by Dudley Pope
Misunderstanding him, she said: “Don’t worry, Mr Bowen will be here at any minute. It’s not a bad wound; it is just that you’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“No … I meant—” he seemed to lose consciousness for a moment, then she realized he had shut his eyes to fight off a wave of pain “—I’m sorry to have frightened you … but the Lynx is next, and then home.”
Not knowing quite what he meant, she smoothed the hair from his brow and said: “Don’t worry about the Lynx now, all the hostages are safe.”
“Yardarm … both of them,” he murmured and seemed to lose consciousness.
“Yardarm?” she asked Jackson.
“Yes, ma’am,” the American said briskly, touching the side of his Captain’s throat to check the pulse, “those privateersmen will hang from a ship’s yardarm. Maybe not all of them, but the leaders. Not the Calypso’s,” he explained. “We’ll probably take ‘em back to England for trial.”
“You have to capture them first.”
“Oh, I’m sure the Captain has a plan for that.”
She wanted to shake the American. Did the fool not realize his Captain was dying? That he was slipping away from them even now, like smoke in the wind? And they could do nothing to prevent it: the great gash in his arm, now bound up and with a tourniquet above it, was not the problem. He was dying because as his men had swum with desperate haste to the Earl of Dodsworth with him lashed to the raft, his blood had been draining from his body with every pump of his heart. The men who had tied the first tourniquet could not see—did not think to look—that it had come undone.
As she began to weep, she understood that, such was their faith in him that a mention of the Lynx brought the confident comment that the Captain would have a plan … In her imagination she saw him dead, and remembered the funeral service, and the dreadful business of the body sewn up in a hammock and tipped over the side from a plank. One of the seamen had died of a fever off Capetown.
Jackson’s body went taut for a moment, then he hurried to the entry port. He came back a few moments later and said: “It’s the boat with Mr Bowen.”
Obviously they had faith in this man Bowen. It was a pity that the Earl of Dodsworth’s regular surgeon was a prisoner along with the rest of the ship’s officers and men in the camp on shore.
Suddenly a man appeared out of the darkness behind her and knelt beside Nicholas. A hand went down to his face and a finger pushed back an eyelid. “You still with us, sir?” The voice had a bantering note which infuriated her. Was this Bowen?
“I didn’t cover one of their pawns,” Nicholas murmured. It was an extraordinary thing to say, but Bowen laughed and turned to the plump, elderly man now standing beside him, a man with flowing white hair and carrying a box with a rope handle.
“Put it down there, Southwick. We ought to have brought the chessboard. Now, Jackson, what happened?”
She wanted to tell him first to do something about the terrible pallor of his skin, to make him drink some brandy to stop this awful shivering.
“Cutlass slash across the upper arm, sir. We put a tourniquet on, just as you showed us years ago, and a bandage, and lowered him on the raft to tow him back to the Calypso. We hadn’t gone above a hundred yards when Rossi reckons he’d never cover that distance alive, so we made for this ship, sir.”
“Why the devil didn’t you go back to the Heliotrope?”
“She’s French, sir. All that gabbling and panic with the passengers. They wouldn’t keep out of the way once they saw Mr Ramage had been wounded—he’d spoken to all of them, o’ course, when he first got on board. Oh yes, and Spurgeon was killed. It was trying to save him that led to Mr Ramage getting cut.”
Cut, indeed, she thought, not knowing that Jackson was using a slang word regularly spoken in the West Indies to describe a sword wound. It originated among the Negroes, when they slashed each other with machetes, but she had never heard the phrase.
Bowen had knelt while Jackson talked and was unwinding the bandage Rossi had just put on.
She said: “It’s a clean wound, I can tell you that.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Bowen said courteously, and continued to unwind the strip of sheet.
“You might start it bleeding again.”
“It is still bleeding,” Bowen commented. “But don’t you worry. Perhaps you’d like to return to your cabin, ma’am? The sight of blood …”
Jackson coughed and said: “The lady helped us hoist Mr Ramage on board and she found the tourniquet had come adrift. Then she cleaned the wound—the basin of water is still over there.”
“My apologies, ma’am,” Bowen said, and detecting more in Jackson’s words than the bare meaning, added: “Perhaps you would care to help me. A woman’s touch is gentler than that of my clumsy but well-meaning shipmates. Now, Southwick—” he paused as he began to lift the bandage clear “—open the medicine chest for me and stand by with the pad of cloth you’ll find in the top left-hand corner. Rossi, let’s have that lantern closer …”
He now had the wound uncovered and seemed to be talking to himself. “Ah yes, chipped the humerus bone slightly but no fracture because the blow was directed at a sharp angle downwards … missed the main artery … veins bleeding—that seems to be the main problem … Muscle torn but probably still functional …”
He bent over Ramage’s head. “Still with us, sir? Ah, good. Would you try to move your left hand slightly? Ah—yes, it hurts. Now just wriggle the fingers. That starts more bleeding but tells us that no ligaments have been cut. You’ll be able to carve a roast in three or four weeks. Southwick, stand by with that pad … the lady did a very good job of cleaning the wound; nothing for me to do there. Now, I’m going to release the tourniquet for a minute or two, and then retie it. Except for the lady, you all know why, but as it looks rather alarming, should I explain, ma’am?”
She nodded, finding that she now had complete faith in the man: he seemed far removed from her idea of a naval surgeon, which in turn was based on the rather tough individual presiding over the Earl of Dodsworth’s medicine chest.
“Well, if we leave a limb cut off from its blood for too long, the flesh can die and gangrene starts, so we release a tourniquet for a minute or two every twenty minutes, and then tie it again.”
He loosened it, waited and retied it with skilled fingers. “Pad, Southwick—perhaps you would hold it in place, ma’am, while I apply the bandage. No, there’s no need to press, and it’s not hurting him. He’s in pain, but that’s from the whole wound.”
As he prepared to roll on the bandage he leaned over and sniffed and commented: “He’s refused the brandy again, eh?”
“‘Fraid so, sir,” Jackson said. “Even when the lady tried.”
Bowen looked up at her for the first time: up to this moment he had rarely taken his eyes off Ramage’s wound or his face.
“You notice, ma’am, that we all seem to be rather familiar with the, er, routine of patching up our Captain. The fact is he does get himself knocked about. I remember the last time, at Curaçao, was just like this except that—”
“Jackson told me,” she said hurriedly. The strange thing was she had not felt faint when she had to retie the tourniquet, wash the wound and staunch the bleeding; when she believed he was dying and thought that if he was to be saved she would have to do whatever was necessary. But now, with Nicholas obviously not dying—not even in any danger, according to this surgeon, who was clearly an extremely competent man—she could feel the strength going from her knees, and the lantern was beginning to blur.
“The brandy, Jackson,” Bowen snapped. “The lady.”
Southwick bent down and caught her as she slid sideways. “There, m’dear, just have a sup of this … gently, it’ll make you cough … now swallow.”
“Put her down on her back,” Bowen said, “and get her head on a level with her heart. Now, ma’am, breathe deeply, and when you feel better, I’d be glad of your help.”
Quickly she sat up, t
he faintness vanishing. “Yes, what can I do?”
“Just hold his forearm up high enough for me to pass the bandage round … You see, you don’t feel faint while there’s something for you to do: when you thought he was dying, you took control. Now you’ve no responsibility, you get the vapours, like some silly young woman in a London drawing-room!”
Bowen was right, of course, and she smiled at him. “I don’t like brandy, though!”
“Just as well,” Bowen said cheerfully. “I nearly killed myself with it, years ago. You’d never believe I once had a flourishing practice in Wimpole Street … took to brandy …” He continued winding the bandage, pausing now and again to straighten an edge. “Lost all my patients—they shunned a drunkard. So I became a naval surgeon … My first ship was commanded by Mr Ramage, who decided no drunkard was going to tend his sick … So he and Southwick here, this man with a head of hair like a dandelion run to seed, decided to cure me … Succeeded, although it was a grim business for both of them—”
“Not too pleasant for you either,” Southwick said.
“No, it wasn’t. Anyway, I’ve had not a drop of alcohol since. A new man, a new life, thanks to these two. I’m not telling you that story, ma’am, to frighten you off brandy, which you obviously dislike, but to show you that old Southwick and I do our best to keep an eye on him.”
Had this man Bowen guessed? Was she being too obvious? That seaman Jackson was watching her, smiling. And the white-haired man, too. She bent her head and concentrated on holding Nicholas’s arm.
Finally Bowen said: “That’s it. Perhaps you’d close the medicine chest again, Southwick. It’s no good offering him any Tincture of Opium, to make sure he sleeps, because he’ll insist he has to stay awake. Now, how do we get him down into the boat?”
“Oh no!” She said it before she could control herself, and continued hurriedly: “I mean, he must stay here. We have plenty of cabins with comfortable beds—enough for all of you. And fresh meat and eggs—just what he’ll need while he convalesces.”
She saw Nicholas’s right hand signal to Bowen, who leaned over as he whispered something.
“We will see about that!” the surgeon said disapprovingly. “Aitken and Southwick can deal with them!”
Again the hand signalled and Bowen listened. “Sir, with respect, I’m beginning to think it would be best if you stayed in this ship.”
“Southwick …”
Bowen moved back to let the white-haired man move nearer.
“Get a stay-tackle rigged … Lash me in a chair …”
“Aye aye, sir,” the old man said reluctantly.
They were taking him away. It had something to do with the Lynx. If only they would go away for a few minutes …
She watched as Southwick and the seaman went to the ropes and began pulling on some and loosening others.
“Ma’am,” Southwick called, “could you ask a couple of men passengers to bring up a chair with arms?”
She ran below, hurriedly gave instructions, and came back to find Bowen sitting cross-legged on the deck beside Nicholas. She called to Southwick that the chair was being brought up and, kicking her skirt sideways, sat opposite Bowen, with Nicholas lying between them, apparently asleep, his bandaged left arm lying across his stomach.
Bowen looked across at her and said quietly: “The cutlass slash will soon heal—you cleaned it perfectly. The weakness, which looks so distressing to you, as though he’s dying, his face so pale, his voice weak, is simply the result of losing so much blood. But the human body is very resilient. It’ll have made up that quantity of blood in a matter of hours. By breakfast time he’ll be grumbling. By dinner time he’ll be impossible!”
“Thank you, Mr Bowen. I … well, I thought he was dying when they brought him on board.”
“So did Jackson and Rossi, and the other man, until you got to work. They say you spotted the tourniquet was loose, and stopped them panicking.”
“That’s not true, but it is nice of them to say it.”
“Ah well, here comes the chair. I’ll go and see what Southwick and the men are going to rig up.”
As soon as the surgeon had left she turned the lantern so that the light was not in his eyes. In fact, he was almost in shadow.
“Are you awake?” she whispered.
“Yes … where has everyone gone?”
“They are arranging a chair, so they can lower you into the boat. Are you warm enough?”
“The shivering … it’s reaction, not cold … Thank you for helping me; I heard what Bowen said.”
She shook her head, her eyes swimming with tears. “You will rest now, promise me. The Lynx, whatever you plan, can be done by your officers. This man Southwick, he’s obviously a very competent man.”
“You didn’t—” he winced, and then continued “—think so yesterday.”
“Your chair is nearly ready,” she whispered.
She leaned down and her hair tumbled over them. He was still shivering and as she held his face in her hands the skin was cold.
She kissed him and said: “I’m going now—I’d rather you didn’t see me cry like a baby.” She stood then and ran aft to the companion-way but had to wipe away the tears that blurred her vision before she dared to walk down the steps.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
IT WAS a few minutes past nine in the morning when the surgeon’s mate sitting beside Ramage’s cot saw that his eyes were open and called to the Marine sentry: “Pass the word for Mr Bowen an’ tell him the Captain’s awake.”
Bowen arrived almost immediately, and grinned when he saw Ramage watching him.
“How’s the patient feeling?”
“My arm hurts like hell, I feel dizzy, and I can still taste that dam’ soup you made me drink. It was too hot and it burned my tongue.”
“Your recovery has obviously started, sir,” Bowen announced, feeling under Ramage’s armpit. “Ha, no swelling there. No more than the pain you’d expect in the arm. No throbbing?”
“No, it just aches,” Ramage said grudgingly. “The pain of those stitches has gone.”
“An excellent piece of embroidery, if I may be allowed to boast. Two weeks and I’ll be taking them out and you’ll be admiring a handsome scar which will impress the ladies.”
“Yes, I shall parade through the drawing-rooms in a ruffled shirt with the sleeve rolled up. Now, call Silkin: I’m going to wash, he can shave me and help me dress, and then you can rig up a sling.”
Bowen shook his head. “You must stay in your cot for at least three days. You’ve lost a lot of blood, which the body must make up. Exsanguinated, that’s what you are, sir, and it means—”
“I can work it out, and I hate your medical terms. Pass the word for Silkin, please and—”
“Sir, I must insist that you—”
Ramage’s eyes narrowed and Bowen stopped talking; one did not insist when the Captain was in this mood.
“Bowen,” he said, “I appreciate your concern, but let us keep a sense of proportion. I have a minor flesh wound and have lost some blood and feel a trifling dizziness. Spurgeon is dead. That’s the very small price we have paid so far to rescue forty men, women and children hostages. We have two dozen privateersmen under guard in the four prizes we have captured. There is a fifth prize but she has no passengers—only two or three privateersmen on board as shipkeepers.”
Ramage struggled and sat up in the cot, making it swing with the effort, and holding his bandaged left arm with his right hand.
“However, all we’ve done up to now is grab the animal’s tail. The head, with a mouthful of sharp teeth, is still there at anchor. The Lynx still has enough men and boats to recapture the prizes the moment she realizes we’ve taken them.”
Bowen nodded. “I understand that, sir. We have to deal with the Lynx.”
“Exactly. And this morning. Any moment now they might discover what we’ve done.”
“I appreciate that, sir, but surely Wagstaffe and Southwick—” “Bo
wen! Can you picture me lying here while all that’s going on?”
“Well, sir … I’m only advising …”
“For my own good. Yes, thank you. Very well, now, pass the word for Silkin!”
It took half an hour to get Ramage washed, shaved and dressed, and Bowen then spent fifteen minutes with squares of nankeen cut off from the roll kept by the purser, making a sling for the wounded arm. While an impatient and cursing Ramage tried to hurry the surgeon, Silkin bobbed between them, trying to make his Captain drink hot tea and eat a softboiled egg which had been spread on a piece of ship’s biscuit.
Finally Ramage sat at his desk, his arm resting on the flat surface and his face pale and wet with perspiration, his hand shaky and his knees only doubtfully reliable.
“So the survey boats and the one doing the soundings went off as usual?” he asked Wagstaffe.
“Yes, sir. One of the young seamen wore a hat and jacket of Martin’s, and that painter fellow Wilkins wore one of my coats and hats today and went on shore with the surveyors.”
“Wilkins? What on earth for?”
“He mentioned something about the Lynx being so close to the beach. He took notebooks and sticks of charcoal with him.”
“Does he want to sketch the Lynx then?”
Wagstaffe looked away and said noncommittally: “I think he had in mind that—well, he wants to do a painting of the Calypso capturing the Lynx, and he’d get the best view from the beach: the Lynx is barely a hundred yards out.”
Ramage thought for a moment and then realized that almost the last place for an artist to be would be on board the Calypso.
“How many men are we short?”
“Twenty-two are away in the prizes (Orsini, Jackson and Rossi came back with you last night, sir: Bowen needed help to hold the chair upright across the thwarts). Twenty-four in the survey and sounding boats: 46 men, and Aitken, Kenton and Martin. I didn’t send Orsini off in the soundings boat this morning.”
“Why?”
“He was rather concerned about you, sir, until you woke …”
“Orsini is simply another member of the ship’s company. Remember that, Mr Wagstaffe.”
