The Sickbay, after the Battle

When some of the French prisoners had been brought across to be secured in the hold, Peter had realized that the Victorieuse had been beaten, and that it was a prize. They had won their first battle, even if he had had little to do with it. A stream of injured was brought across, and taken to the sickbay.

Peter made his way down to look for Samuels. The man had been injured trying to protect him, and he hoped that the tailor was recovering. The surgery in the orlop was being emptied, and Peter climbed back up to the doctor's regular place of work, the sickbay and dispensary. He was shocked to see Mr Leat, as unconscious as a man could be without being dead, and then, to his horror, he heard a croaking voice call his name and he saw Dunnock, a bloody bandage round his chest and right shoulder. That arm was completely gone, and ... Peter knelt and took the boy's other hand. "I'll find the doctor - what do you need?"

"The sailmaker, I think," Dunnock said, with a light smile. "Doctor can't do anything more - gave me something... Peter?"

"Yes, Julian." Peter was blinking away tears.

"Look after Fletcher - he might have the sea-years, but he doesn't have a clue..." Dunnock coughed, and Peter wiped away the blood that he spat out. "Take care of yourself too..."

Peter knelt by the boy's side - Dunnock, who had sailed round the Horn, and loved to tell stories about it or about anything else, mermaids and sea serpents and dusky maidens in grass skirts, was gasping for breath, and he was not going to live. Peter prayed, for his friend to be spared pain, to be accepted into Heaven, and - just a little - for himself.

[Continued from here]

Crozier hurried into the sickbay, casting his eye around to see with satisfaction that most of the patients had been brought up from the orlop. The captain and marine sergeant were on their way from the Victorieuse, and he had heard that the second lieutenant was also injured. There he was, lying in a cot with a bloody wound about his head.

Looking around, he saw young Yates in the quietest corner where they had placed Dunnock. Poor Dunnock with most of his shoulder shot away... Amputations so near the trunk of the body were rarely successful. Perhaps it would have been less traumatic to have left the arm and let him die with it intact. But no, Crozier had to at least try. If there was any hope of saving the boy, he had wanted to take that chance. But there had never been much hope. At least he seemed to be calm, and the drug seemed to have taken away the pain.

"Mister Dunnock," he said, quietly smiling down at the two midshipmen. "How is our hero? The captain will be here in a moment, wishing to congratulate you, I'm sure, on a noble victory."

Dunnock's eyes flickered around, as Peter looked from his friend to the surgeon. "I am ... glad that we won. It would... have been a shame ... Peter!" His voice rose, and Peter tightened his grip, as the doctor's kind face swam. Dunnock paused and then said, quite clearly: "He'd better hurry, then."

Crozier smiled again. "One cannot hurry one's own captain. You must wait for him. But he is coming, certainly. He has just been looking over our prize, the fine Victorieuse. A good name, isn't it?"

At last, Bolitho reached the sickbay and slowly entered the room. The sight that greeted him was utterly heart-wrenching. Poor Dunnock was laid out on a cot, with Yates standing beside him holding his hand, and Crozier comforting the boy as well. Bolitho crossed over to them, still trying to regain his own wits and now debating what to say to the dying boy.

"Well done, Mr. Dunnock," he said as he approached, "You...you have done our ship and our country a fine service today. Surely you have done a great deal in aiding our...our victory."

Dunnock looked up, his eyes brightening. "We did win then... I ... Thank you, sir, I know you must be busy and ..." He coughed and Peter wiped the blood away again. "It's just like going round the Horn," he said. "You don't know what's on the other side." And Peter felt his hand grip tightly and then relax in his clasp.

Crozier looked at the boy for a moment, and then nodded to the captain. The boy was gone. He felt his neck for the pulse, but of course he was gone, as visibly sure as if he had stepped out of the room. His face was calm. No matter how many times Crozier had witnessed death, as miraculous as birth, he could not be unmoved. There was nothing to say. He squeezed Midshipman Yates' shoulder, the uninjured arm, and quietly stepped back.

Quinn was unaware of what was going on around him. Unaware that Mister Dunnock had just departed this life.

He was brought down to the surgeon's dingy kingdom and laid in a corner until he woke up and regained his wits.

He could hear voices, distant and indistinct, but had no idea where he was or what the voices were saying.

Branning decided that maybe he was mistaken in his judgement that Hardy was useless. The smaller Marine could certainly handle his share of weight.

"Here we is, Sarn't," Branning said, but he stopped when he saw the somber little group of officers. "Oh..." he added softly and lowered his gaze.

Peter remained kneeling for a few moments, before laying Dunnock's hand on his chest. "He knew," he whispered, and wiped at his eyes. "He joked..." He drew a deep breath, and stood up, looking from the Captain to the surgeon and round at the other wounded men. "What can I do?" he asked. "You will need everyone, now, with the prize to man."

It was always upsetting to loose a man, even though there was no way they could have saved everyone. But there was no space, or need, for more gawkers round the dead mans side, and that was that, for now.

Phil automatically eyed the next man, eyes seeing where bandages should go, blinking perhaps a little more than usual.

Crozier nodded to Yates. He considered telling him gently that he could stay as long as he liked, or that he might go down to sort through his friend's belongings to see what might be sent back to his family. He even felt the inclination to put his arm around the boy and let him cry. But a midshipman was a man even if he was a boy, and a man of action and command.

"Mister George and Mister Bush are very busy above, and I'm certain they would welcome your assistance," he said soberly. "We're rather short of officers right now. And Captain, you must lie down in a cot, right there, and I'll see to your side again in a few minutes. You will not leave until I say so, sir, but I must look to Mister Leat."

And so he hurried away, back to the busy business of the battle's aftermath.

"Bring Mister Leat here, please. Bridgens, a basin of water. M'Clure, that cloth thank you. Mop it away and... I don't think it's broken anywhere. A warm water dressing with the oiled silk after I suture the cut, do you understand? Same for Quinn. Does Quinn have any new injuries? Then the warm water dressing. Bridgens, prepare the flannels, M'Clure, you shave the area, and I'll make up the solution," he said, still talking over his shoulder as he moved into the dispensary. "Have you dressed McEwen's leg? He gets a cold water dressing where I took out that bullet."

Bolitho remained silent for a moment after Dunnock's passing, and when Crozier told Yates to go up on deck, he did not countermand the order. The boy certainly would be needed, and perhaps it would be best for him to go about his duty, in order that he might not dwell on the death of his friend.

Then Crozier told him to lie down; he nodded and obeyed. But only when he had seated himself did he realise that Leat was injured as well--and very badly so. No one had informed him that the second lieutenant had been wounded, and Bolitho was quite concerned upon glimpsing Leat's prone form. His head and arm were bleeding, and he was completely unconscious. Bolitho's own injury was nothing compared to Leat's.

"Doctor, take as much time...as you need in order to...to help Mr. Leat," he said as Crozier went into the dispensary, "My need is not so great as his."

Crozier very nearly opened his mouth to say "I know that," and he was glad that the captain could not see him in the dispensary. "Thank you, captain," he called. "Fear not. Mister Leat will mend." He reappeared smiling as he stirred the solution. "Bridgens, see if you can get some warm water. No, of course not, the fires won't be lit. Well, it shall have to be tepid then, thank you." Since both of the patients were unconscious, they would feel no discomfort anyway. He set to work stitching the gash on the side of Leat's head, already feeling more optimistic and settled. Crozier had been moved by Dunnock's death - such a terrible shame for a boy so young and so promising - but now he was back at work doing what he did best, and he felt strangely comforted. When the scalp was stitched back together again, looking positively frightful, he did the same to the cut on his arm. Then, leaving both Leat and Quinn in the care of M'Clure, he returned to the captain.

"Well, sir, and how are you feeling? Show me your side."

"Well, I am not feeling so terribly bad, but...I have felt better, of course."

Bolitho reached down and gently pulled his coat and shirt aside so Crozier could have a better look at his wound. It was still hurting, but the pain had subsided at least a little, which did bode well so far.

The doctor inspected his own work with satisfaction. It had been hurried, but it really was quite adequate. There was space for drainage, and all that was needed now was dressing and bandages, which he applied within a few moments, their pressure and temperature having a soothing effect.

"I think that should feel better now. And you'll come back regularly to have them changed, but for now you can return to duty." There was little need to tell the captain to take care of the suture or to rest in bed for the remainder of the day, not when there was so much work to be done. He simply gave the captain a weary smile before looking around to see who needed attention next.

Bolitho nodded, grateful for everything Crozier had done for him and for all the wounded. Even poor Dunnock, whose injuries had been so grievous that the doctor obviously could not have prevented his death. Now that his own wound had been properly tended, Bolitho needed to get back on deck and oversee that everything was being put back in place. He was confident that Bush and George were handling the tasks, but still he knew it was his duty to be there as well. And so he got off the cot and paused for a moment to collect himself, glancing back at Leat, still lying unconscious on a nearby cot. Then at last, he left the sickbay and made his way back up to the deck.

It was several hours later that Leat finally stirred in his cot. A soft murmur passed his lips, and he slowly opened his eyes.

The world swam before him in a swirl of darkness and half-light. He heard the sounds of the ship around him; but they made little sense to his ears, nor did he fully comprehend where he was. The last the lieutenant remembered was fighting amist the smoke and gore of the Frenchman. It did not make sense that he was now here - wherever here may be - lying on his back comfortably and staring into nothingness.

Philip was taking a break from the dwindling numbers of bandages he felt he'd been applying for years. of course, sitting down and actually resting wouldn't work, so he opted for a breif walk, checking on all the men in their care. He was walking past the lieutenants cot when a quiet noise took his attention.

"Awake are ye now, sir?" a pretty obvious question, but useful for all that. "Don't ye go sitting up, now, or ye'll go right back under again."

He took a couple of steps closer and eyed the man lying at his side. "Ye remember much, sir?"

"Of what?" Leat put an unsteady hand to his bandaged head and winced. His skull felt as if it had been struck from the inside by a sledgehammer - and it was still ringing.

Phil resisted the urge to cover his face with his hands and groan, but couldn't supress a mutter about people who lay on their cots and couldn't think anything through. "Of why ye be here, sir, instead of up on deck doing yer job."

"Which deck?"

There had been two at last count; the Terpsy's and the Frenchman's. Though probably it didn't really matter which, since he wasn't on either.

"Where's Emily?"

"Yer cat? no doubt she's asleep in some quiet corner, sir, or eating somethin tasty." He wondered if it was really needed to bring the dratted thing in. "Yer on the Terpsy, sir, Sickbay, and the Frog is ourn."
He didn't bother supressing a smile at that, happy to be able to give such good news.

Leat stared at him uncomprehending for a few moments.

"Good." he said eventually. "That's good."

He paused again, and blinked.

"What happened to me? I don't remember the victory."

Phil shrugged. "I don't know exactly, sir, but they found ye atween some cannon on her deck, reckon ye'd been there fer a while afore victory."

Abruptly he remembered he should be paying some interest in the patient's health. "How's yer head, then, sir?"