In the Hold Again - 21st May

[Coming from here.]

Down in the hold, Padstowe made his way towards where he had been informed the horses were being kept. It was harder, he somehow thought, to find his footing down here; but it was not much different or difficult to cause him disturbance. Bethany, dear creature that she was, saw him coming and whinnied softly, reaching out her velvetly nose to him as he arrived and stroked her head.

"Hello, dear girl," he said softly, smiling. He stroked a calming hand down her neck. "At least you're always pleased to see me, eh?"

The mare snorted and bumped his chest with her nose and he chuckled.

"Yes, I have neglected you, and I am sorry. I'll try not to do it again."

Next to Bethany was Noix, head up, her ears twitched towards him. He gave her a wry smile, still petting Bethany.

"And hello to you, mademoiselle. Though I shall not come any closer, thank you, as I have been told that one of your past times is eating redcoats."

Finally he turned and directed his gaze across to the young stallion, Copenhagen.

"And you... You have caused more trouble than I am sure you are aware of. You know that gentleman you kicked in the head? He was the surgeon - a very important man. Somehow I don't think your new master will be very happy when he finds out you've been putting important men into a coma!"

Copenhagen continued to stare at him with his dark, liquid eyes and merely cocked one ear. Padstowe snorted - his own version of horse-like disgust - and continued stroking Bethany.

"I heard from Elizabeth," he said softly to her, although in reality he was more talking to himself than the horse. "You remember her, don't you? She had long blonde hair, and she gave you sugar. You've always liked sugar, haven't you?"

What horse would not? he reflected gloomily; and what woman still had the power to hurt him still but Elizabeth Seyliard? He had concerns enough already, things to think of more than of domesticity that could never be... It would have been easier were he to have thought himself rejected and with no second chance; but to think that he had stood a chance and lost it...

He had said he did not wish to marry; had turned aside all advances and possible encitements to be forced into committments he did not wish to make. And now the irony was that he himself had been rejected - by the one woman who he thought could have made him happy.

It was only down here that he could think on this and not feel guilty for it. Horses did not judge as men judged - Bethany would be glad of his company and give nothing for what his thoughts were. He could sit and brood here without anyone asking him if anything was wrong, or anyone coming to his cabin to see why he had not emerged. No one would see him to call him miserable or grumpy; so now he could just think.

He sat down beneath Bethany's stall, stroking the mare's nose whilst he thought of the past days' occurances - from their arrival on the ship to Raoul's altercation with that Marine, to the frigate's near-action and the crew's disappointment, to Stephen's operation and gaining of a patient, to the misery on the Midshipman's face that had accompanied the shore part, to poor Billy Barrow who may not live to see the end of this day. How, he wondered, for all he had said of the balance of Fate, could misfortune visit them so frequently and so heavily?

He thought of the army. More than ever now he wanted to be back with them; to be shot of this wretched business - Raoul included - and get back to what he was doing before. Never before had he thought he would be so eager to see Major Hogan's bewhiskered face again.

He glanced down the the sling and regarded it skeptically. Did he really need it still? Stephen had been busy, far too busy to rightly spare any attention for his injury, and the stitches were itching terribly. He'd heard before from friends that when they started to itch the stitches needed to come out soon, otherwise they would turn and begin to corrupt the wound. These friends were not, Padstowe admitted to himself, qualified doctors; but soldiers were no strangers to wounds or their treatments, and most would pray to be in the care of their mates or see to their own injuries rather than submit to a surgeon.

Padstowe undid the sling, keeping his folded arm resting in his lap. As Bethany watched with curious dark eyes he peeled off his coat, undid his neckcloth and slid his shirt down to reveal the shoulder. Carefully he started to unwind the bandage...

[Padstowe leaves the hold to return here.]