Striker was already running back down the beach.
Gaston glanced at me. I waved him off, and he followed Striker at a run. I set about donning my breeches and gathering our things, and then jogged down the beach well in their wake. I found them next to Gaston’s medicine chest with a dozen others clustered about. Pete was apparently wounded in the right hand, as that was the appendage Gaston was examining intently in his lap.
“What occurred?” I asked Striker, as I dropped next to them.
“A damn splinter,” he said. “We thought it not that deep, and I attempted to dislodge it, and then it seemed deeper, and then I realized…” he stopped to swear vehemently.
As I could now see something of the wound, I saw the problem. They had cut quite the trench down the outside of Pete’s palm. Gaston was asking Pete a series of questions and having him move his fingers.
“Not My Fingers,” Pete said.
“Of course not,” Gaston snapped. “I am trying to determine if you fools have maimed this hand for life. Then I will remove the splinter, which is now shattered and spread all about in the blood.”
Despite the anger in his tone, his control was evident. There was no hint of the Horse or the day’s earlier wildness, and I marveled at it. A medical emergency always proved capable of either calming or dismissing his Horse. I had once had the hubris to believe that my being in dire need was proof against his madness, but as I thought on it, I realized any wound made him sane for a time, or at least to appear so.
Pete was stoic and already inebriated, so he was quite inured to the pain. Still, even the most stoic of men jumps about when pricked. Thus Striker held Pete still, and I held Pete’s arm immobile. After determining that no other injury had been done to impair the function of Pete’s hand, by the splinter or the attempted removal, Gaston set about removing all of the wood. I was surprised Gaston could see anything in all the blood, and in truth he did not use his eyes to locate the wood, so much as his fingers and a very thin and long pair of pointed tongs. The splinter had broken, and it was delicate work finding and extricating all the pieces. I got to see how very many pieces there were, as Gaston dropped them onto my knee. Finally Gaston could find no more, and Pete merely mentioned pain, and no longer jerked when the wound was probed. Pete received ten stitches to close the gashes, and a liberal dousing of rum on the entire area, which truly set him to cursing.
I was stiff and sore across my shoulders when at last we were all relieved of the task. I could only imagine how Gaston felt. He was now watching the pot boiling his tools with the same intensity with which he had worked for over an hour on Pete’s wound. He flinched when I began to rub his shoulders, and I paused.
“Non, please continue,” he whispered.
I resumed my ministrations and murmured in French for his ears alone. “You did well. I have noticed you seem to have little difficulty with your Horse when duty calls you to be a surgeon.”
“Oui,” he sighed, and some of the tension drained from him. “It is a thing I learned around Doucette. It is another mask I don. And truly, the Horse is well behaved at such times. All of my concerns become…
petty when faced with another’s need of that nature.”
“I hope you wish to be surgeon for this voyage,” Striker called from nearby, where he had gotten Pete to sprawl in the long evening shadow of the ship.
The loud intrusion echoed my unspoken thoughts, and I flinched as the muscles stiffened beneath my fingers.
Gaston shook his head slowly. “Nay,” he said in English, as loudly as his broken voice could manage, so that he could be heard across the sand. “I am still… not myself. And when I am thus, I am far better at causing wounds than mending them.”
This brought chuckles all around, and Striker sighed. “’Tis a shame.
Any idiot can be taught to kill, but not many
Gaston glanced at me. I waved him off, and he followed Striker at a run. I set about donning my breeches and gathering our things, and then jogged down the beach well in their wake. I found them next to Gaston’s medicine chest with a dozen others clustered about. Pete was apparently wounded in the right hand, as that was the appendage Gaston was examining intently in his lap.
“What occurred?” I asked Striker, as I dropped next to them.
“A damn splinter,” he said. “We thought it not that deep, and I attempted to dislodge it, and then it seemed deeper, and then I realized…” he stopped to swear vehemently.
As I could now see something of the wound, I saw the problem. They had cut quite the trench down the outside of Pete’s palm. Gaston was asking Pete a series of questions and having him move his fingers.
“Not My Fingers,” Pete said.
“Of course not,” Gaston snapped. “I am trying to determine if you fools have maimed this hand for life. Then I will remove the splinter, which is now shattered and spread all about in the blood.”
Despite the anger in his tone, his control was evident. There was no hint of the Horse or the day’s earlier wildness, and I marveled at it. A medical emergency always proved capable of either calming or dismissing his Horse. I had once had the hubris to believe that my being in dire need was proof against his madness, but as I thought on it, I realized any wound made him sane for a time, or at least to appear so.
Pete was stoic and already inebriated, so he was quite inured to the pain. Still, even the most stoic of men jumps about when pricked. Thus Striker held Pete still, and I held Pete’s arm immobile. After determining that no other injury had been done to impair the function of Pete’s hand, by the splinter or the attempted removal, Gaston set about removing all of the wood. I was surprised Gaston could see anything in all the blood, and in truth he did not use his eyes to locate the wood, so much as his fingers and a very thin and long pair of pointed tongs. The splinter had broken, and it was delicate work finding and extricating all the pieces. I got to see how very many pieces there were, as Gaston dropped them onto my knee. Finally Gaston could find no more, and Pete merely mentioned pain, and no longer jerked when the wound was probed. Pete received ten stitches to close the gashes, and a liberal dousing of rum on the entire area, which truly set him to cursing.
I was stiff and sore across my shoulders when at last we were all relieved of the task. I could only imagine how Gaston felt. He was now watching the pot boiling his tools with the same intensity with which he had worked for over an hour on Pete’s wound. He flinched when I began to rub his shoulders, and I paused.
“Non, please continue,” he whispered.
I resumed my ministrations and murmured in French for his ears alone. “You did well. I have noticed you seem to have little difficulty with your Horse when duty calls you to be a surgeon.”
“Oui,” he sighed, and some of the tension drained from him. “It is a thing I learned around Doucette. It is another mask I don. And truly, the Horse is well behaved at such times. All of my concerns become…
petty when faced with another’s need of that nature.”
“I hope you wish to be surgeon for this voyage,” Striker called from nearby, where he had gotten Pete to sprawl in the long evening shadow of the ship.
The loud intrusion echoed my unspoken thoughts, and I flinched as the muscles stiffened beneath my fingers.
Gaston shook his head slowly. “Nay,” he said in English, as loudly as his broken voice could manage, so that he could be heard across the sand. “I am still… not myself. And when I am thus, I am far better at causing wounds than mending them.”
This brought chuckles all around, and Striker sighed. “’Tis a shame.
Any idiot can be taught to kill, but not many
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