STO'B 27

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Dr M’Mullen rose, quietly excusing himself as the discussion moved to purely naval affairs. He had to pack, he explained, and wanted to be sure that he didn’t leave anything behind. The admiral stood and shook his hand; Philip stood and bowed.

“You also need coal,” said the Admiral, looking at Philip’s statement again once the door closed behind M’Mullen. “We had a collier join a day or so back, the Cranberry, and you’ll have to pick up some from her. Luckily the sea is calm, so she’ll be able to use her donkey to lift it over. Water is something else again, though, and perhaps it would be best if you picked that up when you drop off your prisoners. You have enough water for that?”

Philip paused, trying to work the figures in his head. His total crew was about 100 officers and men, less the 30 or so he had sent into the Chasseur, plus the prisoners, though the prisoners only received 2/3 of a ration each. That made - 85 rations? 75? And how long would it take him to reach Gideon’s Bay? Not to mention the convoy that he had sent the Chasseur to intercept. But the admiral was waiting for an answer. “No, sir, we’re a little short.”

“Well, Dr M’Mullen knows the area and may be able to direct you to another source, otherwise you’ll have to go on short allowance. The whole squadron is short of water, and I can’t spare you any. Now, get on over to the Cranberry and take on that coal, you’ll need to be underway by eight bells in the afternoon watch.”

* * *

While Philip returned to the Badger and took on coal, Dr M’Mullen returned to the cabin in which he had had his home these few days. He remembered Captain Fitton, of course, though for the moment it seemed that the best course would be not to mention this, and in any event his attention was already divided between his forthcoming work in Gideon’s bay and the details of packing. Essentially, the issue came dow to how long he would be away from the Viceroy, and of course he had no idea. He sorted through his books - Robbins on pathology, Scott, the collected works of Dr Maturin, essays on surgery and splinting by Randolf, a monograph on pulmonary complaints by a Frenchman whose name consistently escaped him, many others, equally valuable. And then there were his instruments, including the tourniquet that still didn’t work, though new ideas had come to him over breakfast that morning. His writing chest would have to some, and of course some clothes, and he was deep in these considerations when a midshipman knocked at his door to report the arrival of the Badger’s launch, ready to take him on board.

“Oh!” he said, “oh!” And he hurriedly stuffed his possessions pell-mell into his trunk, eventually sitting on it in order to get it closed, then turning around to find more books sitting on his cot. He stared blankly at them for a moment before hurriedly whipping off his shirt and laying it out on the cot, tossing the books on top of it and tying the sleeves around to whole, making an untidy parcel of it. “It will have to do,” he said, as the midshipman thundered on his door for the third time.

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GLOSSARY