After the refit

"Not down here, it wouldn't." Thompson was able to reach the deck-head himself, on his own two feet, never mind on Branning's back.

"Look, if someone just gives me a hand, I'll hop. All right?"

"Move yerserlves there!" A petty officer cried from above them.

Branning made a face. "C'mon then," he said and held out his arm.

Westdale squitched once, promising himself he'd go down and look at the report later, out of a mild interest.
"Well, then, best of luck, mate. And no doubt we'll have ter carry yer sacks fer t'rest of the day."

He grinned suddenly, "And drink fer ye, too, you know. To make it even, like."

"I din't go fer to do it, y'know, Westdale," Thompson said.

This really was most undignified, and highly embarrassing. He put his arm round Branning's waist. "Right. Let's get there, then."

Allen glanced up upon hearing the petty officer's shout. It wouldn't do for all of them to go about shirking their duty when Branning could help Thompson perfectly fine by himself.

"Hang in there, mate," he said to Thompson, giving him a hopeful smile.

Then he turned his attention back to his abandoned sack, picking it up again and slinging it onto his shoulders.

"Mister Crozier's ashore though," Billy informed them.

Finally. Branning waited an extra moment to make sure Thompson was steady enough on his foot before moving forward.

"Ain't gonna be fun, this."

Barrow's comment stopped him cold. "He's... what."

"Not back till tomorrow."

Westdale looked over his shoulder. "Well, what about M'Clure, then? he about?"

He added, apologetically, "It's a long way ter row, either one fo them, ter met t'other."

"Aye," Billy agreed. One of the boys was running past carrying a little sack. "Danny, fetch M'Clure and tell him Thompson's hurt his ankle."

Not good, at all. "Bloody hell. I'll sort it out meself then, only I ain't got a necker to tie it up with."

And Crozier could say what he wanted when he got back. And the Westdale piped up, reminding them that M'Clure was still aboard.

"M'Clure's got to be better than Bridgens, at any rate. But can we get where we're goin' some time today?"

"Jus' waitin' on yer wee scrawny self t'move," Branning said.

M'Clure was happily surrounded by lists when the knock came, ticking things off as he'd been told to do.
So he grumbled as he answered. "T'Dr ain't here...." and found himself being poured out a breathless tale of a crowded ladder, and sacks everywhere.
A sore ankle. well, that could hardly be hard. "Well, since you delivered so well, you can carry these 'ere bags fer me, if ye please." he thrust a black bag into the boys arms, retracing the steps towards the disastor zone. They'd probably meet on the way, as seemed to happen frequently in these sorts of cases, unless a sore ankle had actually been a broekn one.

"Comin', mate. An' jest who're you callin' scrawny, yer daft lummock." He was grinning as he said it, though, despite the pain. Branning was a good sort, reliable and solid as they came, in all senses of the word.

He gritted his teeth, and tightened his grip. "Right. Dammit."

This was just plain embarrassing. He tried to blank out the faces gawping at him as he took the first hop on the way to the sickbay.

And here came the bosun. Billy quickly hurried back to work before Watts started yelling. "What the bloody hell is all this? Get back to work, you loafers!" But at least the surgeon's mate was following in his wake. Best to leave them all to their work, Billy thought, and headed back up topside.

Well, the scattering of a crowd had, for years, been an indication of where the patient was to be found. Judging by the few heavy thumps, he would soon be assessing the damage.

He turned to the boy. "Thankee, lad, ye go and work, now, of ye go." and affixed a smile to his visage, not a big one, but replacing the glower he'd been reminded was inapropriate for patients.

Branning grinned. "S'pose a lummock's better'n a ox," he observed mildly.

Fortunately, the two Marines' awkward progress was stilled by the approach of the surgeon's mate. At last!

One hop at a time. It'd take them to the Second Coming, at this rate. But it seemed someon had had enough sense to actually tell Mister M'Clure someone needed him, because here he came, wearing at least an attempt at a smile.

"Lummock or ox, least y'r heart's in the right place, mate," Thompson observed, leaning on the other Marine, who was about twice Thompson's size. "Y'r a good mate, an' all. Wouldn't swap you f'r all the tea in China!"

"righty-o then. Yer hurt yer ankle, I heard?"

He gestured for the man to lean back against the wall so he could croach down and look at it.
"ANy snap? how much does it hurt? and how did ye hurt it, then?"

Carefully he felt around the area. Certainly it didn't seem broken, whcih was a sign in the right direction. "Move that lamp over here, would you?"

His face flushed at the praise. "So're ya, sure," Branning muttered in reply. Then he frowned. "There's tea in China?"

His attention was distracted from that odd thought by M'Clure's questions. Branning helped hold Thompson up while the surgeon's mate went about his examinations of the injured limb.

Philip muttered absently, "And even if there ain't no tea, whose ter snear at a good saying?"

He looked at Thompson. "Tell me everything ye can bout yer ankle, please."

He was reaching for a roll of bandage as he waited, sure that would be all that was neeeded.

"Fell down the companionway when the lantern went out and the ship decided to send me flyin', Mister M'Clure. Didn't feel anythin' snap, but I gone an' broke the same ankle afore, once, years ago." Doing the same thing, only in a storm which was more understandable.

Twelve years at sea and you do your ankle in takin' a tumble, he thought. George Thompson, you'm a damn fool!

The man was prodding and poking and Thompson almost jerked away. That hurt!

The other Marine shifted as M'Clure pushed his fingers at the injured ankle.

"Steady, mate," Branning chided, reflexively tightening his grip on the man's arm to keep him still.

"I see. Well...Yer right in it don't seem broke, tis sure."

He considered breifly. Maybe he couldthrow a small splint in, just fer good measure. And a drink wouldn't go amiss, probably, either. He stood, a change of plan formulating clearly. That light touch should have caused a bit of pain, yes, but surely not as much as the reaction he'd just got? Clearly it wasn't the light sprain, and this man would be laid up for a bit.
"I'd like ter see ye brought inter t'cabin, though, so's I can see yer clearer, and dose ye up. Stand atween the two of use, arms round shoulders, and yer'll get alon' much faster."

He picked his bag up and stood, awaiting his patient.

"It hurts, though."

Surely the swelling was visible even with a gaiter buttoned up over it?

And why did surgeons and their mates always like poking around right where it hurt most, anyway?

And dose?

"Don't need no dose," he muttered, standing as directed and wishing there was rather less difference between Branning's and M'Clure's heights.