The sick bay

"Yessir!" M'clure ran his own eyes over Dr Crozier, somewhat unsettled at this reversal of roles he was to take part in. "It's all under control here, sir." he added, seating himself.

Raoul opened the door from the sickbay and stood back to allow the Doctor to go through. "You will feel better for some food - possibly even a glass of wine."

"I think so - thank you - and an early night as well. But I will see Padstowe is settled, and any patients that wish to present them selves- Ah. What day of the week is it?"

Raoul thought for a second and then grimaced. "It is Friday, of course. What - what arrangements are made? If any, that is."

"I doubt any, and they will not be having fish only one day out of Lisbon. It does not matter. Bread, cheese and vegetables can make a feast," Stephen said, then was quiet as he entered the wardroom. "Mister Markham?"

Raoul followed the doctor into the Wardroom, where Markham noted their arrival with a curt nod, and turned immediately to the array of plates and cutlery on the side table.

[To the Wardroom]

Thompson ate his dinner quickly, stowed a piece of hardtack in his pocket and wondered for a second whether he should - could - take his old shirt with him, to at least work out how to cut it down. Getting roped into watching Doctor Crozier wasn't something he minded, but he'd told the lad he'd like to have a shirt for him by Monday, and what with this duty, the chance of that happening had shrunk.

It had been just a thought, anyway. He sighed. Somehow, it felt a little as though he were the only one willing to help the lad, though he knew it wasn't true. Cob Chase and Billy Barrow were doing their best, of course, and there was a rumour that it had been Chicken Dyer who'd found the lad topside this morning, and got him below. But rumour also said that the officers, or one officer, or maybe even the captain (which last Thompson didn't believe at all) had it in for the boy and was determined to give him all the hard and nasty jobs, driving him till he dropped. Thompson flatly refused to believe that, though he was a little confused to hear de Guarde had been set to cleaning the heads.

He couldn't get that rumour confirmed either way; his messmates were much more concerned with Lieutenant Cartwright and his punishment of Oxley, who had been relieved of his normal duties for today.

He would have liked to have heard more of that story for himself, but had to go and tell Sergeant Quinn that he'd been pressed into helping Doctor Maturin.

He decided to leave his shirt where it was for the moment; he would probably get given something to do when not watching over the surgeon, anyway.

He made his way to the petty officers' screened off cubicle where the Sergeant messed, made his report and eventually limped for'rard again to the sickbay.

Stephen came into the sick-bay to find Thompson, Bridgens and M'Clure already there. "Has there been any change?" he asked, less irritable after a break and some food.

"N... no, sir," Thompson said, looking up. At least the Doctor looked a bit happier, which was something. He felt a bit surplus to requirements, what with the loblolly boy, the surgeon's mate and Doctor Maturin all in here.

He shifted back, trying to stay out of the way a bit.

Stephen looked at Thompson appraisingly for a moment. "If you wish to, Thompson, you may go now - I think we can cope here. In the future, please think about what I said."

"All right, sir. Thanks. An', I'm sorry and I will." He paused. "If... if you need me to help later on, sir, I can. If you want."

"It is kind of you to offer, Thompson, thank you," said Stephen, pleased. "On your way, now; I am sure you have some buttons you could be polishing."

Why did they always think it was buttons that needed polishing? "All right, sir. An' thanks. I... I hope he'll be all right, sir." It looked all wrong for Mister Crozier to be lying there, so quiet and so white.

Stephen followed Thompson's gaze to Crozier, who looked like a corpse save for the smallest rising and falling of the chest. "I hope so as well, Thompson; I have every confidence." He bent over Crozier to take his pulse again, and there was a heavy knocking at the door of the sickbay. "Come in!"

"If you need me, sir, I'll be, well, I'll be on our messdeck." He opened the door to find Private Shriver standing there, his cheek a dark bruise in the light from the lantern.

He sighed and squeezed past the Marine to head aft, as Shriver came into the sickbay and stood there looking awkward.

Stephen looked up from Crozier - and up again to actually look into the Marine's face. "Why are you here?"

"Got hit in the face, sir." Was he blind, or something? "I don' wanna disturb you, though." Even Shriver could see that Doctor Crozier looked ill, and this was the only person on the ship, according to rumour, who could save him. "I'll come back later."

Stephen looked at the man's face - a swelling indeed. He reached out and poked it.

"Hey!" He jerked back. That hurt!

"It is not broken; it is only a bruise. There is nothing anyone can do for it, so off with you." Stephen frowned, then squinted up at the Marine. "Is that apple?"

He put a hand up to feel. Mashed apple. "Yeah. It's apple, sure 'nough."

"How...?" Stephen began, then waved his hand. "It does not matter."

"Got mashed in the face by a apple, din't I?" And of course this doctor had come aboard with the Frog, hadn't he. Shriver probably shouldn't say any more, should he, not if they were tiemates, like.

"And that is the usual weapon of choice among Marines? Very well, you can go, said Stephen, having already turned back to Crozier.

Hadn't been a Marine, had it? But he'd done what the Corporal said and seen the doctor, and it wasn't his fault if the doctor didn't want to do anything other than poke at him.

He turned towards the door.