2 June; Sick-berth

That idiot Shriver needed sorting.

The other big Marine was tolerated by the others, for the most part, but the tantrum Shriver'd thrown after musket drill was more than many of them could stand. Just because somebody had accidentally trod on his shoes during the night when turning out for sentry, thereby kicking the shoes across the deck. He'd been clumsy and slow throughout the entire drill, doing his best to knock into the men around him.

It wouldn't have been so bad had not Shriver literally thrown his musket down shortly after stamping onto the messdeck. The firelock had knocked one of the Shepherds' drums clattering. Branning, being Branning, had moved to retrieve the drum and the scattered sticks. It was his nature to do so, just as it was Shriver's nature to create such a flap.

Shriver's shoe coming down heavily onto his outstretched fingers was plenty enough to tip Branning's easy mood into temper. He ignored the grinding pop in his hand from the impact as he came up quickly, applying a closed fist to Shriver's jaw.

Corporal Johnson arrived a heartbeat later, before Shriver had a chance to recover. "What's all this?"

"Bastard swung on me," Shriver answered sulkily, glaring at Branning. "Was only pickin' up me musket."

His right hand throbbed mercilessly. Branning straightened up to attention as best he could. "He stepped down onto me hand, Corp'ral," he said flatly.

Johnson scowled. "Let's see it." He looked carefully at Branning's hand for a moment before shrugging. "Get down to the surgeon. I'll sort you both afterward. You, Shriver. Quit your bloody sulkin'!"

"Aye aye, Corp'ral." Branning didn't regret taking that swing. He left his discarded musket in Ware's care and headed forrard, cradling his injured hand.

"You're a bleedin' disgrace to that there red coat you'm wearin'," Thompson said shortly, scowling at Shriver. He'd taken several knocks from the bigger man's musket at various points during the morning's drill, and his own patience was wearing thin. He turned to get his drill jacket from his shared sea-chest and let the lid close with a bang.

Shriver curled his lip. "Shut it," he snapped. "Or it'll be you next!"

"Both of you shut it," Johnson barked. He liked Shriver least, of every man in the detachment. "You 'specially, Shriver."

Sorting little bottles and tools on the table was a good distraction to the pain hie was beginning to feel again. Had he not knocked into one of the sharp edges of the said table with his bum when misjudging the dinstance, perhaps the aching would have become later. But no, he was clumsy and unused to the life in the sick bay as one who worked, rather than one who lay down and be tended to. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. Above all that, he was sleepy too but at least his mood did not go down so low as the bilge water.

There, all sorted, most of it wiped clean and ready for use, should a man enter with his arm in need to be hacked. He heard Branning approach sooner than he had seen him. A lumbering brute, he was in truth a fairly good soul. He arched a brow, gazing at the large shape appearing at the door. He eyed him sceptically, searching for an injury or a sign of ill feeling.

There. He was clutching at his hand, was he not? "..Branning?" He inquired and wondered if he needed to call Mister Farley.

His hand throbbed miserably. Something inside it had popped out of place, or so it felt. Moving it hurt worse. If such a thing was possible. Branning cradled the hand gingerly, not daring even to twitch his fingers. This was a different sort of pain to being grazed by a musket ball.

"Aye," he said, nodding in greeting. "What's you doin' here'bouts?"

"Doin' m' service ter t' surgeon." He answered pointing Branning to take a seat on the table. "I'll get Mister Farley. You just wait, a'right?" He turned to glance at his hand. "..how'd you get that done to?"

The table creaked under Branning's weight.

"Shriver," he replied blandly. "You likin' it up forrard here?"

"...can't be of use elsewhere." He hesitated and glanced at the tools he left spread. He would have to put them back into their boxes, soon. "Heard Shriver's... an ....a daft one." He turned quickly. ".. Don't move, will ya." He said and then moved to fetch Mister Farley.

"Mister Farley, sir!" He called, thinking he he knew where he had seen him last. If only the man did not go off for some fresh air, while he was not looking. "Mister Farley, we've got an injured one!"

Branning shrugged. "Ever'body's got a use," he told the lad. Even Shriver.

"Yes?" The surgeon appeared within a few seconds. He had probably been in the dispensary.

"A marine's got his hand busted,... what looks like." The boy spoke, glancing towards the said patient. "Needs lookin' to. N' I finished with them things you tole me to cleaned n' all."

"Good lad." Mister Farley nodded his thanks to the boy, then focused his attention on the man's hand. "Let's see what we have here."

Branning hissed involuntarily when the surgeon touched his hand, even lightly. "Had it stomped on, sir," he reported.

De Guarde could not help himself. He was curious to see what Branning's injury looked like. He did not feel squeamish about it , which helped. Moving closer to peer at the hand, he tilted his head a bit to the side then as if remembering quickly left to return with a lantern so that mister Farley would have as good a look at the injury as he could.

He kept his mouth shut, though he itched to ask all sorts of questions. Even so, being complimented in a way made him smile brightly.

The surgeon was poking carelessly at his hand, as if he was unaware how badly it hurt. Branning made himself sit quite still. He didn't dare move, lest he injure himself more.

"Well, it's certainly broken," Mister Farley announced at last. "It must be splinted. You know where those materials are, my lad?" The question was directed at De Guarde.

De Guarde paused briefly, nodded and hung the lantern close to the pair. There was no surprise that a hook had been placed in such proximity to the table on which Branning was now seated. He hurried to fetch the materials that Mister Farley had asked for. Strips to bind it later, something to have the fingers set against. A pair of medical scissors, he thought that Mister Farley might want. More things even.

The bundle he held carefully in his arms, as he navigated around in the narrow space, minding himself. "Sir." He held the collected forward for inspection.

Broken? Damn. That meant light duties. Branning disliked not being able to work. It wasn't natural.

"Good lad," Mister Farley said to his assistant. "I don't suppose you have ever set a broken appendage before?"

"No, sir." He had not. He might have played with broken things, setting them together, but those and a broken finger, hand or arm was something completely uncomparable. A finger, for one, had bones, flesh, skin and it felt pain. It would swell up if something was done wrong and who knows what else. But he was willing to try and assist, if Mister Farley thought he was able.

Again he found himself smiling. Mister Farley called him a good lad again, and while to many others this would mean nothing, it had the boy's feel more comfident and happier, indeed. "What do y' need me t' do , sir?"

Branning watched, fascinated, as the surgeon prepared the splint. This was going to hurt, he knew it, yet somehow he could do no more than stare.

"Take that piece of wood, there," Mister Farley instructed, keeping Branning's injured hand in a loose grip. "And place it evenly against his palm."

"A'right." The boy did as told, keeping the wood bit evenly against the palm of Branning's hand, careful not to cause some discomfort - though he doubted he would be successful in that - and careful even more, not to cause more distress to the wound itself. It was the surgeon's right to do that, because he knew what to do. He peered closer. He wanted to ask something, but decided it could wait for when Branning was out of earshot. It was about the man's injury.

He shifted his hold just a little, so as to make the wooden support rest better against the man's hand and looked expectantly at Mister Farley.

Despite being fully aware of what was happening, Branning winced as the bones in his hands shifted when the flat piece of wood was carefully pressed against his open palm.

"Hold your fingers straight, Private," the surgeon instructed. "Make sure that splint keeps his wrist from moving too."

"Yes, sir." The boy answered and shifted his other hand to take a firm grip on Branning's wrist. He surely he need not do that, but he wished to take no chances. Especially if Branning would jerk his arm away, from the pain.

He smiled, fully attentive to what was going on and what Mister Farley was meaning to do.

The big Marine hissed quietly but didn't so much as twitch a muscle. It hurt like blazes though. Keeping still was not easy.

"Steady, my lad," Mister Farley said calmly. He had picked up the long trailing band of linen. "Wrap this carefully around his hand, starting from the fingers."

Him? He meant that he should start wrapping the hand? De Guarde looked somewhat nervously at Mister Farley, but when he saw that the man meant it he slowly nodded. Poor Branning. "How tight, sir?" He asked. It took him a few tries to get the linen pressed into submission, so it did not slip off of Branning's fingers each time he wanted to make another turn about his fingers with it. In the next try though he succeeded and then moved it rather loosely over the finger and then under it, across the wooden 'plank'.

"Firm will do, but not so tight it causes pain."

That would be a neat trick, Branning thought. The thin linen hurt plenty just brushing against the top of his hand.

Instead of pulling tight on the linen all of a sudden the lad increased the pressure on it at a moderate slowness. Having thus done so, he kept the same amount of tension in the fabric as he moved it about the fingers, working his way down towards the palm. He did not dare look at Branning, but remained alert for any voice of caution or correction, that would come from Mister Farley.

He was just a few turns from the knuckles when he released a breath he had not known he was holding. "Up till wrist, sir?" He asked. This was going better than he thought it would.

The surgeon watched with keen interest. "Yes. Nicely done."

For his part, Branning had a sudden overpowering urger to flex his fingers.