Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (35 page)

      
“Is there naught you can do?” she asked.

      
The surgeon's glance went straight to the patient, then he turned back to the girl. “Perhaps we should speak?” he said.

      
She nodded and gently released the hand she had reclaimed, standing slowly from the bunk as if unwilling to leave. Keats led her towards his dispensary, where he indicated the small chair usually used by patients.

      
“The wound is very deep,” he explained, as soon as they were settled. “To treat Mr Nichols properly must entail a major operation. I cannot be sure what damage has been done; even finding out would mean a great deal of pain and I don't think him to be strong enough.”

      
“So that is it?” she asked, after a moment. “You are to let him die?”

      
“I have no choice. Any action I might take can only cause further distress and bring death that much the sooner. I think him better left and would chance that, on reflection, you will agree.” He paused and regarded her with gentle eyes. “I am so sorry,” he said.

* * *

      
The wind still blew from the northeast, although the course they steered, when both ships finally set sail, meant that it now came across their larboard quarter. King had long ago decided that this would probably be the privateer's best point of sailing, and so ordered just staysails, topsails and topgallants to match
Pevensey Castle
's full suit that included courses. Sure enough, the little ship sprang forth like a deer, forcing him to back the mizzen and allow the Indiaman to forereach, then take in the topgallants before he finally matched her stately pace. He had allowed himself one short nap, and now that dinner was served, stood on the quarterdeck with just an able seaman at the helm and the rest sheltering in the lee of the bulwarks. He was happy for those on deck to rest whenever possible. The ship was running a two-watch system, although those below would be needed if any changes to their course or sail pattern were called for. King was taking alternate tricks with Drummond and Crowley even though all three might be needed at once. It was not an arrangement that could last forever, but he felt it might stand for the time needed to see them to safety.

      
Their noon sights placed them at roughly forty-three degrees north. Longitude was less easy to calculate as all the available chronometers differed, but it was generally reckoned that there was upwards of a hundred and fifty nautical miles to cover before raising the coast, and a further two hundred to sight the Tagus. It was a journey they could easily complete within the week, although with the rate
Pevensey Castle
was making, it might be twice that long, and even minor meteorological problems could stretch the time still further. Standing on his tiny quarterdeck, King was already becoming familiar with the motion of his ship through the soles of his boots. She was a lively thing to be sure; he felt he could have taken her to Gibraltar and back in no time at all, were he permitted.

      
To leeward the
Pevensey Castle
was battering through the swell with all the grace of a clumsy bear. She was riding higher now and must soon be dry, even though a trickle of water from the midship scuppers showed that her pumps were still in action.
 

      
Langlois’s words, and being aboard the privateer, even for so short a time, were awakening strange feelings in him. There was nothing exactly unseaworthy or crank about the Indiaman. Indeed, she was solidly built and would probably survive three, or even four, more passages to India. He doubted if his present craft could see two without a major refit. But the privateer remained a proper ship, whereas
Pevensey Castle
was simply a barge—one built to bring riches from the East and wealth to her owners. There was no soul in her; she was just a means to an end.
 

      
Though larger, his previous ship,
Pandora,
a light and lithe frigate, was surprisingly like the little privateer. A versatile craft, not built for a single destination, and one designed with her sailing abilities very much in mind. The same could be said about most Navy vessels. Even the mighty warhorses, the seventy-fours and above that sat low and were so laden with guns as to be floating fortresses, even they could show a couple of knots to the old
Pevensey
. Watching her now as she dragged herself through the rolling seas, he finally decided that the merchant service was not for him.

      
He walked back and forth across the tiny deck while his thoughts ran on. Langlois had been right; the two services were very different. Plodding along in a hull weighed down by so much dead weight might suit some, but he yearned for the freedom of a warship, even one confined to a dreary blockade duty. And he missed the company of Navy officers. Paterson, Nichols and the rest had done well enough when retaking the
Espérance,
but with a handful of true fighting men beside him, he was certain the Indiaman would not have been captured in the first place. Thinking about it again he was still amazed at the apathy the others had displayed. In his mind there could be no excuse for allowing such a valuable ship to fall into enemy hands without some form of resistance, yet giving in without a fight seemed to have been universally accepted.
 

      
And in a warship there were no passengers, no audience present, to discuss the smallest of orders. It was strange how even a few weeks at sea produced nautical experts from the most unlikely material. He was equally sick of snugging the ship down at night, shortening sail early to ensure that none of these newborn sons of the sea were awakened by something as mundane as taking a reef in the topsails.

      
He would see this trip out, even though calling at Gibraltar was going to be difficult in the extreme. The Mediterranean fleet were regular visitors; he may well see ships known in earlier times, and meet with former colleagues in the Navy. Then, when he finally quit the merchant service, he could apply again for a proper posting. The time wasted in
Pevensey Castle
might see some important changes in the war; there could be a berth for him then. He knew the chances were slight, but at that moment even to be on half pay in a Navy uniform seemed a better option than service at sea with the Honourable East India Company.

* * *

      
“That sounds perfectly dreadful,” Kate said as she handed Elizabeth a cup of hot tea in the steerage mess. “Though in my experience the Navy does not shrink from important tasks, if at least some degree of success is perceived.”

      
“I know, yet they refuse to act, and it would seem such a relatively simple procedure.”

      
“I fear that any attempt to open a belly could never be considered simple,” Kate said, as tactfully as she could.

      
“Maybe not, but if it be the only chance, surely it is worth the taking?” Elizabeth sipped the hot drink and winced slightly. Kate had sweetened it almost to a syrup, even though she knew Elizabeth did not take sugar. “Mr Keats just has to remove the ball, and repair any damage it might have caused.”

      
Kate nodded sympathetically; she could remember all too well how she felt when her own father was in a similar situation. “I am sure if it could be done it would,” she replied. But her words sounded trite, and she could tell that nothing, short of having Keats ordered to operate, could be acceptable to the girl.

      
“Forgive me, but what exactly is the problem?” Langlois was dining alone at the small table that he had adopted in the corner of the room. Kate acknowledged him for the first time, also noticing how he was taking a glass of white wine with his meal; it seemed a sophisticated accompaniment to a very basic lobscouse.

      
“George Nichols is in need of an operation,” she said briefly. “Mr Keats fears him not strong enough for the pain.”

      
“Cannot laudanum or rum be used?” the mate began to chew meditatively.

      
“It is a belly wound: the surgeon will not countenance drugs.”

      
“Has he none that need not be ingested?” he asked, himself swallowing a mouthful and taking a small sip of wine.

      
“I presume not, though you should properly speak with the surgeon.”

      
“It is rare even for an experienced man to contemplate such a procedure,” he mused, replacing the glass on the table. “Though I grant that medical matters may have moved on a pace of late.”

      
“If there is something of which you know, I am sure Mr Keats should welcome the telling.” As she spoke Langlois became uncomfortably aware that he was holding both women's rapt attention.

      
“It is probably nothing,” he said, then apparently changed his mind. “Let me be straight, it is the pain that remains the problem?”
 

      
“Indeed.” Kate agreed readily.

      
Langlois stopped eating now and for a minute sat holding his knife and fork in the air, before placing them both down on the table. “Forgive me ladies, I would not have your hopes raised, but do wonder if there might be something that could be tried.”

      
Both women were looking at him now, and hope was very evident in their eyes.

      
“Pray, do not take what I say to heart until I have cleared it with the surgeon.” He smiled awkwardly as he stood and went to leave the room. “I might be considering something that is quite impossible; but still, I think it worthy of pursuit. You will excuse me, I am sure?”

Chapter Fifteen

      
The air in the sickbay was already thick with its smell, and yet only a small fraction of the green lump was actually burning.

      
“It is important that you breathe in the smoke,” Langlois told Nichols, before turning to where Keats and Manning were waiting by the patient's feet. “And equally so, gentlemen, that you do not.”

      
“Have no fear of that, Mr Langlois,” Keats said seriously. “I have every intention of keeping my breath clear, and trust that you will also.”

      
Langlois nodded. He was well aware of the responsibility he had undertaken, and secretly felt less than certain he could maintain the patient in a suitably semi-conscious state. But this was not the time for doubt, without surgery Nichols was going to die, and the man had been ready enough to take the chance when offered. He lowered a small brass funnel over the glowing drug and held the dish in front of the fourth mate, who now lay, prone and naked, on the operating table. Nichols’s nose twitched slightly, and he seemed to cough. Then his eyes grew darker, and his head fell to one side. Langlois looked back towards the surgeons.

      
“I think you may begin.”

      
It took less than twenty minutes, and despite the fifth mate's administrations, hardly appeared pain free, although Nichols remained relatively still throughout. Langlois gave his entire attention to the patient, altering the position of the brass dish as minute facial reactions revealed his state of consciousness. He purposefully did not look when Keats wielded the probe and finally caught the small ball in the bullet retriever. It dropped with an important clatter into a pewter dish. The shot was lodged in the man's lower abdomen, and the surgeon had been able to press it against the pelvis to allow the tool to do its work. There was also a small amount of fibre, presumably from Nichols's clothing, which Keats removed. Damage to the gut was mercifully light. Not more than eight horsehair stitches being needed to close the fascia and abdominal muscle, with another twelve of light gut to the skin, administered by Manning who was becoming quite adept with a needle. Keats wiped the ragged scar dry and applied a small lint dressing that he held in place as Manning bandaged. Then Nichols drew his first clear breath as Langlois removed the funnel and extinguished the glowing fire.

      
“A success, Mr Keats?” he asked, closing the lid and slipping the warm dish into his jacket pocket.

      
The surgeon shook his head. “Far too early to speak of such things, Mr Langlois. I have only performed one similar procedure in the past and that, I regret, was not a success. Still it is done.” His expression lightened for the first time. “And it might not be, but for your help. I thank you.”
 

      
Nichols’s eyes were closed, and it was obvious that he would sleep for some hours although, of all present, only Langlois could guess at the dreams that might accompany him.

      
“We will discover more in a day or two,” the surgeon continued. “But I fear it will be far longer before we know if
sphacelus
infection has been avoided.”

      
“I will inform the ladies,” Manning said. By common consent it was agreed that neither woman should be present, even though it had become routine for Kate to assist during surgery. She was carrying out an equally valuable role in comforting Elizabeth, and Manning was eager to tell them both of the progress.