2nd July; Serving a Sentry

"Course he did." Rutland eyed the scene with an air of disgusted resignation. He was probably expected to help this lobster, wasn't he?

"Don't s'pose you've sent fer the surgeon then." It was not a question because he already knew the answer. No surgeon yet until poor Crabtree was in irons. Typical bloody Marine. Especially this one.

"No, I bleedin' ain't. He've only just took his header directly minute," Thompson said shortly, trying to work out whether the lubber had broken his neck in his tumble, or not. "Only now you'm here, I can go an' find him, can't I? Unless you'd rather do it?"

"No," Rutland said flatly. "Your mess, you sort it."

Once this fool was gone, he could hopefully handle this the way it should be handled.

"Fine." The fool was out cold, too, by all appearances. Thompson straightened up, and took his lanthorn. With Rutland's unhelpful attitude, the Corporal couldn't care less about leaving him in the dark.

That was easy enough. Relieved, Rutland reached carefully for Crabtree's neck, and nodded slowly when he did not feel any sign of something broken or out of place. Daft bugger had a head like a rock. He continued his silent, careful patting of the unconscious seaman and found that Crabtree's only obvious injury was a broken arm.

It was something only the surgeon could attend. Damn. He'd hoped to spirit Crabtree off to his hammock and get him away from that over-dutiful Marine. That one was dangerous, without a doubt.

Thompson did not particularly want to knock the surgeon up at this time of night, but without doing so, there was no way he was going to risk moving anyone who'd taken the sort of tumble that that sailor had.

Top to bottom of a companionway like a lubber. If the fool hadn't broken something, Thompson would be surprised.

At least the surgeon wasn't going to hang around, once the Marine had explained what had happened, which was something.

After treating his last patient who seemed to have swelling of the genitalia as a result of climbing up and down the ropes of the ship, Russell had settled himself down in his quarters to make additions to his doctoral notes and to re-organise them for the seventh time that day (though no one was really counting), ensuring each and every page was perfectly lined together, out of the reoccurring feeling that something was amiss, despite the fact that he had no proof anything was in such a way.

That was always how he was, making much ado about nothing but thankfully even his worrying and making much of muchness tired him out enough for him to doze off at his desk for the night whilst still dressed in his horribly stitched clothing. Of course, that was until there was a knock at the door.

Russell jolted in his seat, waking into a muzzy discomfort and proceeded to rub his eyes as if that would make the world much clearer to him. “Who is there?” he demanded, sounding like a grumpy child that had been awoken from his afternoon nap. He went over and opened the door, not caring to hide the cranky expression on his face.