STO'B 39

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As he knelt there, the Badger’s hull shook and crashed as shot hit her. “Heavens,” he exclaimed, “is it always like this in battle?”

“Yes, Dr M’Mullen,” said the sailor. He opened his mouth to say more when he was cut off from a savage shout from above:

“Thompson! How long are you going to take?”

“Beg pardon, sir,” said the sailor, “I’m needed on deck, but is there something you need?”

“Something to cauterize this man - something hot.”

“Thompson!” came the shout again.

“Yes, Mr Wilkins,” replied the sailor. “Something hot, sir? I’ll see what I can do,” and he disappeared up a ladder.

But now here was Dr Foster, peering, with red-rimmed eyes, over the edge of the coaming. “What are you doing with that man?” he asked.

“He’s bleeding,” began Patrick.

“Yes, I can see that. Once these two other men are treated I will see to him.”

“He’s dying.”

“Patients are served in the order that they arrive, Dr M’Mullen. Surely you know that. We have no room for democratic ideals in medicine. Holles,” he called down into the cockpit, “give me a hand with the next case.” He took a quick drink from a metal flask and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, then disappeared down the ladder, emergening a moment later with a bear of a man, his assistant. Between the two of them they manhandled the next case, a man with a broken arm, through the hatchway and so below. Dr M’Mullen and the patient with the thigh wound were forgotten.

The patient had started to shiver from loss of blood. There was not much time left - certainly not enough time for that fool Dr Foster to finish two cases - but if Thompson might bring or send something to cauterize the wound with, he could still be saved.

Another shadow fell across the deck, and looking up Patrick saw the servant that Captain Fitton had assigned to his guest, standing there with a steaming mug. “Sir, Thompson said you wanted something hot. Would coffee suit?”

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