Sick-berth, 25 May

Evans shook his head. "Took him direct in the lung, sir. They brung him back 'board with a holler reed hangin' outta him. Now loookit him. Near-to perfect better."

Billy looked rather proud of himself. "Aye, that I am, too. And all a-ready to return to me mess." He gripped the sides of his cot and began to swing his legs over the side, carefully. He was still rather tender in the wounded part of his torso, and the cot did not move quite like a regular hammock.

"Steady, my fellow," Farley said, lifting a hand. "You may be on the mend, but I daresay you're not yet well enough to - "

An abrupt, ear-piercing shriek cut him off; the boatswain and his mates were trilling on their calls. All Hands Aft... Farley recognised it, despite still being fairly new to the sea-going life.

"On deck with you," he said to the recovering man's companion. "No. You may stay. You as well... Bridgens, was it? Yes. In case Mister Crozier should awaken."

"But sir!" Billy protested. He looked anxiously at Evans. "What's amiss? Must be summat important, sir, to call all hands while we're in port and all. Tide'll help me on deck, sir!"

Farley shook his head. "Stay where you are, lad. Bridgens, he is not to move from that cot."

Then, with a nod at the other sailor, he turned and departed.

Billy frowned after him before turning to the loblolly boy. "Bridgey, he ain't our surgeon, not yet. Tide, cut along and I'll be up after you in half a tick."

Good plan. Evans waited a moment, then grinned at Barrow. "See you topside," he said before trotting out after the older fellow.

(Billy goes here)