The sick bay

"I..." He sighed. "I know you know, an' I know Mister Cartwright knows, an' Mister Leat an' all, prob'ly. Only, I found him, and tried to talk with him. Last time I'm tryin' that, that's for sure. An' I told him one or two things and he just went for me. Was only tryin' to help."

He watched the doctor wrapping his wrist. "I won't be tryin' that ag'in any time soon, neither. He tried to bloody break my wrist for me." He looked up then. "Don't, please don't tell anyone. I'd've walked away if I'd've known he was goin' to do summat stupid. An' we're goin' to be in enough trouble anyway."

He wriggled his fingers. "How long's this got to stay on?" he asked, eventually.

"On your wrist? Just a few days, I think. Your eye will be only a day. It will still be bruised, but the pain will be less, and I think you'll prefer to have your vision back tomorrow. But the bandage won't be as bothersome on your wrist, and the dressing will help it feel better. Come back after dinner and M'Clure will change it for you. It works best when it's warm, this kind." He sighed again, feeling tired and wanting his coffee. "Of course I won't tell anyone. But, well, now you're older and wiser. Just stay away from him, for your own sake and his. You know there was the trouble about him being given the Jonah lift, so to speak - a hanging offense, if anyone found out who had done it. Don't draw attention to yourself in connection with him."

"I need me wrist, though, sir, bein' a drummer. An' it might be a bit late for not drawin' attention to meself - I'm stuck with Mister Cartwright all day. And he still ain't said anythin' about it, neither."

He touched the dressing on his eye. "Sorry to be a bother, sir. Is... is there anythin' else, or can I go now?"

Crozier rubbed his own eyes. "Well, see how your wrist does with that, and we can change it tomorrow if need be. Tomorrow after divisions. Yes, you may go now, and stay out of trouble."

"I'll try, sir," he said, slightly dolefully, and infinitely grateful to have escaped being bled - or worse. He got up and turned to go.

(He goes here.)

Finally. Crozier scribbled the notes hastily in his log and snapped the book shut. He looked at his watch and sighed with relief. There was time to take a quiet pot of coffee in the wardroom and then perhaps look at his plants. M'Clure had already taken care of Thompson's dressing, and the only current resident of the sick berth was Donald of the broken leg, physicked and comfortably asleep.

"M'Clure, I'm going to the wardroom," he announced, striding out of the berth before any new reason could arise to keep him from his coffee.


[Crozier goes to the wardroom]

[From here]

There was a silence as the procession walked carefully into the sickbay, carrying the body of the surgeon as reverently as if he were dead.

"Into this one," said Stephen, indicating the cot M'Clure had made up. He took Crozier's wrist as he was gently lowered in, and counted - a slow, weak pulse, but no slower or weaker than before, thank the Dear. "Well done, all of you."

Peter touched his hat, and now, as the task was done and the men made their obedience and left, he asked the question that he had refrained from earlier: "Is he going to be all right?"

"It was the moving of him that I was most worried about," Stephen admitted. "But he is no worse, and that is a very good sign."

"Then I shall go back on deck. What shall I tell Mr Leat? He will wish to report to the captain..."

"M'Clure - I believe? - please to heat some water, and bring a clean cloth. Mister Yates, pray tell Mister Leat that Mister Crozier has been severely injured, and I must speak to the captain at his earliest convenience."

"Of course, Sir." Peter took a last look at Mr Crozier, and hurried out of the sickbay. How had the surgeon been so .... Somehow, he felt sure that de Guarde was to blame: de Guarde no doubt fooling about with the Marine Thompson, and not worrying about how many other people would get hurt.

The sickbay was empty except for a man with a broken leg on the other side, peering at them curiously; M'Clure came in with the warm water and the cloth, and held Crozier's head straight while Stephen gently cleaned the wound. From the outside it did not look terribly bad - a split in the skin. The bleeding stopped quickly, however, which was a bad sign - Stephen suspected a trepanning would be essential after all. Crozier was deathly pale, his face slack and peaceful; Stephen checked his breathing again.

Bridgens arrived with more hot water - M'Clure had met him half way and enlisted his help - and now he stood there gaping at his own surgeon lying there bloody and deathlike.

Stephen wrung out the cloth, and dipped it into the clean, hot water, clearing away the excess of blood to see the wound. "What is your name?" he asked the newly arrived man.

"Bridgens, sir," he answered after only a moment's hesitation. That at least was something he could answer. "Jeremiah Bridgens. I'm Dr. Crozier's - Mr. Crozier's steward and loblolly boy, and the like."

"Would you be so good as to fetch me a wad of bandages, Bridgens? I have to bind his head." He turned his head and gave a reassuring smile. "Quickly, if you please - some padding too."

Bridgens wordlessly fetched the requested items and handed them over, too stunned to speak.

"Now, gently lift his head up, and turn it slightly to the right, so that the wound is facing up..." said Stephen, and placed the padding over the wound. "Move your hand for the bandage - just so."

"Uh...yes sir." He complied as best he could and pulled his hand out of the way when the bandage came around.

Stephen tucked the end away neatly, and laid Crozier's head back down on the pillow. "Where is everybody? The Captain, or even a lieutenant, for God's love?" he asked, looking towards the sickbay door. "You can take the water away now, Bridgens."

"Aye, sir." Bridgens was unsure as to whether "away" meant that it was time to throw the red-tinged water overboard or if he should simply set it on the table. He decided it probably meant the former since there was still some clean water in the kettle, so he said, "Back in a minute, sir," and took it above.

"Just so," Stephen said impatiently, staring into Crozier's face, looking for any glimmer of life.

A clatter of boots along the deck outside announced the arrival of Leat, who gave a perfunctory knock before entering the sick bay.

"Mister Yates informed me of what happened," he gave by way of short explanation. "He has gone to notify that captain. Can anything be done for him, sir?"