12th July, evening; The washing

What he should do is stop. To wait, as bidden. But he'd had entirely enough of... everything. It was obvious that word about yesterday's events was widespread now, which really was no great surprise. Bright was behind that, no doubt.

The only solution, at least that evening, was to keep walking.


Jérémie appears next here.

Paol stared after him, the initial sting of that silent accusation gradually deepening into something far more permanent and painful. That Blanchard should hold him equally to blame made sense, of course. Though it also followed that he must think no better of Paol than he did of Proulx, and if Paol's current opinion of the sailor was anything to go by....

He sank slowly to the ground and let his head drop into his hands. It was fair. Entirely fair. Everything he'd done, from lighting the fire which gave away their position, to his idiotic chatter, to picking the fight with Proulx, had brought this about just as surely as anything the Vendean had done.

Something nudged his leg and he jerked away, but it was only Suie. Suie? A low, agonized curse escaped him as he stared down at the small creature. So they'd both been left behind. Though the kitten, at least, had done nothing to warrant it. Suie seemed entirely unperturbed by the state of affairs, however, making him, Paol thought, far more sensible than any of them.

"Come on," he muttered, scooping the kitten up, "You can spend the night with your brothers, aye?" He felt his throat tighten and pushed to his feet. It was, at least, not difficult to force his thoughts away from that and back to the argument of a few minutes ago as he retrieved his pack and musket, and doused the fire. What in God's name had possessed him to argue with Proulx in the first place? It wasn't as though the bastard had been wrong.