. Perhaps there were too many people, she surmised. That would make sense – once the French had disembarked that would leave room for the British to –

But before she had time to finish her reasoning in her mind, the sound of gunshots from the wall behind her made her jump. Some of the British prisoners screamed, most turned in the direction of the firing.

They had shot the men…? Before Cicely had time to reason the group of men were being ushered towards another dockside to the left. Cicely's mind clicked into place as she saw the letters of the ship before her. Surprise. She was to board the Surprise?

She looked up to the quarterdeck where, from the other side, the main deck, she had seen Captain Aubrey march so many times. She expected to see him again but there were only marines who had clearly been in charge of delivering the French prisoners.

Catching sight of Captain Howard Cicely's heart began to pound – she was to be reunited with the Surprise: her ship, the one she had fought for so long to board, where she had lived and worked among the crew as an equal. Where she had fallen in love, lost her child…had so many memories. The ship she had again put her efforts into finding again.

Here it was, but now she needed to be aboard a different one.

That one – the flagship Victory which was berthed adjacent. Cicely's heart beat in her chest once more as another group of men, clearly destined for Victory were ushered alongside her. Her group were made to stop. That was her chance. She kept on walking, pushing past the men who had bunched up, waiting to be let aboard the Surprise.

Unprepared for the jostling, some of the men turned and Cicely surged forward. A man behind her tried to hold onto her clothing but ended up thumping the man in front of her on the neck. In the confusion, this second man turned, thumping the first man. Cicely ducked behind the second man and the few men who were behind her spread out into the line of other seamen who were heading towards the Victory.

It was now or never. Cicely pushed forward again and forced her way into the line. A couple of men behind her now were being pushed away by the confusion of men who were surrounding the now-brawling pair. She refused to look back as more shots were fired, this time from riflemen aboard the Surprise. The sound made her feel sick at the fate of Matthew Harris, but she kept her eyes forward until the new group of men were left before the flagship.

Marines from the "Victory" had now taken command of the men and had made the men form a line parallel to the quayside edge. Cicely could hear names being said at regular intervals, but she didn't look round. She knew that the names were being entered into the Victory's logbook and that those already having given theirs had been sent aboard. Eventually the officer, a blonde-haired man with blue eyes and a stern gaze stood before her.

"Name?"

Here it was. She was to be Robert Young no longer. Cicely swallowed.

"Stephen Maturin."

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A/N: For those of you who have quite rightly corrected me Thomas Hardy was not Nelson's surgeon of course, he was Captain aboard the Victory at the time of the Battle of Trafalgar.