Setting Sail - Berry

Paget was drifting in and out of something approaching unconsiousness. Edrington's attempt to move his head into a more comfortable position left him with blood on his palm. He was looking at this with increasing consternation when he heard the hiss of air from behind, showing that the Marine had succeeded in dismantling the Girandoni. There was an odd surge of relief, which increased when seconds later the man announced that the surgeon was indeed coming. "It will be all right now, Sir. Just take it easy."

He looked back up at the Marine. "It's still got 19 balls in it," he said. "But it won't fire without the air. We can unload it when we're back on deck. I am sure Lord Paget will have no objection to your examining it more closely." The man even deserved a chance to fire it, but Edrington was loath to see it fired again. And anyway, no-one would want to recharge the air-reservoir. "The guns can be cleaned down there, too." Cleaning his pistols was something he could do himself, a routine, mindless job.

Thompson was glad he'd put it down; he would have dropped it had it still been holding it. "Nineteen balls still in it? My lord?" He would like to ask further, perhaps examine it closer, but it wouldn't do now, with the cavalry officer in a faint.

Not that someone of his station could ask a milord about weapons and things freely, anyway.

And there was a pair of pistols to clean, too.

"Would you like me to clean your pistols for you, my lord?" he asked, and bit his lip, surprised at his temerity. He hoped he wouldn't get chewed out for that, either by the Colonel or, (more likely) by his Captain, later.

Leat raised his eyebrows at Thompson's statement. The Marine was staying oddly calm in the situation - but for that matter, so was he. He saw that MacKintosh was making his way up the rigging, closely followed by his loblolly boy who was carrying his bag. It was already crowded up here, and though most of the gun cases had already been swung down the doctor would need more space. He glanced at the captain. Dwerry should not be up here; it was not his place and most likely would not be able to help anymore - perhaps even hinder MacKintosh with his presence. Edrington was doing a good job of reassuring the injured Paget, but apart from lowering the remaining cases Thompson was not doing anything.

"Sir," he said to the captain. "Might I suggest that Thompson and yourself descend to the deck whilst Dr. MacKintosh assesses the damage? It would be wise to give him more room to complete his examination."

It was good of the man to offer. There was a kindness in him that warmed some of the shock that still chilled Edrington when he thought of the accident and the possible consequences. The surgeon, now pulling himself up onto the maintop, was already looking towards his patient, and Edrington rose and stepped away again, to stand beside the Marine, against the mast.

"We can do them together. And the Manton that Lord Paget fired. Another exceptional piece. Unless that gentleman" - a gesture of the head towards the kneeling surgeon - "requires me to be there, while he repairs what I did." A horrible thought, but possibly Paget would be reassured by the presence of another Army officer. Or probably not, in the circumstances.

Leat's words of dismissal to the Marine made him realise that at some stage he too would have to return to the ground. But first, it was his duty to remain behind and keep Paget quiet, possibly in ways that the poor surgeon would be unwilling to use on so senior an officer. "We'll deal with the Girandoni then, too," he said quickly, before returning to Paget's side.

Thompson recognised the dismissal for what it was and moved to begin his descent before pausing. "With respect, sir, hadn't I best take the muskets down with me? You won't want to carry on with firing after what's happened, and they'll only be in your way."

"Very well, then. If you would take the muskets down as well, Thompson."

Edrington had seen muskets used as makeshift splints, but presumably that would not be necessary here. But the leg would have to be secured before Paget was lowered, to prevent more damage, whether or not the bones were touched. The surgeon completed his cursory examination of the leg, and seemed momentarily more concerned with the General's state of consciousness, having discovered on his own the bleeding scalp wound. He was speaking softly, and Paget's responses did not totally reassure him. Edrington was not surprised when Dr MacKintosh announced that the seamen must prepare to lower his patient to the deck, and that someone must prepare a place where he could operate.

"It might be best if we use your cabin," the surgeon said, looking at the Captain. "Until I see what damage has been done, it is vital that I have light, and air, and space. It would be a disgrace if the man who commanded the Cavalry at Sahagún were to lose that leg because of inadequate treatment by the Royal Navy!"

Thompson took the two spare muskets and slung them over his shoulder along with his own. He moved over to the lubber's hole. He could manage the futtock shrouds with just one musket, but he didn't want to risk it weighed down with three.

The surgeon seemed to have everything in hand, and he paused to look at Edrington.

"Will you be all right comin' down, my lord?" he asked.

It was a good question, but the answer - that he was dreading that almost as much as explaining the accident to its victim - stuck in his throat. "I'll stay while Lord Paget is here. After that," he grimaced. "No doubt some seaman will keep an eye on me. For two army officers to have accidents on the same day might damage the Berry's reputation."

"If you're sure, sir." He glanced at Lieutenant Leat. He didn't want to delay much longer; he already had an order to carry out, but he was a little concerned for the Colonel. "Only you'll need to come down at some point, and there's no reason to have a sailor come up just for that. And it'll give Mister MacKintosh a bit more room."

If he didn't stop talking soon, there'd be trouble. He adjusted the muskets and waited for Edrington's reply.

It was more than tempting. It allowed him to leave in good time, and with someone who clearly did understand the problem - and was not intending to embarrass him by mentioning it outright. Dr MacKintosh and the loblolly boy were working to secure the leg, and Paget was at least quiet. The surgeon looked up as he hesitated. "Go, man. You're no use to me here. And make sure the Captain has his cabin ready. Use your rank if you have to."

Relieved, Edrington turned back to the Marine. "That would be excellent. Thank you. I will follow you." He hoped that if, as on the descent before, he froze, the muskets would not prevent the young Marine offering a helping hand. It took little more than that - just a hand as a point of balance. He would not need to be lowered by ropes or carried down.

Thompson didn't need telling twice. He eased through the lubber's hole, trying not to catch a musket on the edge. Once through, it would be easy enough. He moved down the ratlines a little and waited for the Colonel to follow him. He hoped it wasn't obvious that he'd picked the windward shrouds to descend, though he doubted an Army officer would appreciate the difference it made.

"You all right there, sir?" he asked, and silently berated himself. He'd done so well, remembering he was a lord...

To think that he had been proud of his abilities on the way up! The first stretch was the easiest: the vertical ropes were close together, which made sliding the foot down one to find the next step simpler. As he moved he looked up at the maintop. It had been recommended to him before, to look up, not down, even on the descent. You could never see your feet, anyway, nor the next foothold. But there was an additional reason for looking up. His concern for Paget had been great enough, but the Doctor's words about the possibility of Paget's losing the leg were now beginning to sink in. The image of Paget, the cavalry officer and sportsman, without his right leg was - unthinkable.

The thought carried him down a few more feet without considering his own difficulties. He became aware of this achievement at the very moment that his left foot missed the rope below while the right slipped from its hold. His hands gripped the ropes, but left him foolishly spreadeagled against the rigging. Not quite dangling, since the ship was leaning over, but if that changed... It was also difficult to scrabble his way back up with only stretched arms as levers.

Thompson felt the rigging move awkwardly and looked up to see Edrington hanging there. Quickly he climbed back up.

"Beg pardon, my lord," he said. "I ain't going to pull, just move your foot up a bit." He made sure he had a firm grasp of the shrouds with his right hand before letting go with his left to take hold of the officer's boot and move it to a ratline. He did the same with the officer's other foot and moved back down a couple of rungs.

"Just take a breath and then start moving again and you'll be fine."

Once both feet were firmly placed again, Edrington craned his neck to look down into the concerned face. "Thank you," he said, his breathing steady, although his pulse seemed to be less reliable.

A random thought gave him a brief excuse to rest, before attempting to put Thompson's advice into practice. "The 62nd - my regiment - started out serving as Marines, back in the 1750s. I really don't think that I would have been of any use at all." He grinned down. His awareness that the Marine was watching him, and watching out for him, gave him confidence. At one point he felt the pressure of the Marine's hand on his foot, directing it up to the rope he had missed. A look back up to the top showed figures still moving around. The deck took on the look of a place he could reach under his own power, rather than somewhere to break his fall. He was aware of eyes, and gritted his teeth as he followed the Marine down the last few rungs.

"Nearly there, my lord." Thompson had had to move his lordship's foot a couple of times when he'd shifted it down to far, but apart from that there hadn't been any real problems. He hadn't frozen, which was the one thing Thompson had been afraid of. "Just a couple more steps to go and you'll be down safe."

Skirmishers might have to scramble over rocks and mountain sides. Infantry marched on the level, on an incline, perhaps, but never vertical. As a weakness it hardly ever affected him - only when he stupidly volunteered to climb in the rigging. He remembered the panic on the first occasion, as he froze, refusing to release his fingers, even when he was assured that he was perfectly safe. It had been possible that it would have happened again. It would have happened if not for the constant presence and care of the Marine.

As he reached the deck his pulse began to slow to somethng more normal. "I'm more grateful than I can say," he said. "Thank you for your kindness. If that is a term that doesn't offend you."

But his eyes were drawn again to the maintop. What was happening up there?

"That's quite all right, sir. My lord, I mean." Why could he never remember the officer's title?

"And it used to scare me something awful when I first went to sea. You get used to it, though."

He bent to sort out the gun-cases, which had been untied from the whip but left in a heap on the deck.

He would really have to tell the Marine to stick to using one or the other title. Both was - excessive. But he nodded. "If you have to, you can get used to most things. I think I ought to remember that I don't have to get used to scrambling about in the rigging."

And it might have been an excellent idea if he had remembered it before this afternoon. If he'd stayed firmly on deck in the first place, none of this would have happened. He looked up again.

"I must speak to the Captain's steward about getting the cabin ready, as the Doctor asked. It will certainly be better than any of the usual facilites I've seen on ships." That was not a very happy thought: that those usual facilities were good enough for Marines and seamen, but not for Lieutenant General Lord Paget. But that was the way things went.

He had agreed to help clean the pistols, and show Thompson the Girandoni, but that would have to wait until after he'd seen the steward, and confirmed that Lord Paget was being properly treated. "I'll be back once - once things are in hand. You can leave the pistols until then."

[OOC: I really don't know how to get Paget down, but I think this might work, so I'm trying it.]

Leat watched Edrington's precarious descent and silently thanked Heaven that Thompson had been there to help him. One of the army officers had alreay suffered, but two... Two and he did not doubt that Captain Dwerry would be held responsible, or that the men would start to think the Berry an unlucky ship. For a moment he wondered which would be worse. He turned back to Mackintosh, who had removed Paget's boot and stocking, was busy tying a bandage around the wound. Paget himself had gone strangely pale and it looked as if he had fainted.

"Can he be moved?"

MacKintosh looked up, his grey eyes serious.

"Aye, he can be and he must, as I'll tell you now I can't get the ball out up here, sir. We have to get him back down."

Leat nodded. Yes, it would have to be, wouldn't it? Several of the topmen had stopped their work to watch the proceedings, despite the threats of the bosun, and he called out to two of these.

"Matthews, Simpson! Get on deck and rig the bosun's chair for His Lordship. Lively now! Dr. MacKintosh needs to remove the ball as soon as possible."

(OOC: yes, I think that'll work!)

"The Captain's cabin, is it?" He glanced at the sentry by the cabin door. "Private McEwen'll let you in, if you tell him why." He unslung the three muskets he was still carrying. "And I've got these to put away. I'll see to your pistols and things when I've done that, if you want, my lord."

Finally, he'd remembered the Colonel's proper title first time.

"See to the Manton first, if you would. That's the shotgun that Lord Paget used. And keep the Girandoni by you. We'll have a look at it later. I'd be interested to examine it more closely." And I'm sure you would too, he thought, as he spoke briefly to the sentry. They'd need trestles and boards to make a long operating table - over 6 foot, for the tall cavalryman. The surgical equipment he would leave to MacKintosh, unless he ordered them to bring everything. But he could demand lots of hot water and towels. No, probably not towels - that was a memory from a visit home in '04 which coincided with his sister-in-law's confinement. But hot water must be a good thing. He gave orders to the steward who passed them on, with a great deal of curiosity. Once things were underway, he paused and considered his own appearance - dishevelled, with blood on his shirt and breeches, and rather tense. And as yet, the details of what happened on the maintop would not have filtered down the deck level.

"Aye, aye, my lord."

As Edrington turned away to speak with the sentry and arrange things for the surgeon, Thompson was left to deal with the weaponry. The Manton he could carry along with the muskets, but he couldn't cope with the pistols and the other gun - a Girandoni, Edrington had called it, hadn't he? - as well.

He had a quiet word with McEwen, and left the pistols and Girandoni with him, where the sailors wouldn't mess around with them, and went to put the muskets away and give the Manton to Paget's servant and tell him what had happened.

Paget found his thoughts skipping about in the oddest way, and he was not quite sure that this was actually happening to him. Perhaps he had dreamed it all up. He felt very warm, and now that the pain in his leg was changing to something less sharp, he thought he might very well just drift off. He had forgotten his boots. Paget gave a slow half-smile to Edrington at the other man’s reassurances, but when the other man barked at Dwerry he nearly told him not to fuss himself so much. It surely wasn’t that big of a deal. Hadn’t Edrington himself just said that things would be all to rights soon?

All the same, he rather wished that Edrington had not stood up. He very much wanted the other man to tell him what had happened. Fortunately he was not going away, and soon returned. Unfortunately he was trying to move Paget’s head, and that hurt, rather vaguely, but it hurt, and he mumbled something to stop the man. It was a good deal easier just to sit back and let it happen, though. He trusted Edrington, and said so.

Soon after - Paget was not quite sure how much time it was, but it was not very long, he thought - there was another fellow there. This one was a stranger. Paget did not bother his head much about him, until he started poking around his leg. A stab of agony flared up and broke him out of the rather pleasant state of relaxation. “God damn your nonsense, sir!” Paget tried to say, but he found the words alarmingly muddled in a way he had certainly not intended. At that, the surgeon left off the leg and began prodding around his head instead, and asking Paget a bunch of bloody silly questions, such as “Who is in command in Portugal?” “Sir John Moore, you fool,” was what Paget meant to say, but once again it did not sound quite right. In fact, it sounded quite wrong to him, but he did not want to bother his head about something unimportant like that.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” tried the surgeon. “How the deuce should I know when you keep waving them around like that?” Paget said with an air of tired irritability, like a man woken up who wished nothing more than to turn over and go back to sleep. MacKintosh’s fingers were rather fuzzy, and why should Paget care about that in any case?

The man kept on asking him these ridiculous questions, and all of a sudden Paget realised that Edrington was leaving him alone. Alone, with this fool of a Naval man! “Damn it, man, don’t go,” he tried to ask, but the surgeon drowned him out and Edrington could not hear him. The Earl was already going down through the lubber’s hole.

Fatigue was coming back over him and he subsided into a passive silence, his mind going rather blank. He was rudely shaken out of it. MacKintosh begun meddling with Paget’s leg again, and it burned like the blazes. He tried to get up to fight off the man, but for some reason he found himself alarmingly drained of energy, and his head was feeling increasingly muffled. MacKintosh refused to listen to any of Paget’s mumbled protests, and summoning up a few scraps of energy Paget kicked at him with his good leg.

"Well, he's still alive," MacKintosh murmured as Paget's good leg twitched. "How's that chair coming along?"

"All set, sir," said Matthews.

"Let's get him into it, then. Stand aside if you please, Mr. Leat, sir."

Leat did as he was told, slipping round the other side as Paget was handled as carefully as possible into the bosun's chair.