4 July evening, Vickery's tent

Maggie had been unable to follow her husband when the sergeant had whisked him away. Why hadn't he let her come with him to see the surgeon? It wasn't fair. The captain had said she could take him to a surgeon, but then he had placed Cotton under arrest. And oh lord, what if the captain decided all three of the riflemen should be flogged in the morning? Just like before, poor Gabe! His poor scars had hardly healed yet. She should have stayed with him that evening. She had been feeling lazy and only wanted to sit by the fire and do a bit of sewing. It would be her fault again if he got a flogging, just like last time, all her fault! And now he was under arrest and she couldn't see him, and she would have to sleep alone, and what if Sergeant Hakeswill were to hear that she was alone? He would come back and kill her this time, really kill her.

Was her brain getting addled? She felt terrified - but weary, so weary, and where was Captain Vickery? She had been waiting and waiting by his tent all this time, hoping to speak with him about Cotton. It would be just her luck if he was away dining with some other officers tonight, and didn't come back for hours, if at all. She didn't like the way men were looking at her as they passed, like they knew she was alone, completely alone, sitting next to the captain's empty tent. God, help and protect her this night, and her Gabe too, and don't let the captain flog him, please!

Maybe the captain wouldn't mind if she slipped into his tent to wait. She wouldn't touch anything, but of course he knew that she came and went in his tent all the time, helping Gabe set up his things. She would just sit on the floor, and no one would be staring at her as they passed. Maybe lie on the floor, just curled up for now, and she would be ready to jump up as soon as she heard someone coming. And maybe just close her eyes for now. She could still listen. Poor Gabe.

Vickery came into his tent, already unbuckling his sword-belt, which he dropped onto his camp-bed. He stepped across to his writing table to light the lantern and stopped abruptly as the toe of his boot nudged something on the ground that shouldn't have been there.

"What...?" he said, thinking for a moment that the stray dog had sneaked in somehow. He fumbled for his tinderbox and lit his lantern - something he had become rather good at since arriving in Portugal - and bent to see what it was.

"Mrs Cotton?" he said, startled, straightening. What was Cotton's wife doing in here?

Maggie gasped awake in panic and recoiled, upsetting a chair as she scrambled away. A chair - a familiar chair. There was lantern light and she could see. She was in the captain's tent. And there was the captain himself speaking to her. What on earth was going on? "Sir?" she replied, rubbing her head.

He had not meant to startle her, even if she was in his tent completely unexpectedly.

"You're in my tent," he observed, wondering if she even knew where she was. "Did you want to speak to me?" It was the only reason he could think of her presence here right now: She'd been waiting for him and had fallen asleep.

"Oh, sir... I'm so sorry sir!" She felt rather mortified now. "I shoulda waited outside, but I..." It would sound stupid to say she had been afraid, and the captain did not need to hear her excuses. "I'm sorry, sir," she repeated instead, standing by the door flap in case he should want to send her out straight away.

"Well, there's no harm done. What did you want to see me about?" he asked, giving her a reassuring smile. She was obviously nervous, an understandable reaction, of course.

He would have liked to sit down, but manners forbade him from doing so while there was a woman standing.

She smoothed her hands over her apron, trying to regain her composure. "I just - I know I didn't ought to barge right in, but I wanted to ask - what are you going to do to Cotton? Only please don't flog him on account of he ain't - he isn't even proper healed up from the last time." Her voice, anxious throughout, became tinged with melancholy towards the end, still feeling the guilt over that particular incident. "I know he didn't go to start a fight, and he said it was about you."

About him? Vickery wondered just what had been said that would make Cotton fight anyone.

"I was thinking along the lines of extra duties," he said aloud. "Maggie - Mrs Cotton - I do not flog unless there is no other recourse. I am no friend of the lash and I never have been, especially where good men are concerned."

He sighed. "Do you perhaps know which of the other two he was fighting?"

She shook her head, relaxing ever so slightly now that she knew her husband was not in danger of a flogging. "No sir, I only come upon him right before you did." She wanted to thank him. She wanted to cry. But she knew that neither of those actions would be appropriate.

Instead she said, "I'll leave you be now, and sorry for disturbing you. Unless I can do owt for you, with Cotton away and all?" Just let any other rifleman try and steal Cotton's position while he was away for one night!

Vickery did sigh at that. He knew that someone was trying to pull the wool over his eyes - it was far, far more likely that Kirridge had pulled the knife on Cotton than that Mayden had. That sort of thing was much more in Kirridge's character than Mayden's, after all.

"I don't need anything else right now, thank you. Wait though - I don't suppose that anyone still has a fire going? A dish of tea would be most welcome."

He would need to at least begin composing a report for Major Davy, and tea would help him think.

Maggie managed a little smile. Tea she could manage. "Of course, sir. You got a cup?" Gabe had probably unpacked it already, and - yes, there it was. She stepped over and took it from the table that served as the captain's desk. "Be ready in a few minutes, sir," and she made a hasty retreat.

She was glad she could be holding the mug as she exited the tent, in case anyone should happen to see her. It would look like she was doing a perfectly innocent task for the captain, which she was.

Maggie took the cup from his table and left the tent. Vickery sighed tiredly and untied his sash, laying it on his bed with his sword-belt before unbuttoning his jacket and sitting down.

He opened his writing slope and took out a clean sheet of paper and a pen.

It was some minutes later when he started, realising that he'd been staring at the blank sheet while thinking about... nothing of consequence. That was no way for a man in his position to behave - but at least nobody had seen it.

Several minutes later, Maggie was standing outside the captain's tent once again, holding a steaming cup. She cleared her throat to alert him of her presence, and then called softly "Here's your tea, sir. Should I bring it in?"

Vickery had collected his thoughts and begun his report when Mrs Cotton returned.

"Yes, if you please," he said, re-dipping his pen so he could finish his sentence.

She stepped in quietly and set the cup on his desk, laying beside it half a sweet almond biscuit, one of her own tiny luxuries purchased the day before. "G'night, sir," she whispered and made a hasty retreat from the tent.

"Thank you," he said, raising his head to smile at her as she left. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of the biscuit - such a luxury out here. He wondered how she had managed to come by such a thing.