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As the Admiral of the French fleet based at Toulon Pierre Villeneuve had collected his native fleet from Toulon port in the South of the country and had taken four days over rendezvousing with the Spanish ships which would make up his line.

Despite his best efforts in the previous months bad luck and his own misjudgement had disrupted the Emperor's invasion plans of Britain, for now.

He considered it a little unfair that the blame had been placed almost entirely at his feet – he had been recalled to Paris to speak with Bonaparte himself two months before and in the hot August sunshine in a former royal palace made to recount in humiliating detail the events which had caused Lord Nelson to triumph time and time again.

The Emperor had remained silent for most part before detailing his invasion plans of Britain, each missed opportunity open to the interpretation that, had the Admiral taken other action, more decisive rather than strategic, the British Navy would have been defeated and his attack on the country would be in motion.

Then he advised Villeneuve to take the courage of France with the allies of Spain to take on the Britain. In what form that would take Bonaparte was glaringly silent and he had taken the opportunity to offer his personal physicin, recently liberated from a British prison, to doctor for the men aboard the Bucentaure.

What choice did he have? The British fleet had begun in the channel and had made their way South down the coast of France unhindered, even when challenged by frigates and schooners patrolling the coasts there. He had gained the Emperor's displeasure and was now in a position where he had to triumph in the impending conflict just to balance out his projected past failings.

Pacing the orlop deck at the front of the ship Admiral Villeneuve began to wonder whether it had been worth being promoted to his rank. He had carried out his vague orders to the letter and, where they were unclear had set about on a course of action that would, in his view, be the most advantageous.

Perhaps, yes, they weren't necessarily the ones which put the French fleet on the offensive to the enemy. And yes, Britain still had a vast hold over the Mediterranean. Well, they certainly were now.

He surveyed the ships which were with him and considered the situation. Thirty three in total, more than (his intelligence had informed him) the British. The enemy fleet had passed Cape Finisterre on the Spanish north-west coast. The French-Spanish fleet were due to pass through the Straits of Gibraltar in a couple of days' time. That meant they were likely to engage the British fleet at Cadiz, or thereabouts which, due to the prevailing weather, was an advantage to ships which were west-facing.

On the downside however he was in command of half Spanish ships. They were far less manageable and more unruly than a whole fleet of French ships. He had a measure of inside information however: Dupuyren, had shared what he knew from his brief excursion on a British frigate, though it was little more than he could have guessed at. He should be grateful that Napoleon had spared him: he would need a surgeon of skill in the coming days but it was more than likely that the Emperor had pressed his own personal doctor upon the Admiral to intimate that significant combat was imminent.

Villeneuve rubbed his head. Whatever was to happen in the month ahead a lot depended on luck and skill. From his point of view, at the moment, neither were looking too favourable.

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On Villeneuve's opposite number, HMS Victory the Captain Robert Hardy read his orders from Lord Nelson. The ship had to be fit for battle, which was imminent in the coming weeks.

He knew that, thought Hardy gravely. There was so much to do and so little time to have it ready. The ship had to be checked for wear and tear. Whatever could be replaced had been, from sail-sprits to stays and ropes. Even the shroud-ropes had been discarded for new ones to be installed.

The real challenge was the men. So many of them, and over one hundred of them were new to the Victory on this voyage. In such a hurry that they were to keep all able hands that they could only a minor, brig-like check had been made while the ship had accommodated former French prisoners in one of Lord Nelson's most audacious and controversial ideas yet.

It wasn't so much the number, more the urgency for treatment. An outbreak of fleas had been identified in some of the seamen and, to avoid both infestation and pestilence, especially at such an important time as this, medical examinations were to be hurried through, a cleaning of the body with mild lime solution and a redistribution of new clothes, their old clothes to be burned.

They were close to the port of Cadiz and the rest of the fleet of the line were with them still. Three had fought lone French ships on their voyage south but they were mere trifles compared to the engagement that was to follow. Hardy knew as well as anyone how close Napoleon was to invasion. They had delayed and diverted him successfully, so far. But it only would take one mistake, one opening, one chance for the self-styled French emperor to make his way into England.

Turning to his ledgers which were illuminated by tallow candle-light Hardy picked back up his quill and continued to enter that days' sailing log before rubbing his eyes again. It had been a long mission so far, and would be longer in the weeks head. He only wished he had his brother Thomas aboard.

That had been a strange thing, one which he had reported and remained unacknowledged. Thomas had, as far as he knew, attended duties aboard a frigate almost three months before. His understanding had been that this frigate's doctor would come to take up Thomas's duty. So when this had not happened he had had to turn to the skills of William Beatty a midshipman who had a background in medical and surgical science. Beatty therefore had responsibility for the crew and their health inspection and while he was confident that the man was more than capable, it was a situation which concerned him a little, not least for the wellbeing of his brother.

A knock on the door pulled Hardy from his out-of-character, pressure induced deliberations. Moments later, once invited, Harry Baker, the midshipman in charge of those sailors who legged the rigging, top-men, mizzenlads, deckhands and so on.

"Mr. Baker," began Hardy, weariness beginning to show in his speech. "What can I do for you?"

"If you please, sir. There is an awful fuss adecks. We are about to come to the end of the men's examinations due to the failing light. But one of my men refuses to undress for treatment. He claims he has syphilitic sores." Hardy exhaled slowly. He had the rest of the log to complete, the provisions log to consider not to mention the crew list to review. It would be a long evening.

"Well, flog him, sir," replied the Captain curtly. "Unless he capitulates. As it is dark he has the evening to reconsider his impertinence."

"Yes sir." Baker saluted before departing swiftly. Moments later, Hardy got to his feet too. Leaving the books open he walked to the other side of his cabin-office, through the adjoining door and to his hanging-cot. Refreshed, the work would take half the time.

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It had taken three hours for Captain Hardy to retire from his work. From her vantage point between the floor planks, which were also the ceiling planks of the middle gun deck at the stern of the ship Cicely had wondered when precisely the tired Captain would leave his work.

William Blakeney had been the one to show Cicely how to manage such a trick – there was a gap about a foot thick between both sets of planks at the rear of most large warships usually accessible from the stores. Cicely had been in luck and had spent a long time waiting for the Captain to leave. A long time in which she could fine-tune her plan.

The worst case scenario would be, she had contemplated, would be that she would be discovered as a woman. If this were to happen before she had completed her own assassination then all would be lost. So at all costs, whether she was discovered or not, would have to be to identify Nelson's assassin once and for all, and kill him quickly.

Of course, it would be better if she were not to be found out at all, and this was the part of the plan about which she was most vague. The ship was coming towards land and she would dock in neutral Portugal. If this were to happen in the next day or so she may have the opportunity to desert. If not, her only other option would be to throw herself overboard in the hope that another ship may rescue her.

At least she hadn't had to wait all night. Her shift began at the first bell on the forenoon watch, half-past eight in the morning in pocket-watch timekeeping and, while she had plenty of time, Cicely had been glad she had a little time to spare.

She lay close, and listened. Apart from confirming her fears, and too what she had already guessed Cicely had not gleaned much from eavesdropping on Captain Hardy. However, she had had time to formulate a plan, of sorts, even if it did depend heavily on luck.

It wasn't going to be easy. Cicely had found her moods becoming increasingly black since she had been stirred into action suddenly and unwillingly. Even beforehand the thought of…what she must do…had tormented her. She would have to find it within herself to…assassinate an assassin…

The murder (for that was what Cicely knew it to be) had to be silent, quiet. She could not use a gun, although that would be easier than having to face the man at close range, it would be done and over quickly. Other options included poisoning in some way, which might not work, or an accident, which would be difficult to stage and organise in such short a time than was available.

That had been the part which had been haunting her as she had spent most of the previous evening, that working day and the time now spent beneath the Captain's floorboards, the cold, hard brutality of it all and worse, having to analyse the best possible method as if it were a tricky game of poker or a loose mainstay on a windy night. How would God ever forgive her for doing such a thing?

Her mind Cicely knew would have to take a knife to him, somehow. But where to get one? The food was not served with cutlery, only a spoon with which to eat the lobscouse stew. It would be nigh-on impossible to steal a battle cutlass from the weaponry or make off with a bayonet from a Royal Marine. Cicely had seen Captain Hardy stow away a letter opener in his drawer. Perhaps this could be sharpened sufficiently?

Then there was the predicament of actually carrying out the killing. Having to stab the man would be difficult unless he was alone somewhere – he would undoubtedly fight back and both Frenchmen were much larger than she was. She could get him drunk, of course, with strong liquor. But where to obtain it? And how to ensure he drank enough for appropriate stupefying effects. She could hardly pour it down his neck.

Feeling her heart sink at the weight of it all Cicely slid herself out of the wooden gap and into the passage next to the door of the Captain's office. She placed her hand on the handle and squeezed slowly, hoping that the Captain would be sound enough asleep that the click of the latch would not rouse him.

The hinges squeaked a little as they moved under her force. Cicely stopped, and waited. Nothing. She leaned a little more and slid herself through the gap between the door and the doorframe and looked around.

The office was relatively spacious, bigger than that of Aubrey's and it was decorated modestly but tastefully with little expense spared. Clearly the Captain intended to return soon as he had left the oil burner above his desk alight. She must be quick, she knew, but she was grateful that Captain Hardy had done so as it illuminated the books on his desk, one of which Cicely could clearly see was the crew record.

She sneaked over to the large, mahogany desk and peered at it. Open on the last page, it showed the latest entries of men aboard the flagship. This one showed the three dozen or so who had embarked at Portsmouth. Cicely leafed back a few pages to the Yport entries looking for her own. It was there, neatly written about a third of the way down. Stephen Maturin, mizzenlad, former ship HMS Surprise, place of birth: Lleida, Catalonia, Spain. Others who had boarded with her, who had been released from the prison there and taken aboard with her were also noted down.

She leafed backwards, hoping the rustle of the pages weren't actually as loud as she was imagining. The record of crew was always written chronologically, so she needed to work out when the French ex-Acheron-captain would have been on board.

Harris had said that the ship was wrecked a month before he had joined Major Blunt's regiment, and he had been with the regiment almost five months. So, six months before…Cicely leafed through the book…

…the names she was looking for were Benjamin Duquesne or Jean-Baptiste Lebec…

…Fillings…

The name caught her attention – of course. Poor Harris had mentioned that Fillings had been rescued from the wreck of the Acheron along with a couple of others. James Fillings, former ship listed as being Acheron, place of birth: Oporto, Portugal. Cicely leaned further forward and looked harder. For the date that Fillings was recorded only two other names were listed, John Gibson (former ship Acheron, place of birth: Witney, Oxfordshire, England) who had been an apprentice sail master and had been chosen by Captain Pullings, and…

…Jean-Baptiste Lebec…

…former ship, Acheron…

…place of birth: Savoie, Rhone…

Cicely swallowed, and then scanned the page again. Lebec, the carpenter's mate. Not the Frenchman who had been outraged that she had given away her food. She had to be sure, though, for there would only be one chance.

Was there a mention of Duquesne?

Not on that page. She flicked a couple of pages nearer to the front, trying to hurry. Unable to find it, she turned back to the page on which the book had been open. A creak behind her made Cicely start and she froze, looking towards the cabin door, and then to the adjoining door that she had seen Captain Hardy go through twenty minutes before. Her heart beat in her chest as she sought to discern whether the creak had come from the cabin.

Then she noticed, in the corner of the room a wooden chest not dissimilar to that of Stephen's. Beside it was a large, leather-bound book. Glancing at the door once more, she looked over again. Cicely thought over her plan, the part she knew would take all her strength, courage and stomach. At least if caught, she would know assassin was killed, that Stephen would be safe: that was a small price to pay. She would rather be without him and he be alive.

Quietly pressing her feet on the planks Cicely made her way stealthily to the table on which the wooden chest sat. She knew that the doctor aboard the ship had a cabin below that of the Captain – she had been shown it on the second day of being aboard the Victory – so why would a medical chest be in the Captain's office?

Next to it lay a thick leather-bound book with the letters T. J. H. monogrammed in the bottom-right hand corner of the cover. She opened the front cover and read the title: "Index of Biologic Treatments: Military and Domestic Surgery". Staring a little harder, she flicked open a couple of pages. The book contained a list of medicines listed, it seemed, alphabetically and handwritten. Purgatives…vomiters…anodynes…pectoral powders…quieting pills…ointments…

Cicely turned to the front page of the book and looked at the neat, curved writing. The second entry, asafoetida, was engraved beautifully, as if with a wide quill and finest India ink. Asafoetida. She recalled when she had imbibed a tincture of this herb, given to her when Higgins had prescribed a rising fever when she had been expecting. Other medicines she recognised were detailed too: leeches, quinine, coca, belladonna, aconite, laudanum. Even a treatment for scurvy was listed. In addition, the drawing and other diagrams of surgical instruments and techniques filled more than half the book.

Between the cover and the second page a note was placed, a reminder it seemed, to a William Beatty. Cicely knew that name – wasn't he the Victory's surgeon? It read, Thomas Hardy, vis. ex. Surgeon pro-tem. Codex and effects. So, Beatty was a temporary surgeon, and this Thomas Hardy had left his things in his possession. Why then did Dr. Beatty, who Cicely now realised was the man she had seen in the lower cabin, not have them? They would surely be most enhancing to his profession. The Captain's name was Hardy, she knew. Perhaps he was a relative and was keeping them safe for him?

She turned back to the front and Cicely glanced at the chest. Is it possible that all that was listed therein was in the chest? Placing her palm flat on the lid of the chest Cicely used her thumb to open the thick brass clasp. The lid was heavy and she guided its weight as it curved open. Cicely glanced over it.

Of course. That was too much to hope for. Cicely made to push her hand against the lid to close it again but then her eye fell on an amber-coloured hexagonal prismic bottle. Laudanum. She hesitated.

It was something she could use: she only had to dose the man's rum with the anaesthetic and he would be soporific within half an hour, then her deed would be done. She would not need to worry about strong spirit or the like. But what dose? Too weak and it would be ineffective; too strong: fatal. Glancing back to the Index, she wondered whether there was a dosage table as Stephen had, but then the stupidity of what she had just thought darted across her mind.

Reaching inside and trying not to choke on the ironic laugh that was stuck in her throat Cicely held the bottle in her hand. Images of having done so before, in Stephen's cabin when she was suffering the green ills of seaman-life; when muscle-pain and weariness was driving her towards a state of pitiful weeping and she had succumbed to its pain-relieving properties.

Closing the lid quickly but silently she crept towards the door, then stopped. She needed a weapon, and she knew how she could fashion one. Turning, Cicely made her way back to the Captain's desk as she heard a sound. The Captain appeared to be stirring. The distinct squeak of cot-ties being loosened permeated the oak panelling.

Cicely increased her pace, the squeak of the boards underneath her feet being a compromise to swiftness. Pulling open the drawer she seized the silver-plated letter opener, decorated as it was with the Victory's cipher fashioned at the hilt. She could make it sharper…razor sharp.

She pushed it closed with her thigh and made for the door, grasping towards the handle just as the footsteps from the cabin adjacent grew closer. Cicely would have to stow her ill-gotten spoils about her person and squeeze through the board-gap again.

Throwing the door open, she grabbed the handle on the other side, pulling the door to behind her and trying, against her better instinct, to close it as slowly as she could. When it slid shut, Cicely pressed her back against the wall of the cabin, facing the stores-end and held her breath, waiting for the captain to open the door and demand an explanation. It never came. Cicely waited a few moments longer as her heart beat behind her ribs before stowing away the letter-opener and bottle of laudanum inside her clothing.

Slithering between the planks Cicely paused every so often to listen to the movement in the office below – nothing untoward still – before making her way to the upper quarterdeck. From there she needed to slip down to the main deck before going below through the holes. On the main deck she found a secluded spot to press herself against the oak panelling as she waited for the officer of the watch to pass by. Though it was discouraged for hands to be above decks at night it was discouraged so as to allow for sufficient rest. She saluted and the officer, a lieutenant, blinked in acknowledgement before passing on.

Instead of crossing the deck however, cicely turned right and pressed herself up against the balustrade, away from sight. Whatever was she doing? How could she possibly go through with it? And yet…somehow, she must.

Presently, the waves lapping the hull was the only sound she could hear as she tried to block out the conflict that was playing out in her mind. Cicely looked across the deck as the sheets and shrouds flapped moonlight was gleaming on it. A full moon, Cicely noted, and in October, the Hunter's moon. She breathed again. She was the hunter, and…Jean-Baptiste Lebec the prey. She swallowed. She now had the tools, and the task in front of her. He –

But whatever she was about to contemplate was interrupted by a hand over her mouth and a forearm around her neck. Cicely struggled, swinging her arm so as she did not lose balance.

"What – " she tried, but a punch landed on her cheekbone. She span, putting out her arms to prevent herself from a fall before pushing herself back up.

"Stephen!" A whispered shout came in her direction just as she realised Reuben Jelfs had been her assailant. It was too late to prevent her return swing and she knocked Jelfs clean out. The lad lay on his back, unconscious.

"Who are you?" This time the words were staccato and louder. James Fillings was heading towards her, clearly having witnessed her assault on one of her comrades. She was above deck. Rank held. She saluted.

"What's your name?" His tone grew more brusque which didn't suit him as he took in the unconscious Jelfs. "You're one of Ellis's, aren't you?" Joshua Ellis was their midshipman, the tall, blonde, hard, cruel one.

"Stephen."

"Stephen what?" Cicely started. She hadn't told anyone other than lieutenant who had taken her name down when she arrived on board what her surname was, it had occurred to Cicely that it might have been very unwise to use it again, which was why she had a third item stowed in her clothing, the page on which her name had been written in the Captain's ledger.

"Maturin." It came out unbidden and now it was impossible for her to take back. Cicely waited as the moonlight shone in her eyes.

"You're Maturin," James concluded, his voice faltering, "but you're not…Stephen…"

"What's up, Jim?" Another deckhand had joined him, glancing at both Cicely and Reuben Jelfs.

"Nothing. I'm dealing with it."

"I'll call the lieutenant, shall I?"

"Leave it, Ralph, will you?" His tone sounded urgent and dangerous.

"Okay, okay." Ralph Jenkins scuttled away without looking back. James Fillings turned to look back at Cicely again.

"You see, I knew Stephen Maturin. Robert…?"

"Yes, Jim, yes."

A/N:

Thomas Hardy, not his brother, was the captain of the Victory at the Battle of Trafalgar. Thomas Hardy was not a surgeon, the Victory's surgeon was William Beatty. I flamingoed up.

Surgeon's Mate or Military & Domestique Surgery was written by John Woodall in 1617.