Sunny morning

The two lieutenants parted company, and Leat slowly paced his way further aft. The weather was clear, a fine stiff breeze speeding their progress and for a moment the young lieutenant's heart soared. This was the sort of sailing that every mariner loved; the moments where he could feel that he sailed for pleasure as much as duty. He glanced to the taffrail, wondering if any of their guests had ventured up yet but there was no sign of either the doctor of the capitaine - and of course Padstowe would not be able to venture up. The doctor was probably below seeing to his patient or talking with Crozier and des Sablieres.

Stephen was still asleep in his cot below, the not insignificant laudanum dose he had taken before sleeping keeping him under even during holystoning, and the bells, and all the other noises of a life aboard a man of war. The warm, dreamless state was comforting, and he slept on, curled beneath his blanket.

Raoul was awake - if, he wondered, if he had ever actually been asleep. He could take the motion, unless it got worse: it reminded him of long slow days in the saddle, when adjusting to the sway and the occasional lurch became second nature. But the noise was not made up of sounds he was used to. The creaking, the sudden running steps, the bells, and the grinding noise that made the ship's timbers shiver. He had counted the bells, as one does lying next to a chiming clock. He might possibly have missed one or two. He wondered how Captain Padstowe was coping; Dr Maturin would feel hmself back at home, noises and smells and motion all familiar and welcome.

When he heard voices in the wardroom he emerged, unsure of the time, to find officers up, dressed and drinking coffee. He accepted a cup, and retreated to the cabin, sitting on a chair and watching the surface of the liquid slide, not quite in time with the cabin itself. Calls, and whistles, and a thundering of more feet - not, he thought, the right time to show himself outside the cabin.

(come from here, early dismissed! sickbay )

While some were asleep, some awake and some already on their way the former midshipman had arrived earlier on deck than he'd expected. The surgeon dressed his bruise, had a short talk and then, saying he did not need him, he sent him to meet lieutenant Leat.

He held his head a bit lower and moved quickly past the sailors, lifting his gaze only to see if the lieutenant was already in sight. He still mulled over about what he'd been told. His grog ration was stopped. Why such a cruel punishment?

"Sir." He saw the lieutenant at last. He hoped he'd been seen. The temptation to hide away for a short while before going to duty was overrun by the genuine want to show that he could do what was right, as much as he disliked it.

Leat turned, his gaze immediately drawn to the eye patch before rteurning to De Guarde's face in general.

"So, Mr. Crozier did not have a use for you, did he? Well, that is quite a relief, as I have one for you."

The wind slackened briefly and the lieutenant's gaze lifted automatically to the sails; but George was already calling out the slight adjustment required.

"I hear from the General's groom that you have been spending a lot of your spare time down with the horses in the hold. Since you are happy to spend time with them, I thought you would be happier to tend to their comfort. You are responsible for mucking them out for the week - starting from now."

The eye that was uncovered widened at the lieutenant's words. "...muck them out sir....."He began. He had been with the horses yes, but he had not considered to do more but to brush their fur sometimes or shoo sailors away.

"...What... exactly falls under.. that order, sir?" He asked and hoped beyond all hopes it was not what he'd imagined it to mean. He was not protesting, though he'd wished to.

Leat gave De Guarde a very fixed stare.

"What falls under that order, De Guarde, is what falls under the horses," he said flatly. "You clear out their stalls, chuck the waste over the side and put in fresh straw."

"Yes.. sir." He lowered his gaze. He hated this, being a tar and being punished for something, when nobody had even proven that they've done it. Punished and humiliated with his slops up in the mast and himself as bare as the day he was born.

And still he had to hear of it.

"...Anything else sir?" Could he be then excused, was there anything more the lieutenant wanted.

"Yes. When you have finished you are to report back to me. That will be all."

"..Yes , sir." He saluted sharply :"..Thank you , sir." He turned on his heel and since his assignment did mean that he were exempt of other work till the lieutenant thought different, he made his way below, past the other sailors and men, noting the marines. He steadied himself down the companionway, careful not to fall his blind eye leaving him to rely on the feeling of his hand as well as on the other that was well.

Muck under the horses. He frowned. That was a dirty, filthy, smelly job. But he would do it. And do it right and proper, better perhaps, just to prove to Leat that he could do a well enough job and that he didn't deserve that punishment either.

(He heads here.)

Another glass passed quietly enough, and then quite suddenly there was a rumour going about. It has started when Billy Barrow rushed up from below, his face anxious, his hands bloodied, and run straight of to where Dr. Maturin was sitting with his companions. The physician had frowned, excused himself and then followed the topman below.

Shortly after that Leat heard the words muttered by the men; Mr. Crozier was lying dead in the hold, head kicked in by the stallion. For a moment Leat was stunned. That could surely not be the case - someone would have though to report it properly were it so - for all the evidence pointed to a serious incident... yet here was Yates trotting along the deck towards him, looking very anxious indeed. Leat frowned, concerned.

"What is it, Mr. Yates?"

Peter saw Mr Leat, and headed towards him. "It's Mr Crozier, Sir," he said, his face set in an expression of complete seriousness. "He has been injured in the hold. We have taken him to the sick bay, and Dr Maturin is with him, but he ..." Peter swallowed. "He is no worse, the doctor says, but he looks very poorly. Dr Maturin wishes to speak to the Captain."

Poorly, in Leat's opinion, was probably not the best word to use. It could mean any degree of sickness, and was more invclined to a weak cough of a lingering head cold... but the sort of 'poorly' Yates was referring to was clearly not that. He knew the kind of poorly that was meant; knew it very well, had heard it dozens of times in his youth, as quite a lot of his father's clients had been described as 'very poorly' before their families brought him their custom.

"How is he injured, Mr. Yates?" Leat asked calmly. This was no time to lose composure, and Yates was doing a splendid job.

"I think he was kicked by the horse - the General's horse," Peter said. "He was right by the horse - I went down with men to carry him to sickbay, and he was lying close to the stall." He added: "I don't know, though. He has a broken skull - I know that. On the left side."

A head injury. Young Mr. Hardwicke had been 'very poorly' with a head injury two days before brother Richard had taken his measurements. Leat cursed silently and nodded.

"A dreadful tragedy." Now was not the time though to be asking what Crozier had been doing down in the hold and so close to the horses. "Is he still in the hold?"

"No, Sir. We took him to sickbay on the Doctor's instructions. He needs to speak to an officer, though." Peter looked at the lieutenant. "I thought it best to go at once, when Barrow came up asking for help. To stop him panicking everyone."

"You were right to do so, Mr. Yates," Leat said. "Go and inform the captain; I shall go below immediately. Mr. George will have the deck."

"Yes, sir." Peter touched his hat and turned towards the ladder, immediately stepping back to let Mr Leat go first.

Leat set his foot upon the first run of the companionway, but stopped abruptly and snapped his head round as somebody called his name. There was Captains Padstowe and des Sablieres hurrying towards them (or at least hurrying as fast as Padstowe could go). He felt a twinge of annoyance - he needed to see the doctor urgently.

"Good day, gentlemen," he said politely, but firmly. "And I am sorry, but I must excuse myself as there is a quite urgent matter I must attend to immediately."

As the Lieutenant was balked, even if only temporarily, by the arrival of the two passengers, Peter hurried down the companionway to the door to the Captain's cabin, where he politely asked the Marine sentry to allow him to enter.

(Coming from here.)

"We are aware of that," Padstowe said, equally as politely and firmly. "And we were hoping you woud enlighten us as to what that is. Dr. Maturin was called away quite suddenly by one of your men who was covered in blood - not his own, I might add - as since his departure a cloud of worry has descended. Could you please tell us what the doctor was called away for?"

"If Dr Maturin is able to help, he will do so," Raoul commented. "He ... But of course, you know him yourself. Is there anything we can do to help?"

Leat looked backwards and forwards between the two soldiers. It was inconveniant, yet they deserved to know; Maturin was their companion, and des Sablieres was Crozier's friend. His expression softened somewhat.

"There is nothing I am afraid, monsieur," Leat said gravely. "I am sorry to say that Mr. Crozier has suffered a severe injury. He was down in the hold - Lord knows why! - a few moments ago and somehow received a great blow to the head from one of the horses. I am to Dr. Maturin immediately for his diagnosis."

"Dr Crozier?" Raoul asked. But that made sense: an injury to the surgeon would explain why they had sent immediately for Dr Maturin. And the bloodstained messenger indicated an immediate response to injury, rather than a difficult diagnosis. "Will you let me know... "

"The moment I know more, sir," Leat said earnestly. "I am truly sorry, we all are; but it is my belief that he could not be in better hands - none better to be had in the entire fleet, or Navy come to it. If Dr. Maturin cannot do anything for him, then none save the Almighty could."