The sick bay

Well, that was all very well... but he hadn't got his clean trousers here, had he?

"I, uh, wasn't fetched my clean trousers yet, sir," he said, hoping that Doctor Maturin wasn't going to give him another talking-to. And he'd have to clean his shoes off as well. Well, it wasn't as though he was rushed off his feet with jobs.

And then Bridgens piped up, much to his relief. "In me sea-chest. Just ask anyone in Marines' part of the messdeck which one's mine an' they'll point it out. Me trousers are folded up with me hat on top. An', thanks."

Richard Bolitho wrote:"I suppose that would be the best thing. I would rather they knew the truth than allow them to keep speculating and spreading rumors. We will also have to inform them that we shall be stopping at Figuera de Foz, in order that Dr. Maturin may be able to perform his operation under the best conditions."

Bolitho sighed, feeling concerned for Crozier and now wondering how the men would take this news.

"Very good, sir," Leat said. "If you'll excuse me, I feel I should seek out Capitaine Des Sablieres - I promised to let him know the moment I heard anything further to CRozier's condition."

"I'll just get those clothes then, doctor." Bridgens stepped out of the sick bay for a moment, only to return and announce, "Doctor Crozier's - Mister Crozier's clothes are in the dispensary, sir, only it's locked." He looked at Dr. Maturin expectantly, as if a man with such medical authority would naturally have it in his power to unlock a door.

"Ah. Key, key..." Stephen mumbled as he quickly rifled through Crozier's pockets to find a small number of keys. "Is one of these the key to the dispensary?"

"Certainly Mr. Leat. Please go and speak with the Capitaine," Bolitho said, "And you have my permission to tell whomever else you think should be informed now. After all, they will all know the truth soon enough."

"Aye, sir."

Leat saluted and then made his way up on deck, leaving his captain outside the sick berth.

Bridgens looked with curiosity at the keys. "Uh... don't know sir. That's a desk key, that looks like... key to his fancy little medicine box, that one over yon. That's - well no, I don't know what key that is. This might be it here, sir. I'll go and try it."

"Pray do that, Bridgens," said Stephen, focussing on checking Crozier's pulse and breathing - again, no change at all.

Bridgens came back a moment later and changed keys. The first one obviously had not worked, but the second did, and soon he returned with a clean nightshirt for his chief. "Here, sir, and I'll just get Thompson's. Back in a minute."

Thompson watched him take Mister Crozier's wrist and hold it for a moment.

"Sir," he said, a little hesitantly, hoping he wasn't going to get snapped at again.. "You said I was to check his breathin' an' p... pulse, if'n you was called away. I c'n check his breathin' easy, but how do I do the other? I just put me hand on his chest earlier, y'see, sir."

"Thank you, Bridgens..." Stephen held up Crozier's wrist. "Place your first two fingers just here, then count. Don't use your thumb, because you will just feel your own pulse; when I was first learning I declared that a corpse had a strong, steady pulse because I was measuring my own." His voice was lighter than it had been. "Do you feel it? The wrist can be more difficult - the chest is just as good, or the jugular, here on the neck. Whichever you find easiest."

Thompson nodded and copied what the doctor had done. He frowned a little before feeling a flicker under his fingers, then nodded as he found it. "I think I got it, sir," he said, and looked up, startled, as the doctor confessed to the mistake he'd made. Doctor Maturin had no great sea-going skills - could fall in between a boat and the ship in a flat calm - but he was unequalled as a doctor in Thompson's eyes. That must have been a very long time ago, considering everything he could do in the medical line.

"I was a year or two older than your friend De Guarde at the time," Stephen answered the unspoken question. "Such a thing would not happen now, of course; in medical matters I am omniscient - all-knowing, Thompson. Now, stay there, and tell me if there is the slightest change."

Well, of course the Doctor knew everything. Couldn't he chatter away in Latin like as if it was English? And he'd fished a ball out Thompson's hip. Well, a little above the hip. And he hadn't left any trace of it apart from a bit of a scar.

"Aye, aye, sir," he said, and hoped Bridgens wouldn't be too long in fetching his clean trousers. These ones really needed a proper wash. He hoped he could do that before Corporal Johnson saw them.

"While we wait you can help me: lift his leg so that I can take the breeches off - a little higher, Thompson, for God's love..." Stephen said, his mind completely elsewhere, in Figuera de Foz.

At least the doctor seemed not to be in a temper now, which was a relief. He did as told, steadying himself against the table a little as he did so.

"Is that any better, sir?" he asked, trying not to look at Crozier's white face.

"Hmm? Yes, yes..." He would have to sleep tonight, to ensure his hands did not shake - could he trust people to watch Crozier as closely as he needed to be watched? He was falling into the bad habit of taking laudanum before even attempting to fall asleep, but it had been essential, as it would be tonight...

"Are... are you all right, sir?" There wasn't really anything Thompson could do if he wasn't, of course, but he seemed distracted somewhat. "Is there anythin' I can do, sir?"

"Me?" Stephen gave a short, harsh creak of a laugh. "I am fine. Just do what I told you to do, Thompson."

"I am, sir. 'N' I'm sorry." He shrugged. Maybe the doctor was just thinking.

Stephen tossed the soiled breeches on top of his own. "Who should I ask about getting those cleaned, do you think? The wardroom's steward?"

Bridgens returned and looked slightly scandalized. "Give those here, sir, and I'll see that they're cleaned. Here's yours, Thompson."

"I reckon he'd be the best one to ask, sir, yes. If he can't do 'em, he'll know someone who can."

He hoped Bridgens would hurry up with his own clean trousers; he really wanted to change them, and he didn't think the bandage on his ankle was too clean, either. Though maybe he could change that himself, if someone gave him a clean length of bandage. He didn't like to ask, though, in case Doctor Maturin gave him another talking-to.

And here was Bridgens with his trousers. "Thanks," he said, taking them.

"Thank you, Bridgens, that is very kind of you," said Stephen, pleased by the young man's efficiency and lack of nagging. "Will you help us with Mister Crozier's shirt now?"

The shirt was a little more difficult, pulling it over his wounded bandaged head.