No one in camp was asleep, that much Dutch could see as himself, Hosea and the unconscious Arthur emerged through the tree line. Everyone was bustling around, on high alert. Voices raised, occasional arguments, all while John tried to gain some sort of control to make sure everything was prepared. Dutch however, was proud to see his gang, his family band together so well in order to help a fallen member. But he wouldn't let his pride surface just yet. Not until Arthur was better.
Once at the hitching posts, he dismounted the Count, Hosea following suit, still keeping a steady hand on Arthur's back. Kieran took the initiative to take the reigns of the two horses and lead them away so he could take care of them, all the while Dutch kept hold of Athena. Leading her straight through the heart of their home of Clemen's Point. The 'No horses in camp' rule quickly shoved to the side as he lead her to the opening of Arthur's the chatter ceased as soon as each member of the camp caught a glance of Arthur. Their strongman, their best gun, slumped over in the saddle, battered and bloody. Unconscious, feverish and probably on death's door. Tilly and Mary-Beth started crying as soon as they saw him, both holding each other tight. John held Abigail and Jack close as he watched Dutch slow the horse and gently lower Arthur. Hosea at his feet while Dutch had his arms threaded under Arthur's, carrying him over to his cot. The sheets having been removed and cloths placed so that they wouldn't get ruined from all the blood.
Sean quickly appeared, grabbing the horse and walking her back over to the hitching posts. Dutch's voice echoed through the entire camp as he ordered for another canvas to be brought over so they could give Arthur more privacy. They had mostly closed it all off in the anticipation that Arthur was in very bad shape. Water was already warmed, buckets beside the table that had been cleared of Arthur's personal affects and now laden with rags, bandages, supplies from the medical wagon.
Dutch and Hosea lowered him down onto the cot, Miss Grimshaw and Reverend Swanson made their way over. The girls of the camp ferrying whatever supplies they needed. Dutch rested his hand on Hosea's shoulder as he heard Kieran call out to him. Nodding that it was okay for him to step out. Dutch's slightly trembling fingers unbuttoned the top half of Arthur's rust red, ripped union suit to better assess the damage to his poor boy.
He heard Hosea muttering under his breath as he stepped out, hushed whispers as footsteps faded away. Dutch had been sure that Hosea would have dragged him out by the ear to yell at him for not listening to Arthur and blame him for the state he was in.
Dutch couldn't think on that right now as he took a shuddering breath at the state of Arthur's body, the Reverend helping to lift Arthur enough that they could remove the top half of his union suit completely. The damage was extensive.
His face, apart from the bruising under and around his eyes and the bridge of his nose, was relatively untouched. There was a bump on one side of his head, near his temple. Most likely from the butt of a gun. It was once they got past his jawline that things took a drastic turn. Along his neck were the shadows of fingers, the ugly gunshot wounded that settled between his collar bone and the ball of his shoulder. The skin singed, an angry red tone, residues of gunpowder inside and around the wound. Arthur had tried to cauterize the wound when he tried to escape. It was scorching to the touch, no doubt it was infected. They would do everything they could to save Arthur's arm, but with how bad it looked, not to mention not knowing the extent of damage underlying within his tissues, there was no guarantee. Further down his broad body, black and purple bruises, some of the darkest and worst Dutch had ever seen inflicted on a body, lined his ribcage, under where his diaphragm would be and all across the plains of his abdomen. He could only hope that he wasn't internally bleeding, or that the ribs that were broken hadn't punctured any organs.
The worry lines along Dutch's face deepened as he scrubbed his face with one hand, a deep stuttering sigh escaping his chest and catching in his throat. Tears gathering at his waterline at the state of his poor boy. He would never wish harm on Arthur, ever. Not even when he got to big for his boots and gave him attitude that he didn't need in uncertain times like this, but never did he want to see his son in such conditions. It was enough to shatter the cold exterior of his heart, the muscle squeezing painfully deep within his chest.
Dutch was never one to tend to the wounded. That was normally the women's job. He had never tended to Arthur before when he suffered slashes from a knife or grazes from a gun. However this time, he would. He took a cloth and dipped it into the warm pail of water, slowly gathering as much as the cloth could hold before gently beginning to wash away the grime, sweat and dried, crusted blood from Arthur's poor tortured body. Miss Grimshaw having already taken to cleaning up Arthur's stomach.
He wasn't blind to notice how Arthur's brows furrowed in his unconsciousness. How his breath hitched sharply, and he most certainly didn't fail to notice how Arthur... how he flinched back from the soft caresses of the backs of his fingers on his face. Trying desperately to soothe his poor boy. It was painful to see. Clawed at Dutch's heart, tearing it more than seeing him in this state. His own brows turned down in a frown, carving a deep scowl into his forehead. His mouth tugged down at the corners.
With the continuous touches, Arthur finally settled, his jerking movement slowly ceasing as his muscles relaxed slightly. He was sleeping deeply now. He stared at his chest. Shadows of knuckles painting his chest and stomach. Miss Grimshaw had moved from his stomach as Dutch took over and cleaned up his chest, moving to his shoulder and began to clean around the area. Flushing out the wound and packing it with medicinal herbs and tonics. His shoulder stained a strange yellow colour when she was finished. Arthur's pained moans were the only sounds that escaped the camp. Everything else was either so quiet or so muffled that Dutch could barely pin point exactly what each little noise was. Was it Arthur's whimpers, or was it the girls crying? Was it his quiet talking to Miss Grimshaw, or John trying to console Jack and Abigail? There were no happy songs while drinking around the fires. No gentle strumming of Javier's guitar with soft words of his mother tongue. It felt so strange, alien, that the camp was so quiet. Every member of the camp knew this was serious. Everyone knew Arthur could easily succumb to the injuries alone, let alone the infection and fever that threatened to ravage to his body, boil his blood and cook his brain.
Dutch was barely with it when he heard footsteps approach the lean-to. Barely noticed that Hosea pulled back the canvas and looked to him with something Dutch hadn't seen on his face in a long while, distress. He tilted his head back, asking Dutch to come with him. He was reluctant to even stand. Turning his agonized gaze back to Arthur as he stroked the locks of his sweat drenched hair out of his face. Listening to his wheezing breathing.
"Go. I'll keep an eye on him, Dutch," Miss Grimshaw said softly, patting Dutch's ringed fingers, "Now go," she whispered as she stood so she could take the seat by Arthur's head to keep on soothing him.
Dutch nodded, reluctant as he stood. His joints a little rigid from being so tense as he walked over to Hosea. Scrubbing his hand along his chin as he looked to him in concern, "What is it?" he asked, his voice cracking. Showing his agony over what happened.
Hosea looked down, distress in his voice as he lead Dutch away from the lean-to and looked to him, "Just been cleanin' up Athena. Dutch... there's blood on the seat of his saddle."
With widened, fearful dark eyes, Dutch pushed past Hosea and stormed over to where Arthur's saddle was hanging over one of the hitching posts. Athena hitched beside it as she dipped her head, dozing. He stopped short, staring down at the black leather saddle. Sure enough, there was a pool of dried blood in the seat. No way that Arthur's wound on his shoulder could have caused it. He just hoped that it didn't stain or degrade the integrity of the leather.
"You don't think they..." Hosea couldn't even voice his thoughts. They were too painful to think about. Dutch glared at him, knowing exactly what he was thinking, "I damn well hope not or I'll hunt and kill the whole damn lot of them. Including Colm," he hissed as he thundered back to Arthur. His face dark, "Miss Grimshaw, can you warm another few pails and wash these rags," he asked, his polite way of asking her to leave them.
Miss Grimshaw didn't question, she just nodded, seeing the pained look on Hosea's face and the dark fury on Dutch's. She stood up, smoothing her hands down her burgundy dress before gathering up the rags and bustling out, giving her orders as soon as she left with all the rags in hand.
Once the canvas slipped shut, Dutch turned to Hosea, "Lift him a little would you, I need to get this damned thing off him so it can be washed and repaired," he grouched, shifting to place a hand under Arthur's back and lift him up a little.
Hosea silently helped, his heart pounding violently against his ribcage, lifting up Arthur's legs as Dutch removed the union suit. It was clear as day as their fears were realised. Dutch seethed, his anger reaching boiling point as he punched a hole in the side of the wagon. Careful as he retracted his hand so he didn't shower Arthur's face in splinters. Hosea rubbed his face as he hid the anguish in his eyes. His chest seizing as he moved to help Dutch back away and finish cleaning him up, layering warm furs that Dutch brought from his own tent over his torso and legs. Tucking them under him to keep him warm.
Dutch was furious. More than furious, he was incandescent. The vein on the side of Dutch's forehead pulsated. His hands still shook violently, one dusted red from punching the wagon. Had they not found Arthur when they did... Had Arthur not been able to escape... He could only imagine the state he would have found him in. No doubt the same state he had found Annabelle's body. It pained him to even think about the what if's. He couldn't imagine the anguish and torture that Arthur had been through. How he must have felt.
Was Arthur angry with him? Angry that he didn't notice his absence sooner and come looking for him. Bursting in, all guns blazing. Did Arthur doubt that he would even care, that he wouldn't bother to look for him? Did Arthur think that he would have left him to suffer?
All those thoughts swirled through Dutch's head, clouding his judgement with regret, anguish and fear. He had to have faith that his boy was going to make it. But it was so hard with him being so battered next to him. But he did know one thing, he would make sure that Arthur got his vengeance. He had to make sure Colm suffered a fate worse than death for what he did to his boy. He didn't want to see this break his poor Arthur. His strongest gun. His first son.
For now, Arthur needed to rest. To heal from the wounds that ailed him, both mental and physical. Dutch would do whatever he could to help him. No matter what it was. But he knew Arthur too well. Knew what he was like when he was hurt. The big, brooding suffering in silence type.
Well for once, Dutch wasn't going to let him suffer alone. He would be there. Every step of the way. Where ever and how ever Arthur needed him. He would be there.
The first few days were utter Hell.
What with spirits at an all time low and the humidity heavy in the air, things at the Van Der Linde camp were almost as miserable as they had been in Colter, up in them mountains.
The gang were all on edge, concerned about Dutch but more importantly Arthur. Well all except Micah who didn't give two shits about anyone and didn't seem to care all too much that he had even been found.
Arthur's fever wasn't settling down. If anything it was getting worse and spiking to new dangerous heights. Scaring Dutch and Hosea with the more his temperature sky rocketed. Arthur was passed out cold, sweating profusely. Droplets forming on every surface of pale skin. His brow, above his lip, the hollow of his throat... everywhere. He was still being kept warm by Dutch's furs that covered his battered body.
Arthur only had a few minutes of time where he would actually be awake. In those few minutes, Dutch and Hosea would make sure Arthur drank water and spoke soothing words, making sure he knew they were there and he was safe, before he would be sucked back into the inky depths of unconsciousness.
Both held real and genuine fear that Arthur wouldn't make it. Every time Arthur's breath caught in his bruised throat would send a bolt of white hot fear rattling through the two men who remained at his side. They would call his name softly, their voices broken. The camp would hold their breath until they could hear their gentle soothing before continuing on.
Duties and chores were still being done, just with less enthusiasm and vigour than before. Miss Grimshaw was the one to make sure everyone did their part. She even made sure to drag both Hosea and Dutch out of that tent every so often to make them wash up, eat and drink before heading back to sit with Arthur. She understood their pain. She saw Arthur like a son too. But she never really expressed it as openly as the two men had. She hoped Arthur knew how she felt.
Dutch was reluctant to leave Arthur's side. Hosea more willing than he was. Dutch would only voluntarily leave to go to the bathroom, the rest of the time he would be dragged out by Miss Grimshaw who would force him to sit, drink a skin of water and a bowl of stew. However most of the time he only took a few bites before he would feel sick and hand the stew off to someone else. Besides those times, he was stationed protectively at Arthur's side. One hand resting on Arthur's pulse point on his wrist, while the other hand either softly threaded through those soft sandy brown locks, or gently dabbed a cool damp cloth over his flushed, yet deathly pale face.
It was a hard sight for all to see. Arthur so worn and beaten, barely hanging on, and their leader, Dutch, so lost and guilt-ridden. Hosea didn't even bother to curse or yell at Dutch, knowing all to well that the man blamed himself enough for the both of them. It was clear with how Dutch hung his head, resting it against Arthur's hand as he squeezed his eyes shut. Either to stop the threatening tears gathered at his waterline from spilling over, or exhaustion prepared to take him over. Either way... Dutch was blaming himself, near torturing himself with every outcome that could have and would probably happen to his poor boy.
John let his weary gaze fall upon the closed canvas of Arthur's lean-to as he played with his stew. He couldn't bring himself to eat. Not with knowing that at any given moment, Dutch could emerge from the confines of the makeshift medical bay with the news of Arthur's passing. John knew Arthur was in a bad way. Not everyone had seen the state of Arthur that night, but, seeing him, well that image would be burned into his brain for the rest of his days.
Sure, they held their differences, and Arthur still held a grudge against him for leaving. But all that seemed rather pointless now that it was Arthur who was on what seemed to be his deathbed. Fevers got bad in camp, but they were all very well equipped to deal with such things. Fevers they could handle. But Arthur's any further exposure to such high fevers and Arthur may not come out of it. Or if he did, he wouldn't be the same.
John, if not everybody in camp, had noticed a change in Dutch. Yeah another change. But this one weren't all that bad. Not in the slightest. It was like they was boys all over again, and Dutch their loving, protective father once more. The man who taught them to read, to write, to ride and to shoot. To speak properly, even if at times it didn't seem like it. The same man who saved John from near drowning and tended so lovingly to Arthur when he had been bucked off and stamped on by his old horse Duchess. Yeah he always seemed to have the nice ones.
Better than the murderous Dutch he had been terrified of witnessing on that Ferry job back in Blackwater, or the Dutch that no longer seemed to trust the people he used to hold so dear and who'd been with him the longest.
It was almost nice and relieving to see Dutch care. Even if it took Arthur being close on his deathbed for their old mentor to see sense. To realise that the man he had been these past few weeks, was not the man who raised them, nor the man they grew to love. Made him almost jealous as it had only been a month or so since he was in a similar position having nearly been eaten by wolves. Dutch showed concern, just not the same concern he was now showing for his first son. Guess he could understand it though. Arthur had always been there. In the twenty years Arthur had been in the gang, he had been the most loyal. The one who brought in the most money, the most meat for the camp. He was always the favourite. Even when they was boys.
John jumped a little when he saw Dutch emerge from the lean-to. His face paling at the state of him. Dutch's normally crisp and proper appearance now rumpled and dishevelled, Dutch always cared about his appearance, how people saw him. So for him to throw it away so carelessly, meant this was very serious. His hair messy on his head, falling against the sides of his face, pomade long since worn off. Dark circles shadowing under his dark brown eyes. Dark stubble lining his jaw. His vest crumpled and his shirt and trousers creased.
He walked over to John, a few others who had been moving around in the camp stopped so they could eavesdrop. Their worry splashed across their faces. Waiting for the terrible news that was no doubt about to be shared.
Dutch sat himself down next to John and clapped his hand against his back, a heavy sigh escaping his throat, "Fever's passed. Broke an hour ago. Just waitin' on him to wake up so we can get some food an' water into him. He'll make it," he said in a deep, tired voice. He didn't look as though he had gotten a wink of sleep. Though if he did, probably not of the best quality. Startling awake every time Arthur made a pained whimper or breath hitched in his throat.
John slumped down in relief, "Thank God. Thought we was gonna lose him, Dutch," he whispered, looking back to his cold untouched stew. Carefully raising his gaze to hold Dutch's as he gave John a very tired smile, rubbing his back softly, "Arthur's strong. He will recover. Just might take time for those wounds of his to heal fully. Just be there for him when he needs you. Same as me and Hosea, understand son?" he asked.
John nodded softly, giving a slight smile to Dutch before he squeezed Dutch's shoulder in reassurance. Hoping he knew he cared too. That he loved him. He then stood up and headed over to Abigail and Jack, hugging his family softly as he let a few relieved tears fall down his face. Arthur was going to be okay.