STO'B 6-4 Captain Fitton

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Philip continued further along the gun deck, into the area most devastated in the battle at the Roman spring.  Several deep scars still marred the deck here, and though Mister Scott had planked-over all of the holes in Badger’s side, he had run short of framing, and had to improvise several of the repairs.

“This is gun seven here,” said Mister Horrace, pointing to where gun six usually sat, “the carriage for six being smashed and the framing for number seven not being quite set, yet.  Gun five I put in for number four.”

“Very good, Mister Horrace,” said Lieutenant Fitton once they had circled the gun deck and returned to the aft companion.  “It looks as though you and Mister Scott have pieced together a full broadside for us.”

“Yes, sir,” said the gunner, blushing slightly and saluting.

Philip dropped down the companion to the berth deck.  The deck was wide open at present, all of the hammocks being rolled up on the bulwharks, and the men’s chests (two men shared a single chest) secured against the sides; the low overhead beams made the space look even deeper and wider than it was.  The place smelled of unwashed men and stale air, but Philip didn’t particularly notice - the smell was familiar to him from childhood as the typical berth deck smell.  He did notice the darkness, however, after the sunlit gun deck above (the gun ports let in a certain amount of light, and amidships the space between the gangways was open to the heavens), and not for the first time he wondered if he should have the space painted white.

He worked his way forward to the sick bay, where he met the surgeon, who stood as he entered. 

“Good afternoon, Mister Foster, what is your report?”

“All present and accounted for,” said the surgeon; his customary reply, “and my patient’s as comfortable as can be expected.”

His patient, an elderly seaman still suffering from an arm fracture obtained during the battle for the Chasseur, lay as rigidly in his cot as if he had been carved there.  “How are you doing, Gibney,” asked Captain Fitton.

“Very good, sir, though the pain is something cruel,” Gibney replied in the faint, traditional, at-death’s-door voice required of an invalid.

“We’ll see you up and about in no time, I’m sure.  Mister Foster will hit upon the solution and you’ll be right as rain.”  Philip hoped his words carried conviction; the man appeared to be getting worse, not better.

Gibney made an appropriate reply, and the captain turned back to the surgeon.  “Mister Foster, some of the hands have the look of scurvy to me.  Could you take a look among them and see what you can discover?”

“Surely not,” said the surgeon.  Their lime juice is mixed in with their grog.”

“Well, something is not quite right.  Koslowski, in the starboard watch, and Dixon.  And Martin in the larboard watch.”

“Malingerers.  But I shall do as you ask.  Come, Holles, the lieutenant tells us we have scurvy aboard, forsooth.  Koslowski, Dixon and Martin.”

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