A Painful Conclusion, 5th July, late afternoon

Vickery finally came to the conclusion that maybe it had not been such a good idea to join in with the rough-and-tumble of a football game. He had thought himself well on the mend by now, though - the skirmish in which he'd been wounded was over a month ago and his side was less painful than it had been.

He had obviously tried to do too much too soon as the pain had lessened. He found himself sitting in his camp chair, pressing a hand to his side and vowing that he was not going to mention this setback in his next missive home.

He also did not want to trouble the surgeon; he did not think he was quite well enough to be able to accept a lecture on not doing too much all at once despite how well he felt. Mrs Cotton was off, probably with her husband somewhere, and he was not quite sure how she would feel about dealing with wounds in cold blood anyway.

He was spared making a decision when Tom Roper informed him, politely, that he had asked Miss Hunter to come and take look - if the Captain didn't mind, sir? Vickery merely pressed his hand harder against his side, hoping he hadn't pulled any stitches out, and nodded.

"Thank you, Roper," he added after a brief pause, unable to quite keep his voice from sounding pained. Roper nodded and retreated, giving the Captain as much privacy as possible in bivouac.

“Yes Mr Roper?” Beatrice asked, briefly lifting her eyes from the novel, one of the few belongings she had brought with her from home, laid across her lap; raising a hand to shield her eyes from the sun as to see his face. “Is something the matter?”

One brief explanation and a polite request later, she found herself waiting outside Captain Vickery’s bivouac: a small bag containing the few painkillers and tonics she had managed to acquire for the regiment clutched against her chest. Sensibly, Mr Roper had entered the temporary shelter first, and from the brief snippets of conversation that escaped the bivouac; the Captain was only just being informed of her presence.

Upon Roper’s retreat, Beatrice nodded to him before gathering herself:
“Sir?” She spoke clearly, “May I come in?” The last thing she wished to do was simply waltz into an officer’s tent uninvited; it was undoubtedly one of the fastest way to end her little expedition.

Vickery nodded, and caught himself a second later. Of course she couldn't see him from out there.

Which was another indication of just how out of it he was. And that could not be a good sign, dammit.

"Come in!" he called, hoping she had at least brought some laudanum with her against the pain. Thankfully it wasn't the searing agony it had been when the wound was fresh, but it was quite bad enough.

Beatrice quietly let herself into the bivouac, taking care not to allow too much of the late afternoon sun in with her.

“Mr Roper explained you were feeling unwell, Sir.” Her eyebrows knitting together in a concerned expression as she noticed his hand pressed against his side; “Would you like me to take a look? Or would you prefer something to numb the pain?”

She opened the small bag in her arms and procured a small bottle of laudanum; half empty but sealed with wax regardless, she was prone to sealing the bottle after use. IT was one of the ways in which she could be sure her supplies were not tampered with. “There’s only a little laudanum I’m afraid Sir, however enough for a few days, if the pain persists.”

Setting the bottle down, she continued to search the bag; “There’s also a few opium tablets, it’s a little stronger; or various ‘elixirs’ but their effects tend to be hit and miss.”
Due to the circumstances, she assumed it was unwise to suggest whiskey or another spirit, the pain seemed too great.

"A little laudanum will do very well," Vickery said, shifting a little in his camp chair. "I think I pulled the wound this afternoon. I hope I have not pulled any stitches out."

He took a breath, about to say something, and changed his mind, aware of her sensibilities. "I should not like to trouble you - perhaps it would be better to send for the surgeon...?"

But Miss Hunter was here, and the surgeon was not. "Should you mind very much were you to take a look?"

“Very well Sir,” Beatrice nodded, as though it was the answer she was expecting, and unstoppered the small brown glass bottle; “and how did you manage to achieve that? If you don’t mind my enquiring.” Briefly looking up for her work, she smiled at him before transferring a small volume of the liquid into a flask.

“It’s best to only take a little.” she cautioned, gently pressing the flask into his palm. She’d seen firsthand what laudanum addiction led to. Not that she expected the Captain to be so foolish.

Raising one eyebrow, Bea studied him carefully before speaking: “I assure you, Captain Vickery, it’s no trouble. Else I would not have come.”

“Best the laudanum take effect first I think, I wouldn’t wish to cause you more pain.”

"The French," Vickery explained sourly. "How I didn't get sliced in two, I don't know." He took as little of the laudanum as he could, to take the edge off the pain - he still wanted to be able to think clearly after the wound had been examined.

"I am sure you would not do that," he said, holding out the cup to her and unbuttoning his jacket. He had left it on mostly because he didn't want to see for himself the state that he thought his shirt was likely to be in.

“Of course, the French.” Beatrice replied, a note of understanding in her tone; she’d seen the men returning after skirmishes, “And what were you doing to aggravate a wound Sir?” Almost immediately after posing the question she regretted it. It was not her place to question an Officer.

She accepted the cup and placed it down, careful not to spill any of its precious contents. There was always a cry for the medicine: to soothe pain, ease a cough, aid sleep, relieve dysentery; the applications were endless. And as soon as the men felt under the weather, those that didn’t call for gin often called for laudanum.

“I’ll take care not to.” She assured him, moving to help him remove the jacket.

"Playing football, until we were interrupted by some of the 15th - the Hussars," Vickery answered. "I had felt fine before then." It was probably a combination of taking part and then yelling at the hussars to stop that had done it, though.

He gratefully accepted her help to ease his jacket off. "Just lay it on the cot," he said, indicating his camp-bed. Cotton could brush the day's dust off it later, and it would be out of the way there until then.

Beatrice could feel her heart sink as the words ‘playing football’ escaped him, if anything other than open warfare was going to aggravate sutures, football was a strong contender. But, perhaps all was fine. Hope for the best but prepare for the worst as her father used to say.

She followed the order without response, simply folding the jacket up neatly before laying it upon the cot.
“Has the laudanum taken effect yet Sir?” She asked, carefully lifting his shirt to expose the wound. Perhaps it would have been wiser to prepare a clean cloth and warm water beforehand, Bea thought to herself.

Vickery ran a hand over his face, feeling the roughness of that day's growth of stubble. He nodded; the opiate was already dulling the edge of the pain, as much as it was going to.

"Yes, thank you," he replied, and carefully moved to pull his shirt off to try to make it easier for her.

Beatrice kept her expression constant as she surveyed the damage: the healing wound was inflamed; but for the most part the stitches had held, if tugged and stretched slightly. 
"You've stretched a few of the sutures, but it's not catastrophic; just sore." she explained kindly, not looking up from her inspection; "It will need cleaning though." 

"I'll prepare some water and a cloth." Bea stated as she stood before moving to fold the shirt and place it next to his jacket. "Would you like anything Sir? Some tea perhaps?"

"Tea would be very much appreciated, thank you," Vickery replied, hoping that it wasn't infected - that was the last thing he needed. If it was infected, the poison would spread and there was nothing anyone could do to prevent that - not from a sabre slash to the side.

It had taken her a little longer than she had anticipated to find a fire, but thankfully the water didn't take long to boil. And she was back to the tent, tin mug and dish of steaming water in hand within half an hour.

"This may sting a little, the water's salted." She explained, handing him the mug of tea. The salt should chase away any minor infection, although the wound was inflamed, it wasn't weeping. Which was always a good sign.

He took the tin mug she offered him, and put it on his table, bracing himself to have the wound treated. He did not need to pour hot tea over himself as she did so, of course.

He was grateful that she seemed to know what she was about, at least. "I hope that it is not too... shocking for you," he said, moving to allow her to get to the wound as best she could.

"Shocking?" She smiled, "I was raised with three brothers; not one of whom has any regard for self-preservation. One injured man has hope; the hundred after a battle, not as much."

Beatrice soaked one of the cloths into the solution, wringing out most of the moisture before gently pressing it against his side. She spread out her hand in order to keep the pressure even. 

"But after battle, one injured officer may reasonably expect to receive a better standard of care than his men will," Vickery pointed out, and hissed slightly as she pressed the cloth to his side. That did sting, but whether it was because his wound was healing or whether it was because of being soaked in salt water rather than brandy, it did not sting as much as he would have expected it to.

He vaguely recalled his wound burning like fire when the surgeon poured brandy over it, the day he'd been wounded. Or at least, he thought he did - the memory, if it was a memory, was not that clear, and he recalled nothing else at all of that day.

"Are your brothers older or younger than you?" he asked, in an attempt to distract himself from the sensation, which was (thankfully) easing a little now - or maybe he had just grown used to it.

"Not all men are officers," Beatrice sighed, "Most will be made to wait and to suffer." She started slightly as he hissed; "I'm sorry," she soothed, "it will subside in a moment." 

After a few moments she removed the cloth, setting it upon the ground before preparing a fresh one. "Both, that is two older brothers and a younger brother." she explained. "I'm going to apply the second cloth now, it shouldnt sting as much." 

Bea pressed the second makeshift pad onto his side, taking care to avoid irritating the stitches further. "Captain Vickery, I'm told you also have a brother." she spoke, hoping to maintain the conversation and distract him further from the sting of a salted wound.

She was right; this one didn't sting so badly. It was still a moment before he could respond to her gentle probing. "Yes - he is older than I am, hence why I find myself in the Army," he replied. The eldest son would inherit and the younger sons would need to make careers for themselves. "I also have a younger sister," he added, recalling her fondly.

“Rather than the church or courts?” She queried, mildly perplexed as usual as to why so many younger sons chose the army.

“The two of you are close.” Bea stated simply, diverting her focus to observe his expression and the touch of fondness in his tone as he recalled his sister.

"Well, my mother would have preferred me to choose one of those careers but I preferred the idea of a red coat, myself," Vickery replied. "And an uncle concurred. After all, the army has more to offer in the way of excitement than either the Law or the Church, and when one is young..."

He smiled. "And yes, my sister and I are close. I think she would also have preferred it if I had decided on a... more staid choice of career. Less chance of getting cut up by a Frenchman with a sabre, for one thing." His smile turned slightly wry as he said the last.

“As I suppose most mothers would. Particularly in time such as these.” Beatrice returned her attention to the gash in his side, removing the cloth so she could see clearly. “I imagine the churches and courts have their appeals too, a warm bed for instance. Though the uniforms are dull.” She commented, placing the second cloth next to the first.

She picked up the final piece of cloth, slightly longer than the previous two. This, she wrapped firmly around his abdomen, securing it with a hairpin. Granted it was makeshift, but it was the best she could manage until she could steal away to resupply, “Have you informed her of your injury?” Bea asked, standing to survey her work.

"I wrote to apprise my sister of the fact, without alarming her too much as to its cause," he answered. "Thank you, that feels much better." He reached for his shirt, cautious in case he aggravated his side further unnecessarily. "There is rather less excitement in either taking silk or becoming a man of the cloth. Less danger too, of course, but life would become dull if it were completely safe, at least for me."

“Pleased to be of some assistance Sir, “ Bea nodded, reaching down to scoop the used cloths into the now obsolete bowl of salt water; “I’ll leave the flask of laudanum, you may require it.” She explained kindly, no doubt the wound would begin to itch as the current dose wore off.

She stood, heading to the cot to return his shirt as she noticed him reaching for it, “Would you like the jacket also?” she asked, gesturing to the folded article.

"You need not leave the laudanum, I think I shall do very well without it, thank you," Vickery replied. "And yes, I would like my jacket, please."