Evening in camp, 1 June

Now the old soldier certainly had her attention. Tea, for her? Why? But she did not care why. "Oh, I'd love some," she said earnestly. She frowned slightly at the captain's mention of Cotton, but she knew that he was confused. She spoke again to the stranger. "I don't have a cup, but I can try to find one in a minute. Thank you."

"Aye, sir," the oldster replied, ducking carefully under the tent flap with a steaming mug in hand. "Mind it's a bit hot yet, though, sir."

He held the mug out to the grasshopper. "I'll fetch you a cup if there's one close by, Missus. If you'd rather not go far."

"Would you? Thank you," she said again, gratefully. She felt sure she would drop if she walked another step. And she was much too tired for pleasant conversation, so she asked him bluntly, "Who are you?"

"Thank you, Cotton," he said, accepting the mug. Of course it was hot - it was freshly made, wasn't it? He had no idea why his servant had to tell him it was hot every time, but that was just Cotton.

Though why would Cotton call his own wife 'Missus'? Maybe he'd had a bang on the head too?

The oldster smiled slightly. "Not a problem, Missus. I'm Mister Cobb's steward." He nodded at the grasshopper and prepared to shift back out of the tent to hunt down his spare mug. "You're welcome, sir."

Now, why would Cotton say he was someone else's... steward? That didn't make a whole lot of sense.

Vickery blew the steam off the mug. At least that made sense - it was about the only thing around here that did, any more. Most things could be improved by a good cup of tea, after all.

"Mister Cobb," Maggie repeated. She had no remembrance of who that was, but she was too tired to think about it now, or to puzzle out why his steward was here at Vickery's tent. Perhaps this was actually Mister Cobb's tent.

"Aye, Missus. I'm called McIntyre, so I am." With a bobbing sort of nod, he backed out through the tent flap, leaving the grasshopper to enjoy his tea in comparative peace. There was a second mug to fetch.

He took a sip of tea. It was good tea, too. but then, Cotton probably couldn't make a bad cup of tea.

His side hurt, he thought. And why was he sitting up anyway? Probably to drink the tea.

Roper had found a bucket for her to use as a wash basin and had filled it with water as well as rinsing her apron as she had asked. She dropped the apron into the bucket, glad that it was a porridge colored fabric that hid stains and dirt well.

"Captain, maybe McIntyre can help you off with your shirt and I can wash it for you, and you can put on this clean one. When he gets back." And then they could all sleep, finally.

McIntyre? Who in the world was McIntyre?

Though a clean shirt did sound good. Sleep sounded better, though.

"Don't tell Mother, will you?" he said, somehow worried that his mother would come and fuss over him as she had done when he'd had the chickenpox or whatever it had been. She was nice, but she did fuss so.

"And tell Cotton to hurry up, then," he added.

She closed her eyes wearily, confident that the captain could not tell. "It's not Cotton, it's a man named McIntyre. And he'll be back in a minute. Drink your tea, sir."

He returned in time to hear this exchange and was at pains to hide a grin. Mister Cobb had been very correct in his assessment of the grasshopper's state. Poor fellow.

"Your tea, Missus," he said, offering her the freshly-filled mug. "I'll help with your shirt, sir, once you've had your tea."

"Oh."

Maybe it would make sense in the morning? He hoped so; he didn't like it when things didn't make sense - he was an officer, he knew that much, and he was supposed to know what was going on. But if things didn't make sense, how was he supposed to know what was going on?

At least his tea was hot and strong, the way he liked it, despite being more bitter than usual. Whoever-McIntyre-was must have got confused and added gunpowder instead of sugar. Easy to do, in the dark, he thought.

Though something about that didn't make sense, either.

"Thank you," Maggie said once again, grateful for the capable presence of McIntyre. "Here's his clean one. I'll wait outside." She wrapped her hands around the hot mug and found a spot next to the fire.

" 'Bliged, Missus." He took the shirt and folded it carefully. Then he settled down onto the ground, content to wait until the grasshopper had finished his tea before reentering the tent.

That was good tea. It took him a while to finish it; it was so hot he couldn't drink it all at once. Thankfully it was in a tin mug and cooled down quickly enough. He set the cup aside and wondered what to do now.

He was too tired to give any orders; he just wanted to sleep. It had been such a long day...

It was uncanny, McIntyre thought, that he simply knew when an officer required attention. He'd never have thought it possible before becoming Lieutenant Cobb's batman.

"Feelin' a wee bit better now, sir?" He lifted the tent flap aside so as not to brush it against the clean shirt he had in his other hand. "If you're up to it, we'll have you into somethin' clean 'fore you sleep."

"Much better, thank you," Vickery replied. The idea of a clean shirt sounded heavenly, and he nodded, which didn't help his head at all. He pressed a hand to his head.

He wanted nothing more than for this day to be over. Tomorrow had to be better - there was no way it could be any worse, after all.

Good then. Of course, he would have been worried if the answer to his question had been 'no'.

"We'll take it gently, sir," McIntyre said. The first obstacle was the officer's jacket, but that, fortunately, was not completely buttoned. He laid the clean shirt aside and shuffled forward to unfasten those buttons that had been done up.

He would probably kick anyone who wasn't planning on being gentle, the way he was feeling right now. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he was over-wrought and over-tired, as well as being concussed, but he really didn't care.

The buttons of his jacket were being unfastened by whoever-McIntyre-was. It was undignified but Vickery just couldn't find the energy to care. All he wanted was to lay down and sleep.

Once the jacket was off, it was easy enough work to carefully peel the grasshopper's shirt off and replace it with the clean one. McIntyre didn't trouble himself with tucking the shirt-tails in. That could wait until the morning.

"I'll leave the jacket aside here, sir," he said once he was done. "Good night, sir."

It tugged a bit at his side as the shirt was pulled over his head, but the clean one went on quickly and easily enough. It didn't feel like any shirt of his, but he couldn't think whose it might be if it wasn't his. One of Cotton's, perhaps?

"Thank you," he said, and turned to roll his jacket up, buttons inwards, to use it as a pillow.

McIntyre simply nodded, quietly dismissing himself from the tent. He had brought his pack and musket with him and was already mentally winding down in anticipation of a few hours' sleep.

Settling down by the fire was a relief, even though he was privately annoyed that he should be glad to get off his feet. He must be getting old.

Vickery lay down and shifted until he was as comfortable as he was going to get. The surgeon had wanted someone to be with him while he slept, but he was far too tired to wait for Maggie to get back from wherever it was she'd gone, and there was someone right outside.

"Let Maggie in when she gets back," he said, though whether the man outside had heard him, or could even make out his words, he neither knew nor really cared. He closed his eyes and finally fell asleep.