Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [91]
“Good afternoon, Surgeon.”
Brooke’s head turned slowly, red-rimmed eyes grim. “Afternoon it may be, Commodore, but good it certainly isn’t.”
Paul Jones ignored the sarcasm. “How many have you seen?”
“More than I care to remember. Occupational hazard. Nothing to do for months, then everybody comes at once. What else can I expect?” His gaze wandered beyond Paul Jones’s shoulder. “It appears you are heavily in demand too.”
Gingerly stepping across the bloody floor, the carpenter entered the compartment. Pipe clenched between his teeth, he looked neither right nor left, gaze firmly fixed on the commodore like an ostrich shutting out whatever he did not want to see. Behind him, two orderlies carried in another patient, supporting him until the operating table was sluiced down.
“How do we stand?” Paul Jones asked, eyes flickering to the table where the groaning man was laid before his blood-sodden shirt was torn away.
The carpenter shook his head. “It’s no better than this morning, sir. Worse, in fact. Nearly another three feet in the bilges.”
“No hope?”
“I would say…” He was interrupted by the crunching of bone. Visibly wincing, he drew a deep breath. “She’ll perhaps stay afloat another two days if no more of the pumps break down, and if there’s prisoners to work them, and if we get no weather. If…well, after that I couldn’t say.” He shrugged.
“If we lose a pump?”
His eyebrows raised. He sucked on his dead pipe for reassurance then pulled it free. “If we lose one pump, perhaps tomorrow morning. If we lose two then she won’t last the night.”
A strangled scream broke from the table. Paul Jones ignored it while the carpenter fought to keep his eyes from straying.
“Only one arm! Jesus Christ! What will I do?…Only one arm!”
The surgeon snapped back. “Thank God for one. You’ll live. Another two inches to starboard and you’d have been tossed over the side. Remember that when you curse me for a butcher. Here, bandage him up.”
“I appreciate your honesty,” Jones commented. “Keep the pumps going through the night. I need time to transfer the wounded to the other ships. Keep her afloat till then.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Very good. Carry on.”
As the carpenter left, the surgeon moved away from the table. “All the pieces I’ve cut away. I could have built a hundred men from them.”
“I’m going to transfer all the wounded onto the English ship.”
The doctor’s eyes turned on him, piercing. “I’m not finished yet. There are men who may die if they are not attended to as soon as possible.”
“They may drown before then. She’s going down.”
Brooke blinked, lips clamped together.
Paul Jones continued. “At least you’ll have help. The English surgeon can share the burden. Working about you’ll be able to get some rest. Don’t argue. You haven’t slept for two days. Any longer and you’ll be no help to any of them.” He glanced around the makeshift surgery with its crude instruments. “As soon as they’re all off, I’m abandoning ship.”
***
“Who can pull an oar?” the midshipman asked, walking along the pump line, peering into prisoners’ faces. They stared dully back. “I’m not talking for the good of my health!” the midshipman barked, voice as high as a petulant child. He gritted his teeth, adjusting his sling to make his arm more comfortable. “I say again, who can pull an oar?” Three men stumbled out of the line. Midshipman Mayrant waved an arm in dismissal as he turned away. “Belay that.” The volunteers looked fit for nothing. His eyes rummaged