Truth and Beauth 6-3

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“That is his dura,” said Stephen, inserting a gloved finger into the bleeding hole and feeling for the source of the flow. Yes? No? Yes, that felt like it. He threaded a fiber-optic probe along his finger, watching the monitor hanging above Franklin’s chest: yes, probably. Still holding the probable site of the injury with his finger he withdrew the probe and inserted a Litvack applicator, applied the patch, and was withdrawing the applicator to reinsert the probe when Devon collapsed to the floor. “Ah,” said Stephen.


    Up in the great cabin, Jack was receiving the carpenter’s report. Mister Lorre was a short, balding, bear-like man, now looking slightly disheveled from his inspection of the Roth following her awkward jump to hyperspace. “The worst is between frames 12 and 16 on the starboard boat deck - beams slipped from the clamps. We’ve got some additional knees in there to support her, but I dursn’t use the hangar till the dockyard has taken a look. Also the forward gangway door in the same area is jammed. We could free it with a heavy persuader and a ram, but I doubt it would want to close again, so I think best is to pull out the hatch, straighten the frame, and rehang it sir - that would require the commander’s bypass for the christmas tree, in course. In the hangar itself, some of the boat clamps in the hangar were pulled out of alignment, and one of the shuttle craft took a tumble and looks to be a total loss. Ms Bergman reports that the lighting on the forward berth deck is all out, and Mister Humphries is fitting a Robbins pipe to the secondary loop for the prime mover. The rest is smaller stuff - one of the telescreens in the crew’s recreation fell off the bulkhead, and the universal machines shifted, like that.

“Begging your pardon, sir, and no disrespect meant,” continued the carpenter, now looking at his feet, “but Roth is an old girl, and that was a tough shake for her, going into hyperspace like that. I don’t know that she can take another.”

Jack looked up from his desk, where he had been taking notes on his tablet; this was no way to address an unfamiliar captain. He said nothing, however, as privately, he agreed with the carpenter’s assessment, and the man’s sincerity and deference were evident. “Well, Mister Lorre,” he said, “we must do what we can to patch her up for now. It’s only for a few weeks, until we reach Neva 4.” He looked at his tablet, reviewing the list of damages, “when you’re ready to rehang that hatch let me know, and I’ll bypass the christmas tree for you.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mister Lorre, saluting and departing. Jack stared at his tablet, not particularly seeing it so much as the damage it recorded, in his mind’s eye. Eventually he pushed back his chair and stood up, crossing over to the to the food generator and ordering a drink.

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Vacation

I will be on vacation for the next week; updates will resume 5/31.

 - B

Truth and Beauty 6-2

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Doctor Russ moved into the prep room, scrubbed and sterilized his hands, stepped into a surgical gown, and donned sterile gloves and a mask.  Then he stepped into the cramped operating room.

His patient, an engineering crew member named Franklin, was already on the table, unconscious but breathing, hooked up to the monitor and receiving oxygen.  The man’s friend looked up as the doctor entered, putting down the electric groomer with which he had been shaving Franklin’s head.  “Just his queue left, your honor.  I don’t need to shave that off, do I?”

“This is fine, thank you, Devon.”  Stephen cleaned Franklin’s head with soap, then isopropanol, then providone-iodine, and finally epi-stat; then considered the gash across the man’s right temple.  The tissue had swollen, but the bleeding had stopped, and Stephen’s palpating fingers found no crepitation.  “Very good,” he said.

Taking his point of departure from the superior temporal line at the zygomatic process, he directed Devon to press an emesis basin against Franklin’s head and began his incision, working quickly and carefully, dividing the skin and the superficial fascia, then then incising the temporal fascia and dividing the temporalis itself.  He had never performed surgery in space before, and the living deck beneath his feet was distracting at first, but by the time he reached the periosteum he no longer noticed.  “There,” he said to Devon, “see the crack?  That is our culprit.  Will you pass me the red-handled osteotome now?  The small chisel-like instrument on the left?”

Devon found and passed the osteotome.  “There may be some blood, now,” said Stephen, “so be ready with that suction catheter.”  He scraped the periosteum away from the bone, then traded the osteotome for the trephine.  “Hold the suction catheter here, now,” Stephen directed, and he pressed the diamond cutting edge to the bone, turning the handle and grinding into the living tissue.

He felt the subtle give as he entered the diploë, then the resistance again as he met the inner table.  Suddenly the blade plunged into the skull, releasing a spurt of gelatinous, semi-clotted blood that Devon siphoned away, the catheter slurping and gurgling as it worked.  Stephen peered into the hole, which rapidly filled with pulsing blood, then reached in with one finger to find the leaking artery.  “There is a square, blue button on the monitor,” he told Devon, “could you press it, please?  About the size of your thumb nail.”

Devon found the button, pressed it, and the blood pressure cuff cycled.  Yes - the pressure was coming down.  “Are you touching his brain, your honor,” asked Devon.

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Truth and Beauty 6-1

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Chapter 6
Some time later Jack found Stephen in the sick bay office, standing in the dark in front of a large computer screen. “There you are, Stephen,” he said. “Why are you standing in the dark?”

“I am evaluating my patient’s CT. He has an epidural hematoma, see the characteristic lens shape, limited by the coronal suture? I suspect a rupture of one of the branches of the middle meningeal artery, but I’d like to see it on the film.”

“The middle meningeal artery?” said Jack.

“Oh, no, one of its branches,” he scrolled to the next slice. “There,” he said, “just at the pterion. And a hairline fracture, too.”

“Oh, dear,” said Jack. “And how are your other patients,” he asked, determined to hear it through to the end in his responsibility as captain.

“The broken arm I have splinted and managed the pain. I’ll cast him after the operation. The rest are minor scrapes and contusions, which will do.”

“Oh, dear, oh, dear,” said Jack again. Only a few days into his first command and he had one hand dead of a head injury: no one could survive bleeding into the brain, that was certain. Not without the medical team of a shore establishment or a capital ship. And another man with a broken bone so severe it required surgery: weeks to recover, no doubt, and permanent disability. “Well,” he said, “I’ll leave you to it,” and he departed sick bay.

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Truth and Beauty 5-14

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Roth shuddered and was yanked sideways and forward; the lights dimmed, a some of the the control panels buzzed, small objects began to rise and drift, and Stephen felt his stomach rise as well. “Shit,” cursed the captain, “engines stop,” but Roth gave a groan, shuddered, and was yanked forward again. Stephen was reminded forcefully of a rafting trip he had once taken, where they had missed their put-out and accidentally entered the rapids. “Prepare the hyperdrive,” ordered the captain.

“Hyperdrive primed, sir,” and Roth shuddered and yanked forward again, then seemed to coast. The buzzing receded, lighting returned to normal, and the objects which had taken flight fell with a clatter, but the smell of ozone filled the bridge. Stephen fought down the urge to vomit. “Hyperdrive engaged, sir,” said the helmsman.

“Sensors deploying,” reported the radar man, then, “Jump is confirmed, sir.”

“Stand down from jump,” said the captain. “All stations report and have the carpenter sound the well.”

Deck reported scattered injuries and one hand in engineering who had struck his head and lost consciousness. “I am sorry to ask, Doctor, since you are a guest, but would you be willing,” asked Jack.

“Of course,” said Stephen, who in any event felt somehow responsible for the chaos, quite apart from an ingrained habit of treating anyone who needed it. “I take the companion all the way down?”

“Thank you, Doctor. All the way down but one, he’s on the upper engineering level, and remember to put on your headphones. The other patients will meet you in the sick bay on the same level, all the way forward.”

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STO'B 6-6 Captain Fitton

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Turning aft, Philip beheld the iron water tank, oiled on the outside against rust and fitted with a scale against which Mister South (or now Philip, the master being on the prize) routinely marked the water level.  Philip felt along the top of the tank until he found the soapstone, then pounded the side of the tank until he found the water level, marking it on the gauge.  Then standing back to consider the pattern of marks.  Was the tank holding its water?  Probably.  Mister South was so much better at this.  Philip frowned, but the tank was still close to one-quarter full, they were only a day or two from Malta, and nothing short of a catastrophic leak would be an issue before then.  For the same reason he gave their provisions, nestled on either side of the tank, no more than a quick glance; it wasn’t as if they were in the mid-Pacific.

The walk aft was blocked by the forward bulkhead of the coal bin, so Philip climbed back up to the berth deck, moved aft, and dropped down boiler room companion.

Here he met the Master Engineer and the on-duty boiler watch.  “Master Engineer, good afternoon, what is your report?”

“Good afternoon, sir,” said the Master Engineer, not bothering to salute and immediately leading Philip aft to the engine room.  “The crank pin bearing is growing quite warm, sir.  I doubt she’ll will make Malta without we give her a rest.”

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Truth and Beauty 5-13

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Cycling the door did the trick: the last light on the christmas tree turned green.  Informed of this by the crewman at the deck station, Jack consulted the checksheet for the jump to hyperspace.  Only withdrawing the sensor array remained.  “Radar, are we steady on the gate?”

“Steady, aye, steady, sir.”

“Withdraw the array.”

“Standby,” said the sensor man as he entered the commands.  “Array is withdrawn,” and Stephen felt the atmosphere grow tense.

Sublieutenant Greenstreet moved from station to station, checking the gauges and controls.  “Roth is rigged to jump, sir,” he reported.

“Helm,” said the captain, “ahead one quarter.  Take us in.”

The engines rumbled.  Roth, blind without her sensors, eased forward.  Stephen, feeling badly in the way, made to excuse himself.  “Pardon me,” he said.

“Silence!” roared the sublieutenant, and “Doctor,” warned the captain, and Stephen flattened himself against the bulkhead.

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Truth and Beauty 5-12

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“There you are Russ," said Jack.  "Stephen, that is.  I still can’t believe you let me call you Russ for so long."

“There seemed no need for correction,” said Stephen.  “It is my name.”

“You are a deep one, Doctor Russ.  But you are just in time for the jump to hyperspace, I was going to send a midshipman for you in a minute or so.  Deck, there, Miller, how are we coming?”

“Just the aft starboard gangway hatch on the gun deck, sir.  Sometimes it sticks, sir, we may have to send a hand to eyeball it.”

Jack paused.  Proper response if a hatch failed to read green before a jump was to pressure test it.  If the hatch passed, the vessel’s commander could then over-ride the hatch sensor to turn the christmas tree green.  But pressure testing was old-womanish, a six or seven hour procedure: not at all the image he wished to convey to the crew of his new command, or to Whitehall.  He glanced covertly at Mister Greenstreet, but the sublieutenant’s face was blank.  Mister Lorre and the acting master, whose name eluded Jack for the moment, were unconcernedly introducing themselves to Stephen.  Sending someone to check wouldn’t hurt - perhaps with a shove on the hatch, the sensor would read properly.  “Send a responsible hand to check the hatch, Miller.  Have him give it a good shove.”

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STO'B 6-5 Captain Fitton

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Philip left the medical men gathering their instruments.  Badger’s interior had been largely destroyed in the action which took her (several dozen raking shots through her fragile stern), and the dockyard had thoroughly disturbed what remained when they had fitted her steam engine and propeller, with the result that her internal layout was unlike any craft Philip had ever before seen.  Partial decks cut into the orlop at the bow and stern, and Philip dropped onto the forward one of these unnamed decks, meeting the carpenter and the bosun at the foot of the ladder, standing by their respective store rooms.

He looked into the carpenter’s store first.  The lamp in the light room (more of a light cupboard, really) cast a weak glow, but the carpenter had painted the space white, and enough light entered the space for Philip to make his inspection.  Like Mister Foster, the carpenter was apt to be cross-grained, but he was also highly conscientious and skilled, and Philip had full faith in him.  Mister  Scott had spent most of his stores in rebuilding the Badger after her various actions, but what little was left stood in orderly piles and racks, and the tools gleamed in the half light: clean, sharp, and well-organized.  “Very good, Mister Scott,” said Philip.  “Thank you.”

The bosun had not troubled to paint his store room (his sail room, actually).  He had folded all of his sails properly, including those damaged by gunshot and weather, but after the proud, careful arrangement of the carpenter’s store, the sail room looked a bit slovenly.  It was not criminally so, Philip had seen sail rooms in much worse state, and there was certainly no danger to the sails or the Badger, but the contrast struck Philip strongly.  “Very good, Mister McEwan,” he said.

Down again, to the bosun’s second store room and the cockpit.  The cockpit he gave little more than a glance as the bosun clambered down the ladder - its red-painted walls and timbers smelled of fresh paint but it was otherwise unremarkable, with saws and leather-covered chains hanging from their pegs in the near darkness.  No one was here, the surgeon and his mate being occupied with the men on the gangway.

Philip felt thoroughly depressed by the bosun’s lower store room, however, with its rope rack empty but for several coils of half-inch manila, swaying forlornly as Badger rocked.  Several buckets of tar and pitch stood in sockets along the aft bulkhead, spoils of the Tres Hermanas, but only a few worn or broken blocks hung from hooks.  “Thank you, Mister McEwan,” said Philip again.  “We certainly do need a restock.”

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Truth and Beauty 5-11

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“Yes, your honor,” replied the sentry.

“Thank you,” said Stephen, stepping through and letting the hatch close behind him with a dull clunk.

An open door stood to his right, a closed one to his left, and step ladders - his strange new friend Jack had called them a companion -stood before him, leading up and down.  Beyond the companion two passageways snaked forward, probably around the hold.  Up was the bridge, he recalled: the command center of the ship.  This seemed an obvious place to find the captain, so he mounted the stairs - the companion - and climbed.

His theory proved correct.  Jack was on the bridge, standing next to a decrepit-looking instrument panel with Sublieutenant Greenstreet and another man Stephen had not met.

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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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Truth and Beauty 5-10

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Stephen, who still had leeway to make up in terms of sleep, in spite of his earlier naps, retreated.  In the coach he found his trunk and other possessions neatly lined up along one of the bulkheads, and a well-made  cot with one corner of the bedclothes turned down.  He stripped off his clothes and climbed into bed, with the words I am home not quite formed as he fell asleep.

He slept through the change of the watch at eight bells, when the Roth rumbled with the tramping of the men’s feet and Jack, now off duty, knocked lightly on the hatch; slept through the change of the first dog watch to the second dog at four bells and the hull shook again; slept through the beginning of the first watch at eight bells and its end at eight bells again; and finally awoke fully refreshed at a time that his internal clock told identified as mid morning.  He lay there for a bit, collecting himself and luxuriating on having no immediate responsibilities - not even to himself.  Then he stretched, climbed out of the cot and stretched fully, and rummaged in his trunk for some clothing.

In the great cabin a short but polite note on a folded towel invited him to shower, and another note beside a small bell invited him to order breakfast.  Jack had not appeared by the time completed both tasks, so Stephen hung the towel on a peg in the coach and set out to find his host, or perhaps start learning his way around the Roth.

At the hatch leading out of the suite he ran into a red-coated marine, standing sentry.  “Am I allowed to leave,” he asked.

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STO'B 6-3 Captain Fitton

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* * *

Divisions, and Badger held her breath for her captain’s inspection, the red-coated marines lined-up on the quarterdeck, her crew toeing their appointed seams along the gangway and foc’cle, every line just so and blacked, her cannon bowsed tight against her side; and all sweltering under the Mediterranean sun. Philip began his inspection aft, begain it alone because his first lieutenant was still on the absent Chasseur.  He was out of midshipmen, too, having sent Wilkins over to the Tres Hermanas along with Mister South.  And even with the new crewmen form the prize he was running short of men.

He put these thoughts from his mind and slowly inspected the marines.  As he expected, they were flawless, or as flawless as conditions would allow: they stood as straight as their ramrods, with brilliantly pipeclayed crossbelts over neat, but faded red coats, their pink, freshly-shaved faces staring straight ahead as though Philip wasn’t there.  Except that they swayed slightly as Badger worked in the swell, they might have been wax statues.  Part of Philip felt for them as men - Falk looked as if he was approaching cerebral congestion and Philip would have to erect awnings in the future - but as their captain under God and Queen he said no more than “very good, Corporal Quinn.  You may set your men at ease,” before turning to the sailors.

Here things were different.  No amount of lecture or discipline short of terrorizing the hands would ever convince a sailor to stand at attention like a soldier.  Marines were all very well; able to pull on a rope when needed or fire down on an enemy from the tops, and invaluable in boarding and amphibious operations; but the men were only three-quarters joking when they accused each other of ‘topping it the marine:’ better dead than red.  They nudged each other and shared private jokes, made grotesque faces at their comrades on the other side of the waist in hopes of provoking laughter, and stared at their captain until he was within three feet, when they would suddenly fall silent and somber until he passed them by. Philip stopped before a particular sailor.  “Koslowski, how do you do,” he asked, looking into the man’s sunken eyes.

“Prime, sir, quite prime,” said Koslowski, staring straight ahead, and Philip noted that his breath was foul.  He looked the man over, considering.  For the Mediterranean Sea, this was strange.  He would have to keep a lookout, and consult with Mister Foster.

Paying more attention now, Philip moved along the line of sailors: one or two more showed the same lassitude on the starboard side, none on the foc’cle, but one more along the port gangway.

He dropped down to the gun deck, joining Mister Horrace, who saluted and fell in behind him as he carefully looked over Badger’s teeth.  Several of the guns were still in the hold, but Philip saw that the gunner had prepared their tackle for their new carriages to come aboard in Malta.  Mister Horrace had also distributed replacement tools for those lost, and every station had its full complement arrayed in the Badger’s sides and overhead framing.

The galley sat between guns eight and ten on the starboard side, manned by Bathby, the one-legged cook.  Philip put on the traditional white glove and ran it along the pots, inspecting his fingers with ritual seriousness for signs of grease; Bathby was a conscientious man, a bosun’s mate until he had lost his leg, and he worshipped cleanliness.

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