Day of the Flogging

And the surgeon was trying to get him away.

"Maggie?" he asked, his voice little more than a croak. "Please, sir, where's my Maggie?"

There he was. The Palmer lads were standing on either side of him, their hands tentatively on his arms in case he should need support. His back was away from her now, but there were his poor hands, the wrists raw, and his death pale anguished face! There was nowhere she could touch him except his face, reaching up with her chilled hands on either side of it, lightly, very lightly.

"Maggie. Oh, Maggie. My own Maggie, lass." He was still having trouble focussing, but it looked like she'd been crying.

"It's all right, now, lass. It's over."

Over, but it still hurt.

She gave a short laugh through her tears that he should be trying to comfort her. "It's over." She stood on the tips of her toes and kissed his cheek lightly. "Oh Gabe, how... how cold you must be." The cold was probably the last thing on his mind, but she took off her shawl and softly bunched it up against his chest and around his arms.

Edrington waited until everyone had moved off, watching them do so. They would form up soon enough to start the day's march to the next camping ground. Where he hoped things would be different. His eyes took in the usual drift of sightseers from the other regiments.

It was, after all, a damned shame it had come to this, so quickly.

And there they were. A lass in tears, and the lad that comforted her, with the others but mute participants, a stage upon which the two have played. He observed the exchange and smiled. There may be cuts on his back, which was covered in crimson, but his spirit remained as strong if not fiercer than before. And, it would be allright. They had each other, it would certainly be allright.

It was somewhat strange to be the only Hussar far and wide. And to observe these men as but a spectator, strange. Well, they would be on the march quite soon and he had still to see the surgeon. And then to find himself a horse that the army was willing to spare. Well for now, it was a question of wait again, something the Hussar has not been used to before.

Still holding the shawl against him for warmth, she looked around at the other men nearby. "Is that the surgeon? Where will he take him? Gabe, can you walk? I'll help you. You'll be all right. There's the surgeon. I'll come with you."

"Cold..." He had not thought of that, before, and now he shivered. "D...Damn cold." He looked down at the shawl she had pressed against him. "Can't get me out o' the green, can you, lass?" he said.

The pain had settled down now that nobody was laying more strokes on his back, but he didn't dare move too quickly, and he was starting to feel a little swimmy-headed from the pain, and from drinking half a mug of rum on an empty stomach.

"Think I can walk, if'n I have a bit of help."

The Palmer brothers, who had only minutes before, been wielding the cat, offered their arms to support Cotton across to the surgeon's wagon. Williams watched, and knew that Cotton would not bear them any ill-will - or at least, the Cotton he had known would not. But flogging could change a man. Maggie was beside him, and he clutched her shawl.

He had missed morning parade himself, to be here. He hoped the half-nod he had got would be enough to cover him, or he'd find himself in the same position.

Cotton accepted the help the Palmer brothers offered, grateful for it and unwilling to disgrace himself now. He really needed to sit down, and had no idea how he was expected to march in the state he was in. But Maggie was beside him, still looking anguished, and he needed to reassure her but didn't know how.

(OOC - I need bed. I have to get up at OMG o'clock tomorrow to do the early shift at work...)

By now Sarah Palmer had joined her husband, and Maggie had taken his place supporting Cotton's right arm. Sarah and Zebulon followed behind along with other well-wishers, so many that Sergeant Roper had to tell them to get back to work - Rifleman Cotton wasn't going anywhere because he was theirs to keep, and there would be plenty of time to give him their regards later, but meanwhile camp wouldn't strike itself, now would it? After which he hurried over to give Cotton a bottle and a friendly word before hurrying off to reprimand someone.

And here was the surgeon with his salves and bandages. While poor Gabe's wounds were being cleaned, something that kept making him wince, Maggie distracted him (and herself) with a continuous stream of chatter, all the while holding his hands. "You won't try to march today, will you? Oh please don't march today, Gabe, no matter how strong and brave you feel. (It's all right, it's all right! Shhhhh.) They have - the surgeon has this wagon that's covered with a tent, like, and it's all padded inside. Have you seen it? (Oh! Poor thing! It'll be all right.) He says we can ride in the wagon for today's march, and there's even space for you to lie down. And he'll let me go with you." She gave him a tentative smile. "You wouldn't make me march when I could be riding inside a padded wagon, would you Gable? On a cold spring day, when it might rain? Just you and me. It'll be like a holiday!"

It had ended, far sooner than Newbury had thought, but that was easily for the best. Fifty lashes was vastly preferable to two hundred. He waited until the paraded companies had been dismissed, then hurried toward the surgeon's tent. There were already several people buzzing around, likely to wish poor Cotton well and offer tokens of encouragement, but these were shooed away by Sergeant Roper. Newbury grinned and stood fast, not about to go far at all while Cotton was laid up.

"He'll be all right soon 'nuff, ain't he, sir?" Newbury asked of the assistant surgeon.

Finch shrugged. "With care, he will be. He will, of course, ride in the waggon for the first day at least." The assistant surgeon pulled the cork out of a bottle and soaked a cloth with whatever was inside the bottle. "Outside with you then, this will take some time."

Outside? Not a chance. Newbury slung his rifle across his shoulder. "I'd rather stay, sir," he said.

The regiment was close to being ready to march. Grogan stood a little removed from the bulk of his company and watched the men finish collecting their various bits of kit. They'd be ordered to form up soon enough, which would lend a measure of urgency to the men's movements but for the moment the mood was relatively unhurried. It hadn't passed without notice that there had been a man missing from morning parade, but Grogan had taken responsibility for that - and quickly, before Corporal Blythe could say anything stupid.

As expected after that, Blythe had completely avoided Grogan's presence. The stuck-up blackguard. It suited the Irishman just fine though. There was just as sure to be enough to deal with once the army got back on the move again, without having to endure the bite of Blythe's sullen resentment. Grogan straightened up a little when he spied a familiar shako weaving through the milling crowd of other red-coats on the edges of the 27th's allotted camp. Here came the "missing" fellow now.

"Was it as bad's some lads was a-feared?" The corporal asked, after drifting casually toward Williams, so as to avoid attracting attention. Floggings were never pleasant affairs and it was a rare fellow that didn't feel a sense of sympathy for the poor sod on the receiving side of the lash.

"Thanks, Corporal, I owe you a drink. I would not want it to be me there - what will the girls in Wexford think of a man with a striped back?" He slid into his place, and continued. "Two hundred awarded, like I said, but their Colonel stopped it after fifty, so..." He shrugged, welcoming the feel of his own whole back under his shirt. "Bad enough for Cotton, who would never have done anything to deserve it. But it's been done now, and the bastard who set him up for it should be satisfied."

Williams had been too busy with Maggie to pay attention, but he would have wagered that somewhere, behind the red ranks of the 62nd was a Sergeant of the 33rd, watching the cat with twitching glee. And probably noticing him there too. A nasty thought, because while Cotton had been flogged, Williams had escaped with nothing more than a couple of sleepless nights spent in a dark cell.

Grogan grinned slightly and leaned on his musket. "Hard t'say, really. Some might think it uncommon interesting, not knowin' no better." There were other lasses who knew all too well and avoided having any to do with soldiers, striped backs or not.

"Fifty's a good, round sentence," the corporal said. "Ain't pleasant fer the lad gettin' it, but sure he'd rather that 'stead of a full two hunnert. 'Specially if he did get fixed up for it wi'out cause."

There was probably a good deal more to the entire thing than he knew, but it was hard to care about such particulars if they didn't affect him directly. Grogan lost his grin. "He's farin' arrigh' though, that poor fella?"

Ah, the good man Cotton certainly had many friends amongst his peers. There was quite a crowd before the tent, and most were being shooed away. With an uneven step he moved closer, but stayed outside discreetly, while Cotton was being tended to. He glanced at the other faces, most unfamiliar, though he had seen him in passing. Some he remembered from the day before, some just from a brief encounter here and there today.

He looked to the sky, wondering if it would rain that day or if they would be traveling with the luck of few dry coats. The paths were still quite muddy, and another rain would turn them to slush, have the march slowed down and made a more exhausting journey. He covered his mouth as a yawn came, and turned from the clouds back to the sea of green infront of him.

Fifty lashes, in Hakeswill's opinion, was no enough by far. It was a pitiful number by army standards - Sharpe had got no less than two hundred before he'd been cut down, and even then most reckoned he'd got off lightly. Cotton had had his back little more than tickled!

As the square broke up Hakeswill slunk off back to the 33rd, careful not to find himself isolated amongst a mass gathering of greenjackets, especially with one of their officers being Sharpe. Going to the dogs, this army was! Going to the dogs...

"I'll go up and see at the first rest - if that's all right with you, of course," Williams finished with a quick grin. "He's being taken care of by his mates from the Rifles at the moment, and his girl, and the surgeon won't want me around too." He busied himself collecting his things together and slinging his knapsack. "He took it damned well, after the first one made him jump - new to him, of course. Of course, he didn't know they were going to stop it, see. And with it being undeserved, it comes down hard, however few it is. But - you're right Corporal, fifty is better than the two hundred."

Cotton couldn't believe how many folks had come to see how he was. He tried to brush off their queries about how he was bearing up, but they wouldn't be brushed off, even after Roper came to chivvy them back to what they should be doing. He noticed Annie Lawson among the group of 60th riflemen and their women, looking more sober than she had in a long time, but she didn't come close enough for him to talk to.

He was grateful for Maggie's presence as the surgeon cleaned the wounds, making him flinch every now and then, and when Maggie mentioned riding, he managed to grin at her. "Wouldn't want folks to think I'd got soft now, would you, lass? Be nice though; I wouldn't have to worry about how to carry me pack or me rifle."

There was one thing Vickery had to do before they began today's march. He went along to the surgeon to see how Cotton was bearing up, and was pleased to find that, although he was in pain (which was only to be expected, of course) the Rifleman was doing remarkably well.

The surgeon wanted him to ride in his wagon today, and insisted that he be put on light duties for the next week at least, which made the Rifleman scowl a little and ask how he was supposed to keep busy, sir? Vickery laughed and told him not to worry; they'd find him something to do, and patted his shoulder before leaving him alone with Maggie.

He returned to the 60th and pulled out the Punishment Book to add a brief note: Punishment stopped at 50 lashes by order of Col. Edrington, 62nd Regt. of Foot.

Once Cotton was relieved to remain in the lass's company, his wounds tended to fully, and his orders to remain resting given, Willoughby entered the tent. The surgeon eyed him questionably at first then motioned that he comes closer. There was a fair discussion on how to remove the boot, and at first the surgeon thought it best to slice it on the side, not to stirr the swelling too badly. When an agreeable
conclusion was reached, the boot was removed and the area was wiped wet and clean. He was a given a fair scowling then, while the leg was touched and prodded, pushed and moved so that he was begining to think it were best he remained away. But a thought of poor Cotton had quickly sobered him not to complain and bear
it with no sound but an answer or two, if he were asked of where and
how it hurt.

It took a while more and at first the surgeon thought it best though not fully sure, that he remains along side on the cart as well, but the Hussar insisted that though injury was there, riding would keep enough pressure from the ankle and injury. It would be uncomfortable sure, but it wasn't so bad that his duties nor his riding could be worsely affected. After the surgeon delievered his medicine and bound the ankle tightly, the youth was dismissed.

Limping again, but with much lighter spirits he was able to secure himself a horse as Lord Edrington had suggested, and was now preparing the animal for the long march. Brushing it's coat, making himself better known to his keep. (this ofcourse happens whenever and after Cotton is taken care of, as written. If anything is to be corrected, just tell ! )

Contrary to his spoken desire to stay, Newbury found that he couldn't quite stomach the sight of Cotton's back being cleaned and had to step outside the tent. There he stayed until after Captain Vickery had visited and left. His curiosity swiftly overcame him and he ducked back into the tent to see how the other Rifleman was faring.

"Not so bad now, is it?" Newbury asked, silently grateful to see white bandages around Cotton's torso.

"No, it ain't so bit bad. Never expected to get let off at fifty, though. I'm still goin' to have the scars after, though."

He wondered how long it would be before it stopped hurting and he could get back to his job. Not that it wasn't nice being here, of course, not having to think about marching.

By now the surgeon was finished, and his assitants were anxious to have his own tent struck and his tools packed away.

"Come on, Gabe," Maggie said, helping him to his feet. "We'll ride in the wagon then? Do you want your shirt and jacket now?"

He let her help him to stand. He was stiff with the pain, and the bandages the surgeon had wrapped around his torso, and was secretly glad he didn't have to march today.

"I'll have me shirt, but I couldn't a-bear me jacket. If I have your shawl, you have my jacket, how about that?"

He smiled at her. He couldn't give her his usual grin; it still hurt too much.

"D'you.... d'you know where me pack and rifle are, lass? Only, I need to know they'm safe, y'see."