Crozier's Operation

It was pleasant to ride in the cutter like a this. Not as exhilarating as being at the helm, dodging between obstacles and pulling for home, but the firing had stopped now and it was quiet, only the plash of the oars and the occasional grunt or spoken word. They were pulling for shore, but Billy did not want the shore. It would be pleasant to go on like this for a while, maybe forever. The sun was bright on the water, but he didn't need to steer or keep watch. He closed his eyes and listened to the waves. It wasn't quite the sea, but not far from here this river would go out to meet the sea, and the tide was already bringing them together.

Freckles, almost invisible against the sunburned nose, stood out like brown and gold dusting over a dirty yellow skin. He raised his free hand, and scrubbed at his face, the stiffness of scratchy sand, flavoured with salt, embedded between the sand particles... A creek between sand banks...
That looked promising.... He moved the tiller again.

Freckles almost invisible against the sunburned nose stood out like brown and gold dusting over a dirty yellow skin. He raised his free hand, and scrbbed as away tireness and scratchy sand, flavoured with salt, embedded between the sand particles... A creek between sand banks...
That looked promising.... He moved the tiller again.

"Hold on, mate," Mallory said, keeping his grip on Barrow gentle. "The doctor'll see you right, jes' you see if he don't." There was a worried look in the Marine's eyes, though, as he glanced towards the Doctor sitting next to young Mister Yates.

Stephen was already white; he went grey as he overheard th Marine's words. Punctured lungs - he had only seen two survive; one man in Ireland, who had sworn blind he saw angels at the bedside healing him. Stephen had believed that he had seen them; he had had a prodigious fever at the time. And Thierry.

Thierry, he though suddenly, his hopes rallying. Daniel Hagman's poultice - what was it - cowebs, and moss, paraffin oil and brown paper. Cobwebs and moss - he looked towards the shore.

Peter stood up, his eyes narrowed. The creek cut off an island of mud from the mainland, and where the creek met the Mondego, there was a gravel spit, and something that might even be a stretch of old harbour walling, crumbling, with no sign of habitation. Raised ground, anyway, with wind-shaped trees, low and twisted, which must be above high water mark. "Over there," he said, "Handsomely now." Because to reach it they had to row against both tide and the steady wind from the south-west.

Billy felt the change in direction and movement and he opened his eyes lazily. He didn't want to turn around to see where they were going, but he could see Yates peering ahead, standing there in the stern. Good lad, Mister Yates. One day he would make a fine... "Captain," he rattled with a smile, closing his eyes again. Poor Mister Yates. Chase would look after him. And Mister Bush and Mister George and Mister Leat, and good old Doctor Maturin.

They could use the tide, and the waves to carry them up onto the shingle. They would need to pull further... "That's it," he said, as the sound of sea sucking on stones became clearer. "One last pull, and - ship oars. Keep hold, everyone."

Preddie and Young in the bow jumped out to pull the boat up the gravel spit through the water, smoothly as possible to avoid knocking about the wounded men but keeping all the momentum that they could. Then the others were jumping out to help guide the cutter on the shingle.

Billy felt the bumping of the boat dragged across the scree. They were going ashore. Not like this! "No..." he protested, looking pleadingly around him. He wanted to die at sea, at sea! In a minute he would order Preddie and Chase to turn the cutter about and push off again. What would Mister Yates do, hang him for mutiny? He tried to reach past McEwen to take his oar but the movement made him double up with coughing.

Crozier felt the bumping and heard the coughing, as well as M'Clure's voice calming the patient. His left hand twitched and he said, "Polypus." While Bridgens stared at his prone surgeon, Crozier repeated, "Polypus, and a silver sound."

"You, pull Barrow back," said Stephen, pointing. He stared at his other patient for a brief moment. "Mister Crozier? Can you hear me?"

Crozier grunted unhappily.

"Mister Crozier, can you hear me?" Stephen repeated insistently.

"Get out," Crozier answered him emphatically, mumbling down into his makeshift pillow.

Thank the Dear, thought Stephen. "Keep Barrows still; as many of you as it takes. Mister Crozier, where are you?"

"I'm right here, damn it." His eyes were screwed shut, tight against the blinding light.

"Where is here?" asked Stephen. It would be such a success if it were not for the attack, and Barrows, likely to die, and two more wounded; but as it was he could feel no happiness, only the determination that Crozier would recover.

Whoever the ignorant questioner was, he could find out the answers on his own. It was too bright, but if he turned his head this way...

Crozier let out a very quiet cry of pain.

"Do not move at all, Mister Crozier - you are about to be moved. Stay very still."

"We must put him up onto the old jetty," Peter said, examining the stonework. "It will be above the high tide line." He rubbed at his eyes and ordered some of the men to take the cot... "Careful," he said, trembling himself and aware of Dr Maturin's pale tense face. He was forcing himself to carry on, and if he could, so could Peter

All of his irritation melted away to give place to nausea and complete weakness. He wanted to melt into oblivion. He wanted to weep. Perhaps he was weeping. He wanted to die and escape from this waking hell of pain in his head.

"All right, Doctor Crozier," Bridgens whispered, white faced and staring as the surgeon was lifted out of the cutter, gently, gently on his cradle. Even Billy had stopped his coughing and was watching what progress he could see from the stern.

"One moment," said Stephen to the sailors. "Turn your head just a little." He pressed the rim of a bottle of laudanum to Crozier's lips. "Now swallow."

It was impossible to refuse. The nausea made him want to retch it up again, but at the same time he recognized that it was... Before he could remember the word for the tincture, and before the physic could even take effect, the cool dark pulled him under its blessed surface again.