The Surgeon’s Lady

by Carla Kelly

  Heads popped out of rooms as they walked to the stairs, which made her wonder how often Sir David visited the wards.

  Perhaps he read her thoughts. “Sick and hurt officers are housed in separate blocks,” he explained, as they mounted the steps. “That is where I am usually in attendance.”

  She didn’t think powder monkeys often came to his attention. “Who takes care of these men?”

  “My surgeons. I have two, and each has four assistants, as well as orderlies.”

  He took her to the next floor and opened a door. “B Ward, Lady Taunton. Let us find, er…”

  “Matthew,” she said patiently. You would remember if he was an officer, she thought.

  “Matthew. I will locate the surgeon. As you can see, we are overcrowded. Let us blame Bonaparte.”

  She looked around the spacious, well-lighted room with windows on both sides to let in the sea air. She counted twenty beds, each with an occupant, plus two cots. A thin woman with a permanent frown between her eyes was seated at a desk. Eyes popping out of her head, she rose when she saw the admiral, and smoothed down her stained apron.

  “We’re looking for Matthew.”

  “Pollock,” Laura said. “He’s eleven.”

  “Go get the surgeon,” the admiral ordered. The woman scurried from the room.

  Then Laura saw Matthew, the youngest one in the room, lying propped into a sitting position, on one of the two cots. He had looked up when he heard his name, hope in his eyes. When he did not recognize her, he looked away.

  It was impossible to overlook the misery in the room. Men had limbs missing, and some were lying still, as if any movement was painful. Some had that inward expression she recognized from tending her dying husband.

  She sat on a stool beside Matthew Pollock’s cot and touched his good arm. “Nana sent me,” she said. “She’s expecting a baby, and Captain Worthy didn’t want to tire her. I’m her sister, Mrs. Taunton.”

  The boy looked at her and released a shaky breath, as though he had been holding it for days. He was small for his age, and she had to remind herself that he was a veteran of the Royal Navy. Oliver had said Matthew had been a powder monkey for three years, one of two little boys on the Tireless whose sole duty was to carry powder from the magazine to the gun deck.

  He was pale, which was no surprise, considering the insult to his system. He didn’t look overfed, either, although there was an uneaten bowl of mush on the table by his cot. His eyes were a crystal blue that made her think what a handsome man he might become someday. The skin was stretched taut across his face, which seemed to throw his nose into prominence.

  She could not overlook his empty sleeve, with its bloodstains. It was rolled back to expose the thick bandage that made the rest of his body seem much smaller.

  “May I call you Matthew?”

  He nodded.

  “Speak up, lad, when you’re addressed,” the admiral ordered. “You don’t nod at ladies.”

  “He’s but eleven, Sir David, and wounded,” Laura reminded the admiral.

  She heard smothered laughter from one of the other beds, and knew she should not have spoken out of turn, not in front of this powerful man. “I’m sorry,” she said contritely. “I should not presume to know what is best for him.”

  She knew it was on the tip of the admiral’s tongue to agree with her, but he refrained, perhaps remembering the fool he had made of himself earlier. He was saved from further comment by firm footsteps, and then a comfortable laugh.

  “As I live and breathe, Lady Taunton. You’re a sight for sore eyes, and we have plenty of those here!”

  Laura glanced at the admiral’s face, whose sudden relief had just as soon turned to outrage, and then at Lt. Brittle, who came into the room in front of the woman sent to fetch him.

  “Lieutenant! I’ll have you remember your manners, too!” the admiral exclaimed in a loud voice, which caused two of the bed-bound men to moan and stir restlessly.

  Brittle went to one of the men and touched his face, keeping his hand there until he was still again. He nodded at the other one and winked, which seemed to settle him down.

  “Beg pardon, Sir David,” he said, his eyes on Laura now. “It happens I know Lady Taunton.” He bowed in her direction. “How are the Worthys?”

  “I left Nana in complete charge of the captain,” she told him.

  She couldn’t help but notice the interest this conversation created among the invalids. All these men must be from the Tireless, she thought. “I’ll have you know she is a worse tyrant than your captain,” she said, addressing the room. “He hasn’t a prayer of leaving that house until she says so.”

  Several men laughed, and one cheered feebly. The admiral looked around, obviously out of his depth, not knowing if he should reprimand them all or leave well enough alone. He chose the latter, backing toward the door ever so slightly.

  To Laura’s gratification, Lt. Brittle played his superior like a violin.

  “I know Captain Worthy’s men are deeply grateful for your kindness in bringing his sister-in-law here, Sir David,” Brittle said. “We all know how busy you are. With your permission, I’ll see to Lady Taunton now, and make sure these tars behave.”

  “You do that,” Sir David snapped, looking around the room again. He left without another word.

  Some of the tension went with him. Brittle nodded to the silent woman standing by the desk and she sat down again. He perched on the edge of Matthew’s cot, one knee on the floor, careful not to overbalance it. “Matthew, you’re the luckiest tar in the room, as far as I can see, with a visit from a pretty lady.”

  A series of emotions crossed the powder monkey’s face. His lips trembled and he closed his eyes, exhausted with pain. “I wanted to see Nana,” he whispered, and then began to cry—not loud tears, but the hopeless kind, the kind she was familiar with.

  Laura wanted to touch his face. She glanced at the surgeon, and he nodded his approval. She touched Matthew’s face, cupping her hand against his hot cheek, and then moved closer to circle her other arm around his head. Matthew turned his face toward her arm, which told her that she could console him.

  In another moment, she had changed places with the surgeon, who moved to the stool. Careful not to bump his arm, she gathered Matthew close and let him cry.

  The moment passed quickly. She took the damp cloth Lt. Brittle held out and wiped Matthew’s face. “Maybe I can wash your hair tomorrow,” she told him, keeping her voice matter-of-fact. “I always feel better when my hair is clean.”

  She didn’t know what to say then, but the surgeon took over. He ran a practiced hand over Matthew’s upper arm, feeling for swelling. His eyes on Matthew, he spoke to Laura.

  “What a brave son of a gun Matthew is, Lady Taunton. I had to take him to my surgery yesterday morning and smooth away some of Barnhart’s work—bless the man, he was even working in the dark at one point, wasn’t he, Matthew? I never heard a peep out of Matthew. Captain Worthy only has brave seamen on the Tireless.”

  He knew just what to say. Matthew’s eyes brightened as he mentally seemed to reach inside himself and draw up.

  I know what they want, she thought. She spoke loud enough for the other Tireless crew members to hear. “He’s doing well. Lt. Brittle examined his ear yesterday in Torquay, and said that although he was no longer symmetrical, he could still keep all of you in line. He’s in good hands, Matthew, and you’re kind to ask. I’ll send him a letter tonight and make sure he knows how you all are doing.”

  “He said he would visit us, mum,” said a man in the next bed.

  “Then I know he will,” she answered. She looked back at Matthew, who was watching her face, maybe looking for some resemblance to his beloved Nana.

  “We don’t look alike, except for our hair,” she told him.

  “Your eyes are greener than the ocean,” Lt. Brittle said, almost to himself. His face reddened, but he did not lose his aplomb. “I am observant, Lady Taunton.” He returned his at
tention to Matthew. “D’ye have any questions for me, Matthew? Now’s the time to ask.”

  She didn’t think he would speak. She knew these men were trained not to speak to a better unless spoken to, but the surgeon had asked.

  “What can I do now?” the boy questioned.

  “You can come with me to Torquay, when you are able,” Laura said.

  Matthew frowned. “Mum, I’m in the navy.”

  “So you are, Matthew,” Brittle said. “I’m not sure yet, but I do know this—you still have your elbow and two inches more of forearm. You can still rule the world if you have an elbow.”

  “The gunners won’t want me now,” he reminded the surgeon.

  “No, they won’t,” Brittle said frankly. “Give it some time and thought. When your arm heals, we can attach a device. Maybe a hook.” He rubbed the boy’s head. “You’ll be the terror of the fleet and Boney’s worst foe.”

  He stood up then, looking around the ward. “Can I trust you seamen with this fine lady? I need to patch up a cook on the second floor who’s not half as sweet as you darlings.”

  The men laughed. The surgeon nodded to Laura. “Stay as long as you like. Are you planning on spending the night at the Mulberry?”

  “I think I will.”

  “I’ll come back in an hour, and at least escort you to the main gate, Lady Taunton. I’d escort you all the way, but I’m on duty tonight.” He touched Matthew’s head again. “If you’re not too tired, tell her about some of the places you’ve been, Matthew.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  She moved to the stool the surgeon had vacated, watching him stop at one or two of the other beds to bend over and assess the patient, and then spend a moment with the woman at the desk. When he left the room, she turned back to Matthew.

  “You’re in good hands, Matthew,” she said.

  She knew he was in pain, but he seemed to relax and wriggle himself down into a more comfortable position. She tugged his pillow down to help, and tucked the light blanket across his middle.

  “I’m going to the Mulberry tonight,” she told him. “I’ll tell Gran, Sal and Pete to come visit you as soon as they can.”

  Before he left, Lt. Brittle had whispered to her to get Matthew to drink more water. She picked up the cup, but he was looking over her shoulder, his eyes wide.

  “Mum, do something!” he gasped.

  Startled, she turned around to see what he was looking at and sucked in her breath, then leaped to her feet, spilling the water on the floor.

  Sitting propped up with pillows, a seaman clawed at his throat, blood pouring down his nightshirt. The man in the next bed, the stump of his leg encased in a wire basket, reached for him. “Please, mum!” he begged.

  Laura looked at the desk, but the woman was gone. My God, she thought, my God. There’s no one to help but me.

  She could tell there was no time to scream and clutch her hair, or faint like a lady would—or should. She forced herself to dig down deep into a place in her heart and mind she hadn’t even known existed. A life depended on her and her alone. For the life of her she didn’t understand it, but her next thought propelled her into action: what would Lt. Brittle do?

  Chapter Five

  She ran to the patient’s bedside. Blood streamed from his neck and mouth and his eyes were wide with terror. Disregarding everyone in the room, Laura raised her dress, untied her petticoat and stepped out of it in practically one motion, then crammed the white muslin against his neck.

  “Who can walk?” she shouted.

  One seaman tried to pull himself into an upright position, then slumped to his pillow again, exhausted by that puny effort.

  “I can walk, mum.”

  She turned around to see Matthew, wobbly but upright, holding his injured arm with the good one, trying to keep it level.

  He could barely stand, but she had no choice. “The surgeon said he was going to the second floor. Find him!”

  I won’t watch him go, she thought. I won’t think about what he is doing to his own injury. I won’t think about anything except this poor man. He was breathing better, but barely, searching her eyes with his own. Her heart went out to him, someone she didn’t know, a man who would probably never, on a normal day, come into her sphere at all. But this was not a normal day. He was suffering and casting all his hopes on her.

  She watched his face as she pressed on his neck, praying she wasn’t doing him more injury. The room was silent, except for his labored breathing. She noticed then that he was glancing sideways, looking into her eyes, then glancing again.

  “You’re trying to tell me something,” she said.

  He nodded, then looked again. She glanced in that direction, toward the small table between the two beds. She saw a pasteboard box with the word styptic written on it in large letters. Next to the box was a gauze pad.

  “Styptic. Styptic,” she muttered, then remembered white powder in a ceramic box by her husband’s shaving stand. She leaped up and grabbed the box with her slippery fingers, dumping it onto the gauze and turning back with it to place it over the opening in his neck where the blood still flowed.

  He flinched when the caustic touched his skin, and his breathing slowed, which took her own breath away at first, until she realized he was calming down. She pressed gently on the gauze pad, relieved to see the blood was no longer pouring through her fingers.

  She spoke to the others in the room without turning around. “If any one of you is near an open window, can you shout for help?”

  Someone yelled “Fire!” which struck her as strange, until she realized that someone always comes when you yell fire.

  The bleeding slowed. Laura sprinkled more styptic on the man’s neck. Probably only a minute or two had passed since the whole ordeal began, but she had never known time to suspend itself, as it did in that ward.

  Then, blessed sound, someone came thundering up the steps. “Thank God,” she whispered.

  Philemon Brittle couldn’t have come in the room fast enough to suit her. He was carrying Matthew, whom he deposited on his cot. With just a moment’s observation, he bumped her aside with his hip and sat in her place.

  “Hand me that box,” he ordered, and she did, aware how bloody her hand was, and how it shook. Some of the powder spilled on the floor. “Get another pillow.”

  Three pillows flew through the air in her direction. She caught them all and put two behind the seaman’s head at the surgeon’s command, until the man was sitting upright.

  “Pull the nightshirt off his right shoulder. Gently now.”

  Puzzled, she did as he asked, then noticed the bullet wound there, where blood was also oozing. She looked at Lt. Brittle, a question in her eyes.

  “It’s the exit wound,” he said, his own voice more normal now. “Davey Dabney isn’t part of the Tireless crew. He was wounded in the battle off Basque Roads. Shot by a French sniper in the rigging of one of their ships.”

  “That was April, wasn’t it?” she asked.

  “Aye.” He sprinkled more styptic on another gauze pad and handed it to her. “Put it against the exit wound and press. That’s right. You have a good touch, Lady T.” He wiped his hand on his apron. “You saved his life.”

  She couldn’t help her tears. “I thought I did everything wrong.”

  “No. You did everything right.”

  Unbelieving, she gazed at the bloody bed, the patient pale almost to transparency now, and her own arms, red to the elbows. There was blood on the floor, too.

  “Physicking is an untidy business, Lady Taunton,” he said, which sounded to Laura like the vastest understatement ever uttered. He gestured toward the box, bloody with his fingerprints and hers. “This is Davey’s third round of what we call secondary hemorrhage. I’ve been using persulphate of iron, which I think is better than iron perchloride. A little less caustic.”

  She just stared at him dumbly, until he reached for her wrist with one hand and felt her pulse, while maintaining his other hand on
the neck wound.

  “I don’t want you to faint, Lady T, because I don’t have enough hands.”

  She managed a laugh that sounded more like a shudder, to her ears. “If I feel faint, I promise to put my head down.”

  He turned his full attention to his patient, who was breathing regularly now. He continued to talk to her, though, and maybe to the others in the room, the newcomers from the Tireless, who were silent and staring.

  “David here was shot in the neck. The bullet tore through his trapezius muscle—this one here—and then broke his clavicle before it left. I think it nicked his carotid artery, and that’s our problem. It’s sloughing.”

  How can this man possibly survive? she wanted to ask, but not then, not while the patient was listening. She sat where she was on the stool, mainly because she knew if she stood up, she would fall down. She leaned closer, so only the surgeon could hear.

  “Did I do Matthew an injury by sending him to find you?”

  “No. He’s young and healthy. I think he’s a hero.” He looked over his shoulder at the others in the room. “Maybe when we all feel more like it, we can give Matthew three cheers. You, too.”

  The men chuckled, and the whole room seemed to relax. The patients tried to settle back again, except for the man in the next bed, the one with the remains of his leg in a basket. He looked at Laura and shrugged his shoulders, and she could see he had gotten trapped by his own blankets when he leaned out of bed to help the bleeding man.

  Laura stood up slowly, swayed a little and took several deep breaths before she tried to move. Careful not to slip on the blood, she went to his bed. “What direction should I pull your leg to get you back under the blanket?” she asked. “That way? Put your arm around my neck and I’ll tug you up a little. Good.”

  She started to turn back, but he tugged her skirt.

  “Please miss, I need a piss pot.” His face was red with embarrassment.

  “I think we all do,” she said, which made the patients laugh. “Where is it?”