4th July: Under Arrest... Again

Cotton was not best pleased with how things had turned out. His arm hurt, though not as much as he had expected a knife wound to hurt - it had obviously been a sharp knife. He did not need a second enemy to have to watch out for, let alone one in the same Company.

He peeled his jacket off, very aware of the dark patch on the sleeve of his shirt that marked where the wound had bled into the less than pristine coarse linen. He wondered if Maggie would be able to repair his uniform and get the blood out.

It must have been sharp, that knife, to have cut though the wool of his jacket that easily. Damn.

He pulled the shirt over his head, dropping it to the ground next to him as he held his arm out for the surgeon to look at, trying not to look too closely at it himself.

"Was a knife, sir," he said, as the surgeon brought a candle-lantern nearer to the wound so he could inspect it properly. "Didn't know he had'n till it was in his hand, like, neither."

He might have known something like this would happen. It had been inevitable. Yet, to his private disgust, James Todd was surprised to have gotten the summons to attend this Rifleman and treat a knife wound. It was no surprise at all to see the small, surly Rifleman slouched nearby, however, and he knew exactly who was responsible for inflicting the injury.

"Indeed," Todd said dryly, managing to keep the frown off his face. The wound itself was not deep, fortunately, but it was several inches long - a slashing blow, then, instead of a more deliberate stab. A small mercy, if anything could be regarded as such in this instance.

"This will smart," the surgeon went on as he dampened a clean cloth with some brandy. Heaven knew where that knife had been before it sliced this poor fellow's arm open. He did not wait for a response before he began swabbing at the wound with the cloth. It was not the easiest task, for he still held the lantern up with his off-hand.

Cotton hissed at the vicious stinging as the surgeon began wiping at his arm with the cloth. "Here, d'you want me to hold that?" he added a moment later, once he had regained his equilibrium. He indicated the lantern.

Bloody hell but that stung! He could feel his eyes watering a little at the pain, and blinked to try to contain it.

To his credit, the Rifleman did not attempt to pull his arm away. For all their supposed hardiness, many soldiers would wince and shy away from the trifling pain of having a wound cleansed. It was an oddity of character that Todd continually marvelled at.

He regarded the fellow for a moment before nodding. Better him than either of his compatriots. "I would be obliged," he answered and surrendered the lantern. "This will not take long, however. A simple dressing and bandage will suffice for it."

Cotton took the lantern, holding it for the surgeon so the man could use both hands. "Reckon I'm goin' to have a scar when it's all done, though, ain't I?" he said, and wished, again, that he'd simply ignored the fight and walked on.

He would have to go getting involved in something that was none of his business, wouldn't he.

"Not a bad one but yes, there will be a scar." Todd laid the now-stained cloth aside and reached for a dressing. "At least it is only the one."

"It wouldn't have even bin that if I'd've had the sense to just keep on walkin'," Cotton said sourly, though the sourness was mostly directed at himself. He scowled in Kirridge's direction. He was tired of getting in trouble for things that weren't his fault. His sense of fairness broke through here: It was his fault. He had got caught fighting, fair and square.

At least the Captain wasn't a flogging officer. Things could be worse.

To that, Todd simply offered a non-committal grunt and carried on the work of placing the dressing and wrapping a long bandage around it and the Rifleman's forearm.

From behind them came a half-hushed "Hick."

Todd glanced sharply over his shoulder but there was no indication of which of the other two Riflemen had spoken.

Cotton glanced over his shoulder, unsure of which of the other two Riflemen had spoken - or even what it was he'd said. He shrugged, and glanced back down to see what the surgeon was doing.

It wasn't like him to get into a fight, it really wasn't. How could he have been so stupid?

That was that. The trailing end of the bandage was tied off neatly and Todd stepped back. As far as he was concerned, this was the end of his involvement for the moment.

"That will need looking at again in the morning and the dressing changed tomorrow evening. You should have no troubles with it but of course if you do, come directly to the train."

He was under arrest, dammit. Just how did Mister Todd think he was going to be able to come and find him if there was some problem with it? Not that he could say any of that, of course.

"Yes sir," he said, and surrendered the lantern. "Thanks, sir," he added, and reached to pull his shirt and jacket back on.

It was quick work to pack up his things, then with a nod at Cotton, Todd departed. Rather pointedly, he did not spare a glance for either of the other two Riflemen.

~



Bloody sawbones, Mayden thought. He hadn't bothered to even ask after him or Jack. Worse, he'd taken his lantern with him and thus denied Mayden the feeble light by which he'd been writing. How was he supposed to finish his letter without light to see?

"This is bollocks," he grumbled, carefully folding the single sheet of paper back up into a small square.

Privately, Cotton agreed with Mayden, but it wasn't exactly something he could say outright. His army still stung, but the pain was receding now. He didn't particularly look forward to tomorrow and whatever punishment the Captain was going to hand out, though thankfully it wasn't likely to be a flogging.

"S'pose we'd best get our heads down," he said. It wasn't as though there was much else they could do, after all.

Sleep. There was small chance of that. At least not for Mayden. He was full of restless energy and he didn't think his thoughts could settle enough for his brain to realise it was tired. Anyway, what he really wanted to do was finish his letter.

"Be nice if they coulda stashed us near a fire," he remarked irritably, his stub of a pencil gripped tight in his fingers.