on top of the chest. “This isn’t a cure but should help with the discomfort. Anytime you get a bout, raise your feet up.” I shift his leg to a more comfortable raised position and add, “You may also have a touch of arthritis.”
The old man laugh s at what he thinks is absurdity, but complies. I drop my vocational demeanor for just a moment to smile back at him and continue with my self-appointed work.
The people on this side seem to be less afflicted. My thoughts drift to concern for the man with the broken arm and the desperate need of dry bandages for the open wounds. I have almost made my way around to the other side where those items are desperately needed.
I shoot my eyes to him. He is watching me intently, cradling his broken arm.
Where is Mr. Tinker?
As if my thoughts called to him and he answered, the trap door opens and gray light pours in. A cagey, wiry man, dressed in burlap pants and a shirt that was definitely made for another much larger man, descends into our cell. He is carrying two glass bottles and cloth.
My friend ’s eyes find mine and his register disbelief that my request was granted. The sailor looks around dartingly and calls out, “Paul!”
I step quickly toward him and Mr. Overton joins me from his position across the way. The sailor thrusts the contents of his hands at me.
“These are from Tinker.”
“ Thank you.”
I take them gladly, unaffected by the lack of propriety of the giver. I fully expect the sailor to traverse up the ladder into the daylight since his task is complete. Instead, he just looks at me oddly as if my presence may somehow offend him.
I don’t have time to explore the mystery of this man’s expression. So I hand the bottles to my friend and carry the cloth to the woman who is still beating back the flowing blood of her husband.
“ Rip these into strips,” I order her. She begins the task quickly.
I peer over at the wound; it has slowed down considerably. I examine it gently. I reach my hand back in a gesture for a bottle of the whiskey we just received, and my hand meets the rough edges of burlap.
It startles me. This man is so close and hovering over me. I jump up, the events of last evening plaguing me.
“ I was told to help too,” he grinds out in a low, rough tone. Standing behind him is Mr. Overton. I reach around to take a bottle.
“ Oh,” I say, not sure what this is about. I take a strip of cloth and soak some whiskey into it. “Here take this and hold it on the lesion.” He blinks in confusion at me.
Oh Lord, do they throw people overboard when they get a splinter ?
“ Here.” I point to the oozing gash. “Hold this right here.” It’s like talking to an infant.
“ The man over there has a broken arm,” I say to my friend, Mr. Overton.
“Please give him that bottle of whiskey. He must take four good swigs before I can set the bone.”
My friend, Mr. Overton, needs no additional instruction.
The woman continues methodically to rip up the cloth. I grab some additional strips and carry them with me as I make my rounds. I drop them where needed.
It is time to set the broken arm. Mr. Overton waits by the side of the patient.
“Can I help you, Paul?”
“ I’m supposed to help!” travels loudly through the underbelly of the ship. Oddly, the deckhand comes over. “The wife has the lee-chun,” he says, pronouncing the word “lesion” as if it is a word of foreign origin. His behavior is most peculiar.
“ Thank you,” I return cordially.
The man ’s arm is resting across his middle. I reach down to examine it, so I know exactly where I need to set it. The young man flinches.
“ Do you know how to do this?” he questions, worry lining his brow.
“ Yes.” He nods and stiffens with a wince. “I must shift it to set it.”
The young man seems to summon all his energy and courage. I gently inspect the break. A splint would be most beneficial with the
The old man laugh s at what he thinks is absurdity, but complies. I drop my vocational demeanor for just a moment to smile back at him and continue with my self-appointed work.
The people on this side seem to be less afflicted. My thoughts drift to concern for the man with the broken arm and the desperate need of dry bandages for the open wounds. I have almost made my way around to the other side where those items are desperately needed.
I shoot my eyes to him. He is watching me intently, cradling his broken arm.
Where is Mr. Tinker?
As if my thoughts called to him and he answered, the trap door opens and gray light pours in. A cagey, wiry man, dressed in burlap pants and a shirt that was definitely made for another much larger man, descends into our cell. He is carrying two glass bottles and cloth.
My friend ’s eyes find mine and his register disbelief that my request was granted. The sailor looks around dartingly and calls out, “Paul!”
I step quickly toward him and Mr. Overton joins me from his position across the way. The sailor thrusts the contents of his hands at me.
“These are from Tinker.”
“ Thank you.”
I take them gladly, unaffected by the lack of propriety of the giver. I fully expect the sailor to traverse up the ladder into the daylight since his task is complete. Instead, he just looks at me oddly as if my presence may somehow offend him.
I don’t have time to explore the mystery of this man’s expression. So I hand the bottles to my friend and carry the cloth to the woman who is still beating back the flowing blood of her husband.
“ Rip these into strips,” I order her. She begins the task quickly.
I peer over at the wound; it has slowed down considerably. I examine it gently. I reach my hand back in a gesture for a bottle of the whiskey we just received, and my hand meets the rough edges of burlap.
It startles me. This man is so close and hovering over me. I jump up, the events of last evening plaguing me.
“ I was told to help too,” he grinds out in a low, rough tone. Standing behind him is Mr. Overton. I reach around to take a bottle.
“ Oh,” I say, not sure what this is about. I take a strip of cloth and soak some whiskey into it. “Here take this and hold it on the lesion.” He blinks in confusion at me.
Oh Lord, do they throw people overboard when they get a splinter ?
“ Here.” I point to the oozing gash. “Hold this right here.” It’s like talking to an infant.
“ The man over there has a broken arm,” I say to my friend, Mr. Overton.
“Please give him that bottle of whiskey. He must take four good swigs before I can set the bone.”
My friend, Mr. Overton, needs no additional instruction.
The woman continues methodically to rip up the cloth. I grab some additional strips and carry them with me as I make my rounds. I drop them where needed.
It is time to set the broken arm. Mr. Overton waits by the side of the patient.
“Can I help you, Paul?”
“ I’m supposed to help!” travels loudly through the underbelly of the ship. Oddly, the deckhand comes over. “The wife has the lee-chun,” he says, pronouncing the word “lesion” as if it is a word of foreign origin. His behavior is most peculiar.
“ Thank you,” I return cordially.
The man ’s arm is resting across his middle. I reach down to examine it, so I know exactly where I need to set it. The young man flinches.
“ Do you know how to do this?” he questions, worry lining his brow.
“ Yes.” He nods and stiffens with a wince. “I must shift it to set it.”
The young man seems to summon all his energy and courage. I gently inspect the break. A splint would be most beneficial with the
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