2 June; Sick-berth

The boy could feel himself straightening a bit with pride. It did not break his concentration, though he did murmur a very soft. "Keep ye hand still, Brannin'." He had not guessed however what the marine had wanted to do, instead he concentrated fully on the hand and binding the linen up all the way over the hand, firmly securing the wooden bit to it.

He was left with a somewhat longer end of cloth, which he could use to do a few more secure turns in the same place or, if Mister Farley decided different, he would have to cut and tuck in somehow.

"Is," Branning replied, a little shortly. Could they not hurry this up? He really needed to flex his fingers.

Meanwhile, Mister Farley nodded his approval of the boy's efforts. "Fine job, my boy. Just a couple more turns, then you may tie the end under the last binding and knot it off."

Had the boy been physically glowing, he would have lit the room by now. But as that was impossible, he just looked more and more confident in what he was doing, and looked almost cheerful and less tense. He wrapped the end around Branning's hand till only a small portion of it was left. He slipped that bit under the last binding and hoping he had understood correctly,made a knot with the end, just as it came around on itself.

Branning did not yet scream, so it could not have been done badly. And Mister Farley told him, he did a good job. The boy kept smiling. He had thought work in the sick bay would not be anything to wish for. But that was in the past, before he knew better. "I'm done, I think, sir."

It was done. Thank God. Branning was finally able to flex his fingers, however slightly owing to the wood slat. The movement made his hand throb with pain anew but at least the urge to twitch his fingers was gone.

Mister Farley nodded again. "So you are. A half-dose of laudanum then. You know how to draw it?"

"I don't think so , sir. Can you tell me and I will do so?" He asked, eager to try on his own rather than to solely observe Mister Farley do it. Showing the innitiative was something, especially as the boy usually prefered to do just so much as he was told if not less. Especially what Tar work had been concerned. There was an occasion when he had done more, asking Chase. But rare, really. The prank did not count.

Laudanum. Branning eyed his newly-splinted hand and hoped he'd be able to return to the messdeck once the sawbones was finished.

"Yes. Fetch the bottle of it, would you? I'll show you." Mister Farley had turned his attention briefly to Branning's splint, which seemed to meet his approval.

De Guarde nodded and hopped down from the table. He scurried quickly towards the shelves and the numerous small wooden boxes, drawers, of which one would contain the said bottle. He winced and bit down a yelp. He'd forgotten his bottom was tender and had the fabric pull across it just a bit too roughly. With his mind back on track, he needed but a moment to study the little knobs and then grip hold of one.

Pulling it back, he fished out the bottle of laudanum. Careful not to drop it - the last thing he needed was to be clumsy - he hurried back towards the surgeon and the marine. He had brought with him, also a glass, uncertain whether the marine might need that. It was almost better to be safe and bring too much, than need to run back again. "Here!"

The lad brought not only the desired bottle, but a glass as well. Mister Farley nodded. "Now. Pour half an inch into the glass. You can measure that, I think?"

"Could do with some rum 'stead, sir?" Branning asked hopefully.

De Guarde ignored Branning. He should feel grateful for some of this. Not every Tar and Marine could get it. If he remembered correctly, and he knew he did, not even he could have gotten it, when he got his first caning on this ship. Albeit, the surgeon was a different one then.

He uncorked the small bottle and began to pour its contents into the glass. When he though it an inch full, he righted the bottle again and raising the glass showed it to Mister Farley. The bottle was still held rather firmly in his other hand.

It looked a little than half an inch, but it would do. Mister Farley accepted the glass and promptly passed it to Branning.

"Drink no more than half," he instructed the Marine.

No more than half. Right. Branning reached up with his splinted hand out of instinct, before blushing and taking the glass with the opposite hand. He sipped carefully, not wanting to take more than the sawbones had told him.

No more than half of it? De Guarde looked startled. Had the Surgeon wanted Branning to drink half of the offered, would he not have asked for half of it to be poured in?

He decided not to question him however, and rather busied himself with corking the bottle. Once it was securely closed again, he glanced up watching Branning sip at the laudanum. The marine would have to get used to using his opposite hand till that one healed. Hopefully it would heal and not need to have fingers or part of it amputated!

"Good lad." The sawbones took the half-empty glass back and set it aside. "You'll be on light duties for some time, until your hand mends. If you'll wait a moment, I will write your officer a note."

Branning blinked and felt disappointed. Light duties. He had been hoping the surgeon could have done better than that.

De Guarde was off at a start again. This time, he had brought the surgeon phis paper, his ink and his quill. He turned and left the two again, but this time to store the bottle of laudanum. He did not think that the amount, half drunk, would be poured back in. But if it happened to be, well he could go and fetch it again.

He bit his lip and tugged at his slops at the back.The damn material. "Light duties's a'right." He murmured noticing the look of disappointment on Branning's face. Whatever did he think he would be getting? Full time rest?

Of course they were all right. If you were badly hurt.

"Maybe. S'just me hand, though." It was broken and hurt like blazes still, but he could move his fingers a little. Enough maybe to hold onto a musket.

"Doctor's orders." He glanced at Mister Farley. "You can't do drills anyhow. With the hand busted. Can't fire neither. " He could have stood sentry but if in the unlikely event that there was a mutiny on board, his busted hand would make him a rather unsafe sentry to have.

"T' less they's disturbed, I think, t' quicker they'll heal, too." And then he quickly shut up. He was just a loblolly boy, he should keep his silence.

That made sense, but Branning didn't like it any better. He shrugged. "I'll bust Shriver's fingers for it," he muttered, lifting his splinted hand experimentally.

"Don't. I don't think we'd like to deal with him as a patient." The excitement was nearly over. Their patient taken care of, there was nobody else waiting in line with an ache, an ailment or an injury that needed to be checked. "Mister Farley. What am I to do with the glass?" He looked at it, still half full.

"Hm? Oh. Pour it back into the bottle, would you? And do not drink any. You have only lately had your own dose." Mister Farley was busily writing, still, and spoke without looking up.

Branning grinned. "But he'd not know good dealin' from bad," he pointed out.

The boy's shoulders sagged a bit. He knew it was stupid to expect that he would be able to drink that, but just pouring it back with the rest? It still felt disappointing. "Yes, sir." He took the glass. Even just a small drop? The surgeon was not looking his way.

No.

He bit his lower lip. Tempting. He looked at Branning and scoffed. "That may be, he'd also not know a surgeon from any other body he'd be wantin' to punch." Or in fact, a loblolly boy. With all the running back and forth, his bum was hurting and the temptation thus so much worse.

He moved to the drawers where he had packed the bottle away, uncorked it. Lifted the glass. Higher than he ought to, then lowered it a little so that it moved to be pressed against the neck of the bottle. Had to pour it back. Damnit, but he had to.

Heh. If Shriver punched the surgeon, he'd be for the grating before he could blink.

"Even he ain't that stupid," Branning said, even though he was not fully confident of the truth of the statement.

"Isn't he.?" There. The last drop of laudanum was back in the bottle and it was corked up. He sighed. After he had stored it away he took the glass and carried it with him. It would be washed and wiped dry before it was returned to it's own designated location as well.

" He looks awful like he'd do it. Though..a marine should know 'im better." He leaned carefully against the table, shifting till he felt himself comfortable. Which was indeed, leaning against his side rather than bottom. "..your hand a'right, there?"

Maybe the lad was right. Maybe Shriver simply was that dumb. It was hard to say.

Branning shrugged. "It ain't fell off, anyways. Hurts though." He flexed his fingers again to test this, and nodded. "Aye. Hurts."

"Do try to move your hand as little as possible," the sawbones admonished. He held out the note. "Take this to your officer and see he reads it. Light duties for a month will suit, I believe. We'll have you here again in a week to see how you're faring."

De Guarde smiled. "N' keep off o' Shriver till then." Silly bugger. Flexing a hurting hand would hurt worse. No surprise there! He should have known better than to try aggravating the injury in that way. He grinned. "Injuries do hurt, usually. " It is the ones that did not hurt, that one needed to worry about.

He moved aside then, and out of the way of Mister Farley. There was Branning now, all taken care of and ready for a month of the same, light work.

Maybe he'd leave the big idiot alone, maybe he wouldn't. Shriver needed sorting somehow.

"Thank you, sir," Branning said to the surgeon, then grinned at De Guarde. "Don't you be gettin' too settled in here, mate. S'no sorta work for a Marine t'be takin' too fer long."

The lad blinked and then grinned. "I'll try t' do my best at that. But you should see t' benefits!" He was joking, and laughed softly to underline that. "So hard t' resist." Though he had to admit, that he was not in no ill favour, since coming to work with the surgeon. It was interesting work, sometimes repetitive and even boring - who would be entertained by cleaning medical tools ? - but it was not so bad. He did hope he did not get a patient, which would be unable to leave his hammock, or one that was too far gone to care for his extremities.

"Jus' couse 'e said you're to come in a week, don't mean you can't visit sooner." He whispered, though he was certain that Mister Farley could have heard it too.