their goblets in toast and broke into mirthful laughter.
2
Wednesday, June 2
7:00 a.m.
(Morning Watch, Six Bells)
AT SIX BELLS the next morning, Leander Braden rose from his hammock to resume his duties in the small hospital in the forepeak of the Isabelle’s upper deck. He and his assistant, Osmund Brockley, had completed their operations on the battle-wounded the night before, having had to amputate three legs, two hands, and one foot, in addition to closing forever the eyes of many young men. But at this early hour, there were still six seamen with a multitude of injuries, in various states of consciousness, groaning and twitching in their troubled sleep, who required Leander’s care and attention.
The hospital air was heavy with the putrid smell of medicines, blood, excrement, and festering wounds, despite Osmund having thrown open all of the nearby gunports. It aggravated Leander’s crushing exhaustion and the creeping stiffness he felt in his shoulders. With a sigh, he settled at his desk to begin making notes in his medical journal, but he could not concentrate. He gazed over at the old sails that Morgan Evans had rigged up at one end of the hospital for the comfort of Emily, his newest patient, and for several minutes he allowed himself to wonder who she was, and why it was she had jumped from the Serendipity.
Leander had just managed to return his attention to his journal when Biscuit and his assistants, Maggot and Weevil (so named for their weekly task of drawing the maggots and weevils out of the biscuit barrel), entered the hospital ward from the galley next door, bearing bowls of porridge and plates of sea biscuits.
“Biscuit,” Leander called out sternly as the cook tiptoed towards Emily’s corner, “you may leave the food here with me and I’ll make certain she gets it when she wakes up.”
“Ah, but Doc, I got up real early to make fresh biscuits for thee lass. I’d likes to present ’em to her. There ain’t no weevils burrowin’ in ’em.”
Leander held his gaze.
“Ah, but Doc, I was below deck cookin’ up yer supper when Morgan brought her on board.”
“We’re dyin’ for a wee peek,” said Maggot. Behind him, his brother, Weevil, nodded eagerly.
“All in good time, men. Now I insist you all leave.”
But the three interlopers stood rooted to the floor.
Leander frowned. “You wouldn’t want to catch a contagious fever now, would you?”
The possibility of catching something did the trick. Biscuit and the brothers, suddenly remembering urgent duties elsewhere, dropped Emily’s breakfast feast on top of Leander’s journal – spilling his inkwell – and shoved at one another as each tried to be the first to exit the hospital. No sooner had they fled, however, than Lewis McGilp, the coxswain, sauntered in from the galley.
“Yes, Mr. McGilp?” asked Leander, still frowning at the annoyance of his spilled ink.
“It’s my throat, sir. It’s mighty sore,” he said, looking sheepish.
“Come in then and I’ll examine you.”
Lewis hopped up on the operating table, opened his mouth, and said, “Ahhhh” just as Octavius Lindsay climbed through the hatch from the fo’c’sle deck, straightened his frock coat, and took off his bicorne hat.
Looking over his round spectacles, Leander addressed him. “Let me guess, Mr. Lindsay: you are suffering from a stomach ailment, most likely caused by the poor quality of last night’s fare.”
Octavius shuffled his feet in his Hessian boots, striking his greasy head on a hanging lantern. “That’s it, Doctor, and I’m feeling so poorly I cannot attend to my duties.”
“I’ve a tonic that should help if you’ll just wait until I’ve seen to Mr. McGilp.”
Octavius dropped down on a stool and fixed his black eyes on the canvas curtain.
Morgan Evans was the next to appear. He stood beside Octavius and tugged the woollen sock from his head.
“What afflicts you, Morgan?” asked Osmund Brockley, coming towards him with a reeking chamber pot that required dumping into the ocean.
“I missed the mark doing my repairs and smashed my left hand with my hammer,” he responded in a muted tone, studying the cracks in the floorboards.
“Mr. Evans,” said Leander without turning around, “I have never known you to injure yourself with your hammer before. Is this nonsense?”
“No, sir,” said Morgan quickly, holding up the swollen fingers of his left hand.
“Fine. I will attend to you after Mr. Lindsay. Take a seat where you can find one.”
Morgan sank to the floor while Leander completed his examination of the coxswain. “Mr. McGilp, there is no evidence of swollen glands. May I suggest you wear a jacket and extra scarf while standing at the helm, especially during the night when there is much dew on deck.”
Lewis jumped down from the table. “Aye, sir, thank you, sir.”
Leander cleaned away the pool of ink on his desk then made a brief note in his journal. When at last he wheeled about to signal to Mr. Lindsay to come forward, he discovered a crowd of sailors standing in the hospital doorway, all waiting their turn, their wide eyes fixed on the private corner where Emily lay.
Osmund rolled his oversized tongue about. “They say they’ve either taken in some bad water or ingested too many weevils, sir.”
Leander folded his arms across his slender frame. “Gentlemen, unless you have fallen from the shrouds, broken your neck, or are bleeding profusely, I would ask that you come back later when there is sufficient air in here for us all to breathe.”
The men, excluding Octavius Lindsay and Morgan Evans, all shuffled out grumbling to themselves. Osmund broke into a succession of guffaws that sounded like the brays of a donkey, while Mr. Harding, the sailing master, keenly watched their departure from his hammock, his footless leg propped up at a forty-five-degree angle.
“Doctor,” he said with a grin, “I fear it’s not your services that brought them down here.”
“That is abundantly obvious,” replied Leander, uncrossing his arms. “Now, Mr. Lindsay, about that tonic …”
* * *
AT EIGHT BELLS, when his morning watch had ended, Gus Walby wandered into the hospital holding the first volume of Sense and Sensibility.
“May I read to Miss Emily, Doctor?”
Leander laid a long finger to his lips. “I just scared a dozen men away. If they learn you have been allowed to stay, I’ll be walking the plank at midnight. She’s only now awakened, Mr. Walby, and hasn’t yet taken breakfast.” He reached for the bowl and plate on his desk. “Her porridge is cold, but she may like some biscuits.”
Gus tucked his book under one arm and took the food from Leander. He walked carefully to Emily’s canvas corner, cleared
