The Bomb Vessel by Richard Woodman

with a growing assembly of ships, partly the preparing Baltic fleet, partly elements of Admiral Dickson’s Texel squadron. Drinkwater was feeling better and the absence of
Explosion
had further encouraged him.
    Mason was the last of the three serious casualties to receive Lettsom’s attention. One seaman had lost an arm. Another, like Mason, had received severe splinter wounds. An additional eight men had received superficial wounds and there were four of their own people dead. The seven French corpses left on board had been thrown overboard off Lowestoft without ceremony.
    Lettsom had left Mason until
Virago
reached the relative tranquility of the anchorage. He knew that the long oak sliver that had run into Mason’s body could only be extracted successfully under such conditions.
    Drinkwater watched anxiously. He knew Lettsom was having difficulties. The nature of the splinter was to throw out tiny fibres of wood that acted like barbs. As these carried fragments of clothing into the wound the likelihood of a clean excision was remote. The set of Lettsom’s jaw and the perspiration on his forehead were evidence of his concern.
    Lettsom withdrew the probe, inserted thin forceps and drew out a sliver of wood with a sigh. He held it up to the light and studied it intently. Drinkwater saw him swallow and his eyesclosed for a moment. He had been unsuccessful. He rubbed his hand over his mouth in a gesture of near despair, leaving a smear of blood across his face. Then his shoulders sagged in defeat.
    â€˜Put him in my cot,’ said Drinkwater, realising that to move Mason further than was absolutely necessary would kill him. Lettsom caught his eye and the surgeon shook his head. The two men remained motionless while the surgeon’s mates bound absorbent pledgets over the wound and eased Mason into the box-like swinging bed. Lettsom rinsed his hands and dropped his reeking apron on the tablecloth while his mates cleaned the table and cleared Drinkwater’s cabin of the gruesome instrument chest. Drinkwater poured two glasses of rum and handed one to the surgeon who slumped in a chair and drained it at a swallow.
    â€˜The splinter broke,’ Lettsom said at last. ‘It had run in between the external iliac vein and artery. They were both intact. That gave me a chance to save him . . .’ He paused, looked at Drinkwater, then lowered his eyes again. ‘That was a small miracle, Mr Drinkwater, and I should have succeeded, but I bungled it. No don’t contradict me, I beg you. I bungled it. The splinter broke with its end lodged in the obturator vein, the haemorrage was dark and veinous. When he turns in his sleep he will move it and puncture his bladder. Part of his breeches and under garments will have been carried into the body.’
    â€˜You did your utmost, Mr Lettsom. None of us can do more.’
    Lettsom looked up. His eyes blazed with sudden anger. ‘It was not enough, Mr Drinkwater. God damn it, it simply was not enough.’
    Drinkwater thought of the flippant quatrain with which Lettsom had introduced himself. The poor man was drinking a cup of bitterness now. He leaned across and refilled Lettsom’s glass. Drinkwater was a little drunk himself and felt the need of company.
    â€˜You did your duty . . .’
    â€˜Bah, duty! Poppycock, sir! We may all conceal our pathetic inadequacies behind our “duty”. The fact of the matter is I bungled it. Perhaps I should still be probing in the poor fellow’s guts until he dies under my hands.’
    â€˜You cannot achieve the impossible, Mr Lettsom.’
    â€˜No, perhaps not. But I wished that I might have done more. He will die anyway and might at least have the opportunity to regain his senses long enough to make his peace with the world.’
    Drinkwater nodded, looking at the hump lying inert in his own bed. He felt a faint ringing in his ears. The fever did not trouble him tonight but