Chapter Text
Bleary eyes blinked awake lethargically before his sluggish mind caught up and circuited to full awareness with a perceptible start. Dr Llewelyn had not even noticed he had nodded off from exhaustion during his bedside vigil. A short burst of panic gripped at his heart upon recalling his patient’s critical condition. Shame-stricken he jumped to his feet, nearly over-balancing in his hurry to check on the wounded man’s vitals: his pulse was weak but steady and his breathing slow yet regular. The doctor breathed a hardly audible sigh of relief while raking dexterous fingers through his thick mane of chestnut brown hair. From what he had witnessed, Commodore Pellew would have had his hide had the young man in his care perished during the night because of his negligence.
Even in the faint light of the infirmary, Dr Llewelyn noted a sheen of perspiration and a persistent shade of colour on his patient’s cheeks, all the more prominent for the stark white, unnatural pallor of the rest of his face. During his extensive studies under the renowned tutelage of one John Hunter in Scotland, he had learned that a moderate fever was to be expected at this stage and no cause for inordinate concern. As long as the fever stayed well below a certain temperature, it was an effective way for the body to purge an infection. By all accounts, the lad had been burning up before the operation, so his current temperature appeared to be down by a few degrees. Hopefully this was an indicator of progress rather than a sign of his overtaxed body finally shutting down.
Distantly he heard the sound of a bell but not being accustomed with ship-board life, the doctor did not know how to convert the toll of the ship’s bell into the corresponding measure of time. Since the sick berth was located deep in the bowels of the vessel, no sunlight penetrated the hull to determine the time of day, either. The only illumination inside the claustrophobic room stemmed from the dim lanterns sporadically distributed throughout the space. Judging by the serene lack of bustle around him, he concluded it must be night-time. Curiously he fished for the chain of his trusted pocket watch to verify: almost midnight; no wonder all was quiet at present.
Fighting a losing battle with bone-deep weariness, an involuntary yawn crept up on him. The long and difficult operation had taken much out of him but the ship’s surgeon was due to relieve him from his vigil soon. Then it was his turn to catch up on a few hours of much-needed sleep and leave the responsibility of caring for the gravely injured man to someone else for a while.
In the morning, once he was rested and the day’s activities had begun, the lad’s wound and sutures would need examining and redressing. Afterwards he would oversee the loblolly boys carefully wash away the sweat and grime of too many a feverish days. Should their patient not have deteriorated too much from the strain of those activities, he and Dr Ingram-Bassenthwaite would then proceed to cautiously shift him into a slightly different position to avoid bedsores. For fear of aggravating his condition, they dared not move the man just yet.
In the oppressively stifling atmosphere of the sick berth, Dr Llewelyn’s thoughts slowly drifted towards contemplating the person before him instead of reducing the young man to a wound, a condition or a work schedule. He knew next to nothing about this man whose life the commodore was so eager to save. From his build and muscle tone, it was rather easy to deduce that he must be a sailor, and an officer at that. He was obviously used to hard work but not back-breaking labour or the depravity of poverty. In fact, his fine features and good teeth suggested he might even be a descendent from aristocracy. It was common enough for members of the upper class to send their younger sons into the Navy.
Despite his smart appearance, however, he was also a prime example of the cruelty and sometimes abhorrent treatment of men in His Majesty’s service. A tightly woven net of faint scars bore silent witness to countless beatings. Though healed and clearly several years old, the silvery lines of scars all over his backside were a study in abuse and spoke of his obstinate nature. For all of his innocent looks, he must be quite the rebel to merit such rigorous punishment.
A firm hand on his shoulder shook Dr Llewelyn from his idle musings. He looked up to find Dr Ingram-Bassenthwaite standing next to him, eyes studying the sleeping form on the make-shift table.
“I did not expect the boy to last this long to be honest,” he admitted with a hint of admiration in his voice. Whether it was for Dr Llewelyn’s skills as a surgeon, or the young man’s tenacity, or both was anyone’s guess.
Dr Llewelyn decided this declaration of confidence was best answered with a non-committal grunt.
“You may use my bunk, Sir, just through that door over there. I don’t mind,” the ship’s surgeon changed topics.
Grateful for the offer, Dr Llewelyn got up from the weather-worn chair and stretched his cramped legs. “Thank you, Sir, that is very kind.”
“Not at all,” Dr Ingram-Bassenthwaite waved him off. “It is tiny but a heck of a lot more comfortable than one of them hammocks if you are not used to sleeping in one.”
The Jamaican doctor nodded, barely suppressing an undignified yawn. He quickly gathered his discarded jacket and pocketed his watch, then made to stride off in the direction of the surgeon’s cabin.
“I will wake you if anything changes. God knows I don’t know what to do with the lad if he should worsen.”
“Very well. I bid you good night, Sir.”
Dr Ingram-Bassenthwaite replied in kind as Dr Llewelyn trudged tiredly away, sparing a last glance at his comatose patient, fervently hoping the young man would keep holding on for dear life.
to be continued...