Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [320]
“Och, it’s none so bad, MacBeth. Nay worry, ye’ll be a father yet.”
The big man had been looking down apprehensively, but at these words, transferred his gaze to his commander. “Weel, that’s no such a consairn to me, sir, me already havin’ the six bairns. It’s just what my wife’d say, if I…” MacBeth blushed crimson as the men surrounding him laughed and hooted.
Casting an eye back at me for confirmation, Jamie suppressed his own grin and said firmly, “That’ll be all right, too, MacBeth.”
“Thank ye, sir,” the man breathed gratefully, with complete trust in his commander’s assurance.
“Still,” Jamie went on briskly, “it’ll need to be stitched up, man. Now, ye’ve your choice about that.”
He reached into the open kit for one of my handmade suture needles. Appalled by the crude objects barber-surgeons customarily used to sew up their customers, I’d made three dozen of my own, by selecting the finest embroidery needles I could get, and heating them in forceps over the flame of an alcohol lamp, bending them gently until I had the proper half-moon curve needed for stitching severed tissues. Likewise, I’d made my own catgut sutures; a messy, disgusting business, but at least I was sure of the sterility of my materials.
The tiny suture needle looked ridiculous, pinched between Jamie’s large thumb and index finger. The illusion of medical competence was not furthered by Jamie’s cross-eyed attempts to thread the needle.
“Either I’ll do it myself,” he said, tongue-tip protruding slightly in his concentration, “or—” He broke off as he dropped the needle and fumbled about in the folds of MacBeth’s plaid for it. “Or,” he resumed, holding it up triumphantly before his patient’s apprehensive eyes, “my wife can do it for ye.” A slight jerk of the head summoned me into view. I did my best to look as matter-of-fact as possible, taking the needle from Jamie’s incompetent grasp and threading it neatly with one thrust.
MacBeth’s large brown eyes traveled slowly between Jamie’s big paws, which he contrived to make look as clumsy as possible by setting the crooked right hand atop the left, and my own small, swift hands. At last he lay back with a dismal sigh, and mumbled his consent to let a “wumman” lay hands on his private parts.
“Dinna worry yourself, man,” Jamie said, patting him companionably on the shoulder. “After all, she’s had the handling of my own for some time now, and she’s not unmanned me yet.” Amid the laughter of the aides and nearby patients, he started to rise, but I stopped him by thrusting a small flask into his hands.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Alcohol and water,” I said. “Disinfectant solution. If he’s not to have fever or pustulence or something worse, the wound will have to be washed out.” MacBeth had plainly walked some way from where the injury had occurred, and there were smears of dirt as well as blood near the wound. Grain alcohol was a harsh disinfectant, even cut 50/50 with distilled sterile water as I used it. Still, it was the single most effective tool I had against infection, and I was adamant about its usage, in spite of complaints from the aides and screams of anguish from the patients who were subjected to it.
Jamie glanced from the alcohol flask to the gaping wound and shuddered slightly. He’d had his own dose when I stitched his side, earlier in the evening.
“Weel, MacBeth, better you than me,” he said, and, placing his knee firmly in the man’s midriff, sloshed the contents of the flask over the exposed tissues.
A dreadful roar shook the walls, and MacBeth writhed like a cut snake. When the noise at last subsided, his face had gone a mottled greenish color, and he made no objection at all as I began the routine, if painful, job of stitching up the scrotum. Most of the patients, even those horribly wounded, were stoic about the primitive treatment to which we subjected them, and MacBeth was no exception. He lay unmoving in hideous embarrassment, eyes fixed on the lantern flame, and didn’t move a muscle as I made my repairs. Only the changing