Evening in camp, 1 June

Maggie herself had closed her eyes after finishing her tea, but she opened them when McIntyre emerged from the tent. "I'll take that," she said, indicating the shirt and handing him the mug in exchange.

"Cheers," he replied, more than happy to surrender the soiled shirt in favour of the mug. "Will you be needin' anythin' else this evenin' yourself, Missus?"

"No..." she answered absently, pushing the shirt into her bucket. It was too dark to see, but she was sure the blood would be dispersing and hovering over the same area of the fabric. It really ought to be rinsed in the stream, like her apron, but even soaking in blood-tinged water would be better than nothing.

She looked up at McIntyre again. "No. Thank you. I'm just going to... The captain said his surgeon told him someone needs to be near him while he sleeps, and..." She realized how strange the situation must appear to a stranger. "His batman's my husband, but my husband's been took by the French and so, I'm going to sleep in his tent." She finished with a sigh. "I guess." It sounded rather scandalous to say it out loud.

"S'all right, Missus."

The particulars of that arrangement were not anything McIntyre was very interested in. He was no one's conscience, after all.

"Are you staying here?" she asked hopefully.

He nodded. "Aye. Don't seem so wise, goin' far with the poor beggar in that state."

She gave him a tired smile, relieved that someone else would be nearby. "Oh, I'm glad. Thank you," she said, for what felt like the hundredth time. "Good night then."

"G'night, Missus," he said as he got himself comfortable. With his pack for a pillow and his musket with easy reach, he reckoned he could sleep pretty easily.