A Painful Conclusion, 5th July, late afternoon

"Were you hurt in the same skirmish with the French?" Bea asked, referring to Captain Vickery's injury. Clasping the mug of tea with both hands, she idly watched the steam rise.

"And the marching is hardly a good environment for healing wounds, however minor." She took a sip of tea, "When did you last change the bandage Mr Cotton?"

"What? Oh. No - ended up tryin' to break up a fight an' then got into one meself, didn't I? Bast... Other feller had some less'n nice things to say about the Captain, is why. Was doin' all right fer meself, then he goes an' pulls a knife." He looked abashed suddenly, realising that Maggie was right there listening in. "Um. Wasn't nothin' much to worry 'bout, Maggie. No harm done - surgeon says I'll have a bit of a scar but nothin' else to worry about."

He glanced across at Miss Hunter. "It was only done yesterday evenin', an' it's bin fine as ninepence since."

Beatrice dropped her gaze, choosing to focus what was left of her tea rather than voicing any of the comments or queries which almost instantaneously came to mind.

"When are you going back to see the surgeon?" She inquired, not looking up from her tea, "I could change the bandage for you, I have a spare, the Captain didn't need it, save the surgeon the trouble." By the end of the sentence, Bea could feel her cheeks flush, she hadn't meant to babble quite that much.

"He said to get it looked at this evenin', though he didn't say I'd need to have the bandage changed right away." He shrugged. "If you want to look, I wouldn't say no."

And maybe it would relieve Maggie's mind if it was done here and now, rather than him having to go off to find the surgeon and distract the man from something else.

"I'll take a look," Beatrice asserted, "If you have the time to spare now, it shouldn't take long."

She smiled warmly, it was good to actually feel useful. Most of the women were following partners or selling useful items such as writing materials; but medicines were hard to come by, and the sparse supplies she acquired often went quickly.

Cotton put his tin mug down in the grass and pulled his jacket off before unbuttoning his cuff so he could shove his shirt-sleeve up. He wasn't exactly comfortable with the idea of taking his shirt off in front of a woman not his wife if he didn't absolutely have to do so.

"There," he said, showing the neatly-tied bandage wrapped around his forearm. "Like I said, ain't much more'n a scratch, though a bit of a long one." And deeper than scratches usually were, though he wasn't going to say that and worry Maggie.

Beatrice placed her own tin mug on the ground, pressing it into the grass so it wouldn't tip over. Retrieving the spare bandage from her canvas bag, she looked from the bandage to his arm.

"May I?" She asked, pointing to the bandage wrapped carefully around Mr Cotton's arm.

Cotton nodded. "O' course." He wasn't sure what state it was in; last he'd seen it was in the dark, lit by the surgeon's lantern... though he'd tried not to look too closely. The one thing he was worried about was that the bandage might have scabbed to his arm, and that it would start hurting all over again once that was pulled off.

Bea gently unravelled the knot, taking great care to not aggravate the wound. She had her mother's nimble hands, made for delicate crafts: adapted into stitching wounds and tying bandages.

She began to loosen the bandage, the first layers unwound easily."Ah." Bea sighed as it stuck slightly, tacking to the healing scratch.
"One moment," she took her canteen from the bag, and splashed the water onto the bandage before prising the remainder of the bandage off.

Cotton hissed a little as the final layer was unwound - even with the water, it pulled a bit.

"Ain't so bad as all that - said it was only a scratch," he said, looking between the two women, and taking Maggie's hand with his own free, left hand.

"Sorry, Mr Cotton." Bea spoke, glancing at Maggie. "That's the worst of it."

She moved quickly; dropping the used bandage into the bowl containing the Captain's discarded cloths; unscrewing the lid of the canteen; tipping salt into the remaining water before resealing the canteen and shaking the contents.

Without saying a word, she splashed some of the water onto his arm, "I'm out of clean cloths," she sighed as a means of explanation. The water washed the worse off, revealing the scratch.

"Don't think I can help there," Cotton said. The rag he kept for wiping his rifle down with was a long way from being 'clean' - covered in powder residue and gun oil as it was.

"Must've bin a sharpish knife - I didn't feel a thing at first," he continued, looking down at his arm.

“No matter, your arm should dry quickly enough.” Beatrice dismissed, it was the height of summer after all. She retrieved her mug, the tea was only lukewarm now, but she swallowed the remainder nonetheless.

“It’s a clean cut,” She commented, “Thank goodness it was a sharp knife, or you would have wound up with an awful scar.”

"He's got enough awful scars," Maggie said wryly, standing and giving him a gentle kick. "Won't notice one more. But here, I got a clean cloth somewheres. Or no, I left me things over there. I'll go and fetch it."

"Reckon it'll scar up, but don't s'pose it'll be so bit bad as all that," Cotton said. It could have been a lot worse of course - the other Rifleman hadn't meant to slice his arm but to slide the knife between his ribs. There was no need to say that and scare Maggie any worse, though.

"Thank you," Beatrice smiled, cleaning the 'scratch' would take half the time with a cloth, "I'll wash it up when we're done and return it as soon as I can." 

Maggie nodded and went to find her pack, leaving the pair of them alone for a few moments.

It was going to leave a scar anyway, Cotton knew it would - he had a minor collection of scars from his childhood and working life before he'd enlisted, not to mention the newly acquired scars on his back. This was just going to be one more to add to the collection, though with a slightly more interesting story than most of the others.

"I hope..." He fell silent, not sure exactly what it was he'd been going to say.

“You hope...?” Beatrice encouraged as Mr Cotton trailed off, gesturing with her hands for him to continue as they waited for Maggie to return with the cloth.

"I hope you don't mind dealin' with all this sort of thing," he said, though it wasn't what he'd originally planned to say - he couldn't be sure what he had originally been going to say. "War's a messy old business, after all, Miss."

“I don’t mind, at all.” Beatrice assured him somewhat forcefully. In truth she often felt conflicted; pleased to be of some use, but contrastingly incredibly angered by the fact men forged their careers on body counts, then some of the boys had no other choice, and, and, and. As always there were simply too many factors to lead to a simple conclusion.

“Horribly messy business.” She agreed with a wry smile and a shake of her head.

"Beg pardon," Cotton said, startled by the vim in her tone. "Didn't mean to... to suggest anythin' I didn't ought to." It was probably a good idea to change the topic, but Cotton couldn't think of anything to say.

“Oh, no. It’s nothing. Nothing to-“ she sighed, drumming her fingers against her lap as she searched for another thread of conversation.

“Well,” Beatrice said, the smile returning to her face, “What’s it like to be a married man on the march Mr Cotton?,

Cotton gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Not so much diff'rent from bein' an unmarried man on the march, Miss," he replied. "Though it's a bit warmer at night, not sleepin' one in a blanket."

They managed, too, though there wasn't much they could do about the lack of privacy... but he wasn't about to share that detail - after all, some things were private, just between a man and his wife.

"Couldn't ask for a better wife, though," he added. "What about you, then, Miss? Not found a man you'd like to wed yet?"

Beatrice shot him an amused expression, "You'll be looking forward to the end of it all, I suppose?" If life wasn't that much different on the march, it certainly would be in England, whereas the majority of the soldiers would be returning to an old life, the Cottons would be building a new one; and that sounded much more interesting.

"Alas, no." She stated with a half-hearted shrug, it had been a topic of many heated debates with her mother; mostly regarding mislaid senses of 'the best option'. But regardless, she had managed to escape marriage up until now, and intended to for at least awhile longer. "Marriage has never been a priority of mine."