12th July, evening; The washing

The silence was going to be awkward - hell, it already was - but Jérémie was of no mind to break it. Nothing that came to mind seemed sensible or wise. So he just stayed silent but he couldn't stay sitting here. He had to get up, to move.

His fingers curled into the damp waistcoat, keeping it from sliding into the dirt as he levered himself to his feet. The waistcoat and his spare shirt needed laying out so they would dry. He also needed to dig around in his pack to find scraps to feed Suie.

Movement, even a little of it, gave him something else to focus on, instead of the mostly self-deprecating thoughts swirling around his head.

Paol watched him set out the damp clothing, his brow creasing in a frown. "You ain't thinking of staying the night?"

"Where else is there to go but here?" He enquired in reply, offering a helpless shrug.

"Back to camp?"

Camp. The very word seemed to reflect a place he did not belong.

"No. I'll... I'll be fine here."

Fine. Right. Swallowing a sigh, Paol slipped off his pack and began to rummage through it in search of a piece of cloth to keep the sand out of his musket lock. It wasn't perfect, but it would suit for now. "You want a fire?"

"What?"

"Do you," Paol repeated, "want a fire?" Almost as an afterthought he added, "Your clothes might dry a bit faster."

Even with the repetition of the question, he was not certain he understood it. Or, more accurately, the reasons for it being asked. The best he could do was to blink in confusion and offer a mildly uncertain, "I suppose?"

It was reasonable enough though, he realised as he thought about it. The heat of a fire would indeed help his freshly laundered clothes dry. Christ. He truly was not thinking well tonight. At all.

"Alright." Unstrapping the small axe from his pack, he pushed to his feet. For a moment he considered unwrapping his musket and taking that, but quickly dismissed the idea. If there was trouble, he had the axe, and it wasn't as though it would be the first time he'd used it on something other than wood. He pushed that thought away with a shiver. "Shouldn't be long," he told Blanchard, starting toward deeper darkness beneath the trees.

It was bordering on the absurd to admit, even to himself, but Paol's departure was a relief. Short as it no doubt would last. Which was a wholly uncharitable thought, Jérémie knew. His shoulders slumped and he stared tiredly at his pack, which still lay on the ground where he'd left it earlier. All of his energy seemed to have deserted him.

Sod it. He made himself lay the damp shirt and waistcoat out on the ground, mindful to choose a spot with the most in the way of short, scrubby grass. Then he sagged wearily down next to his pack, taking the precaution of drawing his musket a little closer before Suie decided that his lap was a marvellous place to be and sprang bodily across his outstretched legs.

Taking the axe, he soon realized, had been wishful thinking. It was too dark in the shadows for that sort of work. Still, other than stripping a few pine bows, he managed to find two branches by kicking around, and a third by falling over it, all of which he dragged back to where he'd left Jeremie by the river.

"Turns out... that's a much better idea in daylight," he remarked wryly. He let his burden drop, then picked up one of the smaller branches and began to snap it into more manageable lengths.

He had remained sitting up only for a minute before stretching himself out with his pack for a back-rest. The shift in positions afforded Suie a rare opportunity to climb up the front of his shirt, nearly to Jérémie's chin, and there he settled, curling up nose to tail.

"Most things are," Jérémie observed, thinking inevitably of his turn at picquet duty the night before.

Before long he had a modest pile of sticks of varying thicknesses, and sinking to the ground he fished out the small, oilskin pouch from his pack which contained his supply of tinder and a flint. It took a bit of coaxing -- the wood still had a bit of greenness to it -- but soon a small blaze was crackling on the ground between them. "Dunno if it'll be much good for drying anything, but..." Paol trailed off with a shrug and added a few larger pieces to the fire.

"It'll suit," said Jérémie, neatly prevented from making any movement because of the warm, purring lump on his chest.

Paol added a few more sticks to the fire for the hell of it, then fell back onto the ground, crossing his arms beneath his head and staring up at the sky. "Never did understand that..." he said half to himself after several moments, "Stars bein' the same here as they were -- are back home."

Stars. Home. It would be a lie to say he'd ever given any thought to stars or the night sky when he'd been home. Then again, there had been plenty of other things to occupy his mind in those days. It had not been easy when his father had died.

"They say the sky stretches for ever, and the stars never move," Jérémie remarked neutrally. He was not sure where he had heard that, or when, but it seemed accurate enough.

Paol frowned up at the sky. The stars did seem to move a little, from summer to winter. But then they moved back again. Perhaps they just sort of rocked back and forth.... Not that it really mattered. If Jérémie said it, then it must be true. He was clever like that.

"Even on St-Domingue you could see some of 'em."

St-Domingue. He suppressed a shudder. That had been an expedition into hell, as far as he was concerned.

"Aye. If you was of a mind to look for them." He certainly had not been. But again, stars and night skies were basically meaningless to him.

Dry grass crunched close by and Jérémie shifted immediately, dislodging an annoyed Suie from his chest. His hand was on his musket in an instant as a great shadow loomed almost directly above him.

Paol shut his eyes, trying to ignore the faint flush of embarrassment he could feel creeping up from his collar. He'd been of a mind to look for them, sure. They had been something familiar in a completely foreign environment, the only familiar thing after Maugan died.

The sound of someone so close by effectively interrupted those thoughts and Paol scrambled into a sitting position. His musket was close, but the axe was closer and he grabbed it, twisting. "Who's there?"

It occurred to Jérémie that he had been caught completely unawares, and that was bad. Even as he tried to get his feet underneath him so he could better bring his musket to bear, he knew the effort was all too likely to be wasted. Quentin had got the drop on him and the bastard was not one pass up such a prime opportunity.

There was the briefest of pauses before a large hand grabbed hold of his shirt collar, but instead of being shoved down, Jérémie found himself hauled straight to his feet. It was an unexpected advantage he'd just been given but before he could even begin to swing his musket, it was gone from his hands.

"You two fools," a deep voice rumbled, "make too much damn noise."

At first he was aware of little beyond the fact that the stranger had grabbed Jérémie, and he was on his feet, lunging in to swing before he recognized the voice and checked so abruptly that he pitched off balance and nearly fell on his face. "Proulx?"

There was a grunt, followed by "It ain't Les Lavandières‎."

What in the hell? Jérémie let his hands drop to his sides, since there was no use in even attempting to punch at someone who was behind him.

A hoarse laugh escaped Paol before he realized that the other man still had a hold on Blanchard. "Let him go."

The iron grip on Jérémie's collar was released and it wasn't until this happened that he realised he had been standing nearly on his toes. "Christ," he muttered reflexively as he caught his balance.

Proulx. Of all people. Better than Quentin of course but he was not at ease with having anyone around whom he did not know. Leaving out, of course, the fact that he was not quite at ease with having even Paol around that evening. Maybe he just had to deal with it.

"This is not where you usually make your camp," said Proulx in a matter-of-fact tone.