Crozier's Operation

The boat lurched against a wave, and Stephen looked first to Crozier, lying still and shaved in front of him on his special stretcher, then the sharpened roll of tools in his arms, the handle of the trephine digging into his ribs, and the canteens of water nudging his ankle. He looked up to the Terpsichore - a splash of dove-grey between reds told him that Raoul, Padstowe and the Marine guard were still on the quartedeck; he gave them a reassuring smile in case anyone had lent them a spyglass.

Quinn wasn't sure of the wisdom of bringing Shriver along on this trip, but it would have been foolhardy to have left him behind, even though the Frenchman had not objected to having a Marine stay with him. Quinn much preferred the untrustworthy element among his men where he could see them. And, to be fair, his punishment was over and done with, and this was as good a way of any of showing that. You didn't take men you couldn't trust with you when you went ashore, after all, and Marines had to be more trustworthy than most.

They were not expecting trouble; Figuera de Foz was, as far as Quinn understood it, a friendly place. And they weren't planning on being here for much longer than it would take Doctor Maturin to complete his operation to his satisfaction. He looked at the doctor, sitting beside Barrow, and remembered back to his time in Sophie when this man had been persuaded to go to sea as their ship's doctor.

Things had changed a bit since then, hadn't they?

Stephen looked up and caught Quinn looking at him; he smiled back politely. It had taken him a moment of bemused staring upon coming to the cutter before he realised that Sergeant Quinn had been the newly-promoted Marine Sergeant on the Sophie, bearing the scar on his cheek that Stephen had stitched up after one of Jack's many prize-takings. They had shared that particular happy and surprised expression that shipmates who had liked each other on a former ship gave upon meeting an old shipmate, the delight of the moment usually far greater than the intimacy of the original relationship might have suggested. Stephen pondered on the camaraderie of shared adventeures as he closely watched Crozier's face - was that not what had caused the strange group of conflicted loyalties that he, Padstowe and Raoul had found themselves in, after all?

Transferring Mr Crozier to the boat had gone smoothly, Peter thought. McNish's cradle had been taken down to the sick bay - the men had almost fought over the honour - and brought him back up and along the gangway to the cutter where they had settled it amid the ropes and slides that would reduce the pitch of the waves. The men had watched almost in silence, although a stumble by one of the lads had drawn an hiss from them, as if they willed him not to drop his burden. With Crozier lying there, pale and motionless, Peter had got in to sit by the tiller. It was then that the boat was hoisted on its davits and lowered into the sea, where the others, oarsmen and marines, came down the side of the ship to take their place.

At least it was not far to row, and the fair sailing the Terpsichore had enjoyed had given something of a swell - but not a wild sea. The men bent to their oars willingly, and the coast of Portugal, with the village of Figueira de Foz, got nearer.

Stephen looked towards land, seeing the long stretched of sand and the opening of the river's mouth, with the town itself some distance beyond. He trusted the midshipman and the boat's crew to find a suitable spot to make a landing.

It wasn't as though they were expecting trouble, Quinn reminded himself again. But you never knew, which was why he was here with a small squad of Marines. He had told them that, unlike most landings, they could not simply stand up and jump out of the boat - the danger of kicking Doctor Crozier, however inadvertently meant that they would stay seated until Doctor Maturin was sure his patient was out of harm's way, and then, and only then, could the Marines themselves go ashore to secure the landing site.

Quinn wasn't sure exactly where the nearest French were, but there wasn't much eight men could do if there were French nearby in any great numbers. The Marines' main duty was to deter the sailors from deserting, and as they had all, to a man, been volunteers for this, knowing the urgency of the operation that was going to be performed, Quinn hoped for an easy duty. He tightened his grip on his musket as the boat nosed its way gently in to the beach.

As they came closer M'Clure looked round to ensure there was nothing dropped that they might forget. This promised to be interesting and he had no wish for anything to go wrong and stop him from seeing Dr Crozier get better, or Dr Maturin at work.

He had squished himself up as small as he could, not wanting to accidently get in anyone's way and was anxious as the boat nosed the shore, gentle though it was. THere would be absolutely no knocks to the Doctor if anyone could help it, he knew. though any ignorant buffoon could quite easily do something and not mean to.

First Mister Crozier, then the chair and the ropes, and they could secure Crozier while the armourer began his work... Stephen thought as the boat came to a halt on the shore. He looked again at his patient, the check becoming ahabit; Crozier as still and livid still. "Thank you, Mister Yates," he said. "Mister M'Clure, if you could take the head; Bridgens, the feet."

"Of course sir." and if anything happened while they were setting up, well it was clear it could be taken as his fault, so he stepped carefully.
carefully they arranged themselves, limiting the rocking as they unloaded their fragile cargo. M'Clure reflected absently that after a few more trips like that he'd be in need of a long sleep, instead of in the mood of trying to help. The concentration wasn't something he was enjoying keeping up for too long, but it wasn't about to wane just because he couldn't be bothered to continue.

"Wait, lads, wait for it. Not before Mister Crozier's out of the boat, you don't. Private Shriver, sit down and stay still or I'll string your guts up to the mainyard."

The large Marine Private subsided with a scowl. Quinn was going to have to keep a close eye on him till they were back aboard - as if he didn't have enough to do today.

Stephen dropped into the sea, thanking God that he did not fall over, the water soaking his stockings. "Handsomely, handsomely now..." As Crozier's stretcher was brought up onto the beach Stephen gave the signal for the rest of the equipment to be unloaded, and he kept his roll of instruments in his hands. "We must set the chair where it will not sink into the sand."

Wait for it? Branning tried to hide his disappointment. He wanted to leap out of the boat and wade ashore. Of course he understood why the Marines had to wait, but it didn't stop him feeling just a little impatient to get out of the boat. It would be good to get back onto firm ground again. Maybe there were monkeys or something else interesting out there. Branning wouldn't mind having a pet that didn't prefer officers over Marines.

He glanced over at Sergeant Quinn and hoped they'd be given the order to pile out soon.

There was some firm looking ground just ahead of them and M'Clure stamped at it, pleased to note it wasn't just an illusion.
He glanced back at Dr Maturin, waiting for a sign from him as to whether this spot would be suitable. He was the one who'd be doing the hard work today, after all.

"Is it secure, Mister M'Clure? I want no chance of movement at all..." Stephen walked over the spot indicated, then knelt and brushed away the sand to reveal a relatively even, flat rock. "That will be fine - the chair and ropes here."

The sailors had held the boat steady as the doctor supervised the removal of Mr Crozier's cradle. When they were out of the way, Peter gave the nod to Sergeant Quinn to get his marines out of the boat. Once that was done, they would run it up the beach and carry everything else that the doctor would need...

"Secure as yer could wish, sir."M'Clure assured him, pleased with the easy find.

THe Marines were out of the boat now, and it was being emptied with a surprising speed, no one wanting to miss the chance to be on shore, or to watch the operation, he reckoned.

"Marines!" Quinn was on his feet now that the last of the actual surgical party was ashore. "Secure the area! And remember, Doctor Maturin's got a delicate operation to do and he don't need you lot interruptin' him every five minutes."

He moved for'rard and jumped over the boat's side, careful to keep his musket up to stop it getting wet.

Stephen pointed to two of the rowers. "Forgive me, I do not know your names."

"Jack Young, sir. He's Frank Butcher."

"Thank you; Young, Butcher, I will ask you to help Bridgens and Mister M'Clure in setting Mister Crozier upright in the chair, and lashing him down. I want him as immobile as the figurehead."

"Right you are, sir," said Jack Young, knuckling his forehead, and Stephen sat cross-legged on the sand, unrolling his instruments and taking one of the canteens.

Huzzah! Branning lifted his musket up almost over his head as he heaved himself over the gunwhale. There wasn't much water to splash into, but he made a noble attempt at it before dashing up the beach.

It was good to be ashore again!

As immobile as the figure-head, ay? that promised to be easy enough, with such a willing patient. The four of them set to with a will, ankles, wrists, knees and elbows first, as M'Clure instructed, the head being a more difficult arrangement.
Frank Butcher seemed particularly gifted in the knotting department making neat, firm knots which none of them could move, let alone imagine Dr Crozier moving.

Billy watched with a critical eye, but then his glance strayed to where Dr. Maturin was laying out his tools. Nasty looking instruments they were, too. "Is that... are you going to open his head with that?" he asked, pointing to an amputation saw.

"No, I will use this, the circular saw," said Stephen, picking it up to clean it. "But first I will need to flense- to lift the skin away, and I will use a scalpel for that."

The Marines were supposed to be watching for trouble, of course, but Quinn knew that they'd end up gathered around the doctor and his patient before long. This wasn't like any other operation - they'd keep as far away as they could if Doctor Maturin was taking the man's arm or leg off, after all. There was just something fascinating about the idea of a man having his head opened to bright daylight.

Peter stood by the boat. It was safely above the tideline, and the sailors had been keen to carry things up to where Dr Maturin was preparing to operate on Dr Crozier. Having done so, they had remained, just as the Marines, gathering about the group, tended to be looking inward, to the doctor's activities, rather than out to the dunes to protect them from... Well, as he understood it, they were still south of the line held by the French. This part of the coast should be safe.

Do you really want to watch this? he thought. He ought to - the midshipmen's berth would expect a cut by cut account of what happened. It wouldn't be acceptable for him to say that he hadn't watched. He looked out to the Terpsichore. The ship had not anchored, but was progressing slowly northward. Soon she would tack and come back on the same course ... Or perhaps a bit further out, as she seemed to be moving away from them. He had the signal flare to tell them that the operation was finished and they were about to row back...

Once all his instruments were clean Stephen took off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. "Mister M'Clure, have you any experience with a trephine?"