Crozier's Operation

Deeply impressed M'Clure washed his own hands, his eyes feeling strange as they focussed on something further away again. That, to see a mans brains, to touch an unconected peice of a living mans skull, that was somethign he had never thought about doing. Yet there it was, and Dr Crozier muttering every now nad then, showing every sign of being alive and on his way to being completely better.

And now there was no chance of repercussion, he could find out what Terpsy had signalled...or why Yates had run off.

Stephen used a little water to wash the blood from the piece of bone; he suspected Mister Crozier would want to see it if he woke up. He knealt down to check Mister Crozier, but as he was doing so he looked to the sea, following the gaze of some of the seamen. "What is about with the Terpsichore?"

M'clure shrugged, looking about for a longer answer than he could provide- "SHe signalled and headed off, sir."
While he waited for the answer, he turned back to the instruments, setting about cleaning them, too.

"They are leaving us?" Stephen asked, confusion evident in his voice.

THere was a chorus of voices, each assuring him that wasn't the case.
"THey'll come back when they can, sir." M'Clure looked up in the direction Yates had run, thinking that was the most likely place information would be forthcoming.

"Did they sight a sail, do you think?" said Stephen, sitting back on his heels. The chase of a French ship would put Raoul in an unpleasant situation; or perhaps not. His stomach went cold.

"Oh, probably, sir." M'clure was gleeful in his agreement with the crew, all of them, no doubt, feeling their recent success in the operation would be able to rub off on their mates on board very easily.

"bUt I wouldn't worry sir."

Stephen did worry; he worried about the smugglers the Marines were supposed to be there to protect them from, he worried about Raoul in the case of the Terpsichore meeting a French ship, and he certainly worried about his patient. "I would have preferred to see Mister Crozier safely on board first. Come, let us lie him on the stretcher; face down, with something soft for his head."

Obediantly M'clure abandoned his cleaning and began on untying the knots.
"won't he be better off on solid ground, sir?" Of course, that was providing they weren't surprised in any way, but there wasn't anything he could do about that.

Billy helped to cast off the ropes and stole a quick glance at the stitched up seams on the surgeon's head.

"Mister Yates and Sergeant Quinn run up the hill to see, sir. They'll come back soon and tell us."

Frank Butcher spoke soberly as he worked. "I'm sure it's just the French fleet sir, on their way to take Lisbon. Terpsy will be fine, sir. She'll come back to take off whoever's left of us in a couple o' weeks."

Jack Young agreed with a nod. "Or else we'll take the boat to pick up Terpsy survivors after she sinks. Nothin' to fear, sir. With any luck, at least half of us will live through it."

"Actually, I have found that while operations tend to be much easier on land, the rates of infection drop dramatically while at sea. But for an hour, with no one else here, he should do quite well," said Stephen picking at a knot.

He stared at Jack Young and Frank Butcher, knowing from their carefully sober faces that he was once again the butt of a naval joke. "Will we, now?" he said coldly.

M'Clure ducked his face to hide his own smile, not being used to keeping the somber looks these men did whenever they encountered a person they could laugh at.
"Would t'infection be because of the lack of dirt, sir, or what, do yer think?" He was genuinly interested to start with, and didn't think it would hurt at all to keep asking such a well of information for some more answers.

The doctor's glare shut them up quick enough. He looked like a snake with those pale cold eyes! M'Clure distracted him, but Billy spoke up anyway.

"Don't pay 'em no mind, sir! Terpsy will be back for us, certain sure. Go on lads, carry them ropes back to the boat now. Cob, lend a hand here. We'll carry him to the cot."

"I did not intend to; I am not quite the grasscombing lubber they take me for," said Stephen, with slightly undeserved complacency. "The lack of dirt, Mister M'Clure, of most of the other patients, and the paucity of miasmas in particular."

"Ah. THankee sir." and the knots were free now, with Crozier just about ready to be picked up. dr Maturin had mentioned something soft for his head but M"Clure couldn't see anything forthcoming so set about removing his coat and folding it.

"Just so - Butcher, Young, help us in carrying him back to his cradle," called Stephen, blessing the Terpsichore's carpenter for the contraption.

Each man held firmly to a limb and lifted him carefully, clearly scared of being the one to do something wrong and maybe undo all the hard work they'd just watched so carefully.
M'Clure had placed his coat under where he thought the man's head would be before he lent a hand to the lifting.

"Thank you, Mister M'Clure," said Stephen, noticing the gesture. "Handsomely now - Young, turn his head towards me - thank you, gentlemen."

Now he really did look like a corpse - a gallows corpse, with his body laid out and his head all shorn and carved up. Except that he was breathing. Bridgens stared at him for a moment.

"Do he need somefin' under his belly, sir?" he asked, still feeling the need to do something. "Sometimes when lads been flogged, Doctor Crozier props up their belly so they can breathe proper, lying over like that." He blushed then, realizing that he was dictating to an eminent surgeon out of his own ignorance.

M'Clure smiled in return to his thanks and stood back to look at the body next to them. He blinked at the ssuggestion- he was right of course, Dr Crozier often did do that, and he awaited Dr Maturins reply while feeling for the blush of his companion.

Stephen looked around for something suitable. "What do you suggest?"

M'clure thought, but did not say 'someone elses coat', looking round for another option before venturing to make the suggestion out loud and in a less moody tone.
"Would one of you men donate yer coat ter t'cause?" he asked, raising a questioning eyebrow at Dr Maturin, deference deeply ingrained.

Peter lay still, listening for sounds. Sergeant Quinn - if it was he who had followed Peter - was a big man, but that did not mean that he would be clumsy or even noisy: one of the most successful local poachers had been a big man, grown fat on the proceeds of his nighttime trade. He raised his head, catching his hair in one of the long twisted branches of the shrub - which smelled like nothing he had known in Yorkshire - and as he raised his hand to free it, he saw another of the little dormice, this one quite alone and awake and regarding him from dark pinhead eyes. He forgot concealment, forgot his flight, and reached out one hand, withdrew it and fumbled in his pocket until he found some biscuit crumbs. He held out the hand slowly, and waited

Frank Butcher was already taking his own jacket off. "Sweating like anything in this damn Portugee sun - beg pardon, sir," he said, rolling it up and tossing it to M'Clure with a grin. Stephen nodded and smiled, relieved; he found the wind chilly even with his coat on.

M'Clure caught it and rolled it up briskly, motioning for a hand to lift up first one side and then the other of Dr Crozier, letting him fit the coat underneath snugly and settling it as he had seen the Dr himself do on many occasions. "THanks, Butcher."
He looked again to dr Maturin, "Will that be alright, sir?"