will do whatever I can for him, and I will give you news when I know more. But I will not know more until you are gone and I can examine him."
David stared the man down, but Alcott didn't flinch. For all his youth and lack of bulk, he wasn't easily intimidated, and David could not help but appreciate that in any man.
"I will be back, Doctor. Be very careful."
Alcott said nothing to this, and David turned to Henry and forced a smile.
"See? I told you I would find a doctor, even if I had to raid every ship in the Caribbean."
"So you did, Captain," Henry said with a strained smile of his own. "Thank you."
"Now leave, Captain Fletcher," Dr. Alcott said, and with a last glance at Henry, David turned on his heel and exited the cabin.
He wanted to stay below, but there was too much happening aboard the Fancy , and with Henry out of commission David could not be spared. He went above into the sunshine, and took a deep breath, eyeing the black shadow of a frigatebird soaring overhead, envying the bird its freedom to just fly away.
The schooner was dancing over the warm Caribbean waters, and it was the kind of day that David would normally be celebrating--a good haul, a fair wind--but Henry's condition cast a pall over the ship, the men subdued as they all awaited word.
It seemed like hours later, though he knew not that much time had passed, that Lewis came above and told him the doctor was ready to talk to him.
When he re-entered the cabin, the doctor was sitting alongside Henry on the bunk, the injured hand loosely bandaged. Henry's face was white as bleached bone, tears trickling from the corners of his eyes, and the smell of blood filled the small space. The doctor's face was grim, and older looking than it had been an hour earlier.
"What is it? What have you done to him?"
Alcott sighed, and rose from the bunk.
"I must be brutally honest with you, Captain, as I was with your brother. Mr. Fletcher's hand is damaged beyond repair."
"What are you saying?" David asked, hoping for a reprieve. But he had spent years at sea, seen men undergo horrific injuries, and he knew the doctor would say what he'd feared all along.
Alcott looked at him.
"The bones are crushed, and soon the flesh will become corrupted. Mr. Fletcher's hand must be amputated. If the hand is removed now, I can save most of his arm. If it is left to fester, the corruption will spread and he will either have to have all of his arm removed, or he will die."
"Have you ever done this before? An amputation?"
Alcott hesitated, then looked David in the eye.
"As I explained to Mr. Fletcher, Captain, I have not done an amputation, but I have assisted other surgeons in their operations."
David wanted to punch the doctor in the face. What good was this untried youngster, no more qualified than some ship's carpenter or the surgeon's loblolly boy, to be taking off a man's hand?
"Is there no port nearby where you can put in and take him to a proper surgeon?" the boy asked.
"If there was, I would not have needed to haul your skinny arse off that scow, would I?" David snarled. "That is the sawbones' solution to everything, isn't it? To cut and hack away at a man until there is nothing left!"
Alcott flinched, but held his ground.
"It is not a decision I, or any other surgeon, would make lightly, Captain, but there is no choice. Without amputation this hand will poison the rest of Mr. Fletcher's body. I cannot slow the spread of the corruption, nor can I heal a hand where the bones are ground to powder."
"David--"
David turned to his brother, who was staring down at the hand the doctor had decently covered. David did not need to see it again. He'd been there in the hold when the barrel slammed into Henry, pinning his hand beneath it. David would always hear his brother's screams in his nightmares and wonder if he'd only been a little faster, if he'd only been able to push Henry out of the way...
"Let the doctor do what he needs to do," Henry said.
"But--"
"It
David stared the man down, but Alcott didn't flinch. For all his youth and lack of bulk, he wasn't easily intimidated, and David could not help but appreciate that in any man.
"I will be back, Doctor. Be very careful."
Alcott said nothing to this, and David turned to Henry and forced a smile.
"See? I told you I would find a doctor, even if I had to raid every ship in the Caribbean."
"So you did, Captain," Henry said with a strained smile of his own. "Thank you."
"Now leave, Captain Fletcher," Dr. Alcott said, and with a last glance at Henry, David turned on his heel and exited the cabin.
He wanted to stay below, but there was too much happening aboard the Fancy , and with Henry out of commission David could not be spared. He went above into the sunshine, and took a deep breath, eyeing the black shadow of a frigatebird soaring overhead, envying the bird its freedom to just fly away.
The schooner was dancing over the warm Caribbean waters, and it was the kind of day that David would normally be celebrating--a good haul, a fair wind--but Henry's condition cast a pall over the ship, the men subdued as they all awaited word.
It seemed like hours later, though he knew not that much time had passed, that Lewis came above and told him the doctor was ready to talk to him.
When he re-entered the cabin, the doctor was sitting alongside Henry on the bunk, the injured hand loosely bandaged. Henry's face was white as bleached bone, tears trickling from the corners of his eyes, and the smell of blood filled the small space. The doctor's face was grim, and older looking than it had been an hour earlier.
"What is it? What have you done to him?"
Alcott sighed, and rose from the bunk.
"I must be brutally honest with you, Captain, as I was with your brother. Mr. Fletcher's hand is damaged beyond repair."
"What are you saying?" David asked, hoping for a reprieve. But he had spent years at sea, seen men undergo horrific injuries, and he knew the doctor would say what he'd feared all along.
Alcott looked at him.
"The bones are crushed, and soon the flesh will become corrupted. Mr. Fletcher's hand must be amputated. If the hand is removed now, I can save most of his arm. If it is left to fester, the corruption will spread and he will either have to have all of his arm removed, or he will die."
"Have you ever done this before? An amputation?"
Alcott hesitated, then looked David in the eye.
"As I explained to Mr. Fletcher, Captain, I have not done an amputation, but I have assisted other surgeons in their operations."
David wanted to punch the doctor in the face. What good was this untried youngster, no more qualified than some ship's carpenter or the surgeon's loblolly boy, to be taking off a man's hand?
"Is there no port nearby where you can put in and take him to a proper surgeon?" the boy asked.
"If there was, I would not have needed to haul your skinny arse off that scow, would I?" David snarled. "That is the sawbones' solution to everything, isn't it? To cut and hack away at a man until there is nothing left!"
Alcott flinched, but held his ground.
"It is not a decision I, or any other surgeon, would make lightly, Captain, but there is no choice. Without amputation this hand will poison the rest of Mr. Fletcher's body. I cannot slow the spread of the corruption, nor can I heal a hand where the bones are ground to powder."
"David--"
David turned to his brother, who was staring down at the hand the doctor had decently covered. David did not need to see it again. He'd been there in the hold when the barrel slammed into Henry, pinning his hand beneath it. David would always hear his brother's screams in his nightmares and wonder if he'd only been a little faster, if he'd only been able to push Henry out of the way...
"Let the doctor do what he needs to do," Henry said.
"But--"
"It
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