Waiting to enter Óbidos

Normally Stephen would have felt uncomfortable on a horse with another man behind him holding the reigns, but his relief was so great that he barely noticed - they were leaving Óbidos, all three of them alive if not quite whole. He felt his thoughts slipping away into a fog of pain and weariness. "You... you cut your elbow, José?"

He'd what? For a heartbeat, Calderón wasn't sure of Esteban's meaning. Then it came to him that he'd fallen while running and been gashed on his elbow by a rock. He shrugged fractionally. It was not a serious wound, for he could still use his arm without great pain.

"It is nothing." The statement was no less than the truth, for the wound was no longer freely bleeding, though his shirt sleeve was torn and heavy with drying blood. That was more bothersome than the injury itself.


OOC: It's about time for me to retire for awhile. Barring interference from the outside world, I'll be back this afternoon. As usual, modding permissions for Calderón stand. Cheers!

Stephen nodded, his eyes closed. "Keep it covered, for a while..." He was moving an unusual amount with the horse, sending jolts through his thigh - he gripped the pommel to steady himself. "Less risk of infection..."

Infection. He lifted his head to watch Padstowe in front of them. "And you, Jonathan - your shoulder? Has it stopped bleeding?"

Padstowe followed on, their horses going at the trot which was possibly not the best for Stephen, as he could see him moving an awful lot. He heard Stephen's question. His shoulder had not stopped bleeding, and riding was jolting it, making the wound throb and he was starting to feel incredibly sick. And a little cold.

"Perhaps," he said. "But the sooner we get to somewhere where we can stop and spend the morning the better. Your leg needs seeing to."

"Perhaps? Please to check." If it was still bleeding, there was the chance of... his head was swimming, he wanted to vomit... chance of shock, maybe. They had to stop the bleeding first. "Never mind my leg. How do you feel mentally?"

Like tying a gag around your mouth, doctor?

"Sound as the King," he said sarcastically. How did you tell a doctor to shut and stop being a doctor? "Save your strength for riding, Stephen, not talking!"

"If you answer my questions, I will have to expend less energy in repeating them. I worry about blood loss - are you cold at all?" He spoke slowly and patiently - pain and dizziness allowed nothing else. He wondered whether to consider Padstowe's snappish response as a symptom, but thought he did not really know the captain well enough to know whether it was a normal response in this sort of situation. He sometimes had that effect on people, he mused idly as he waited for an answer, his thoughts drifting in the cold.

"A little," he said, thinking that he might as well humour him, and by coincidence his words were accompanied by a small shudder. "My arm is going slightly numb as well."

"And you are still bleeding?"

"Yes."

"Then we must stop as soon as we can. Would you be adverse to my attempting to remove the bullet and stitch up the wound when it becomes light? I have laudanum with me."

Padstowe's sigh was clearly audible.

"Whatever you want, Stephen - but let us get to safety first!"

He paused.

"And I will not be drugged. I need to keep a clear head in case we should need to move in haste."

Stephen knew the effects of laudanum too well to argue. He nodded, futilely, his mind ever more clouded, and then let his chin rest on his chest - the pain that shot through his sternum was awful, but he so needed even a moment's respite he stayed still. Calderón had the horse under control, Padstowe he would treat with the sunrise - knowing he could be of little use now, he finally let himself lose consciousness.

They rode for several more hours until just before dawn they reached a small village where Calderón assured them they would be safe. The Spaniard led them to a small house near the church, which turned out to belong to the priest.

They had let Stephen sleep on the way, seeming as he could do no more than rest and any man to fall asleep on horseback was obviously in need of rest. Padstowe had been steadily feeling colder and colder as time grew on, the warm blood soaked into his shirt feeling alien and by the time they reached the priest's house he had gone very pale and was shaking intermitantly. He could no longer feel his left arm, and half suspected that he and it may yet part company.

Stephen was woken and gently pulled down from the horse by Calderón. The sleep had done him much good - his hands had stopped shaking for the moment, and while his head still throbbed, his thoughts settled into something more like precision than anything he had experienced since the fight with Prideaux.

Padstowe was in a bad state. Once the priest and Calderón had helped Stephen up the stairs, they settled him on a bed in a room facing east, and Stephen, glad to have vomited and washed some of Prideaux's blood from his face and hands, sat in a chair by his bedside. Blood was still dribbling from the wound - that was the primary concern. Padstowe was cold and clammy to the touch, his lips were cracked, and his pulse was thready, and for all his brave, cheerful talk, Stephen could sense he was worried - the beginning stages of desanguination.

"José, might I have a needle and thread, a candle, and the small leather roll in the saddle bag?"

"I'm sorry if I got the papers a little dirty," Padstowe said. On removing his coat and shirt they'd found that the blood had soaked down to mark the top corners of most of the pages, though nothing more than a few flecks marked the writing and so were still perfectly legible. Another couple of hours might have seen a different story.

He watched as Calderón handed Stephen the roll and the doctor took out a needle and tested its point. He swallowed, more from his throat feeling dry than nerves, and shivered again.

"Though perhaps they have more of my own blood than I do?"

"They will match the booklet I took out." Stephen smiled down at his patient. "A minor case of desanguination, but never fear - I have seen boys half your size lose twice as much blood - the symptoms have merely been exacerbated by exertion."

Many patients wanted no idea of the doctor's actions during an operation, but a man as intelligent and controlling as Jonathan would probably prefer to know, so as he cleaned his forceps, Stephen said to him, "Now, I will take just over a minute to extract the ball; it is in flesh only, and should come out as easy as kiss my hand. Then alcohol to clean it - José, there's a thought, please to ask Father for the use of some spirits - and then stitching up. The extraction and the alcohol will be painful, so I ask you to bite on this belt for me, but after that, you will feel the pain diminish immediately and dramatically, and after a solid meal and a few hours' sleep you will have returned to your usual, charming pink self."

He put his hand on Padstowe's good shoulder. "Are you ready?"

Padstowe shivered, and licked his lips.

"May I have a drink first? There is some brandy in my canteen... you may use it to wash out the wound as well if you like." He gave a weak smile. "That way I shall not earn the Father's ill-feeling by taking his spirits."

"I would suggest water, if you are thirsty, considering the effect of alcohol of the blood vessels." Stephen looked up briefly as Calderón went out to the horses again, and then turned back to Jonathan. "You will need to sleep afterwards, that is essential, and so I would recommend some laudanum. We will be safe here. It will ease the pain. Please."

Padstowe looked up at Stephen, saw the concern in his face, but shook his head gently.

"No. I know you mean kindly, but no."

He licked his lips again.

"But water - or anything - I would still like, if you please."

Stephen wondered if he ought to press further, but he could see that Padstowe was certain in this. He poured a cup of water and passed it into Jonathan's good hand, and then poured one for himself.

He wasn't shivering, but a definite chill had settled over him. As soon as the operation was over, he would take some laudanum himself, for his leg and chest and head. He wondered when they would rendez-vous with the men Padstowe had picked, but decided to save the question. "Now?" The operation would not take long at all, but Stephen did not know how long his strength would last, and did not wish to put it to the test.

Padstowe took a few steady sips of water, gratified to feel it running down the inside of his throat, the sensation also helping to calm him. He took another mouthful, swallowed and handed the cup back to the doctor. He nodded, and took the offered belt between his teeth and braced himself.

Stephen, taking a deep breath, nodded to Calderón, who grabbed Padstowe's arms above the elbows and pushed down, hard. Stephen stretched his fingers and then leaned over, his nose an inch from the wound. The closeness of the gun when it had been fired had made a bloody mess of the flesh around the bullet, but it had opened the skin to such an extent that he could see a slight leaden gleam even now. He pressed one of the clean clothes to the wound, and as the blood came flowing into the small cavity again he saw the ball. He used the forceps to push aside the flesh to the right of it, ignoring the noise Padstowe made - the ball was resting on a nerve, which must be what was causing the numbness. Once he removed it, life would flood back in Padstowe's arm; Calderón would need to hold tight. It was wedged tight under the acromion - he thanked God that it had not shattered it.

Stephen gently manuveured the claws of the forceps around the ball - better to take longer than the promised minute than risk disturbing the nerve - and once he was sure he had a firm enough grasp, he softly said, "Now." Then he wrenched his hand upwards.

Padstowe gasped, his eyes wide and a hoarse cry ripped from his throat. He had done his best through the doctor's probing to keep still, to fight against the sharp insistant agony that seemed to him as if his shoulder were being probed by a white-hot poker, nothing but a whimpering coming out as he bit hard into the belt.

But then the doctor made a sudden sharp move, almost ripping the forceps of the skin and in that moment his entire being was possessed by pain, the cry ripped from him as the forceps had been - but already the pain was subsiding, becoming far less as the cloth was pressed down over the wound.

Padstowe lay there panting, his jaw clenched around the leather, his vision clouded by pain and unspent tears. Was it over? Was it over?

Stephen gripped Jonathan's right hand with his spare left one - the right was pressed hard to his shoulder with a clean rag. "There, my dear, well done. The ball is out. Only the alcohol now-" he said this as he poured it, and then spread himself across Padstowe as he arched, his weight moving from his left leg to the captain's chest. "Over. It is over."

Calderón stood up, taking the belt from Padstowe's mouth. Stephen fell back into the chair, his leg throbbing, and held the needle out to the priest, who threaded it - his hands were shaking again. He took a shuddering breath, and then bent over the shoulder - as clean as could be, he noticed triumphantly. With the blessing, it would heal wonderfully. He made the stitches quickly, while Padstowe was too far under to notice them, and after knotting the final one, he cut the thread with a lancet. He was not a superstitious man, but he felt an aversion towards using the catling in this.