Untitled (for Jaci) Written: January 27, 2004 For Marginalia, the best doctor a coxswain could ever ask for. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Bonden stared at the room around him, his curiosity overcoming his manners. He so rarely found himself here, in the infirmary. The sour stomachs and damp chests that ran through the ranks seemed never to touch him, a fact of which he was both aware and grateful. The wounds of battle were most often dressed in the light of the top deck, the Doctor’s small surgery being reserved for the dead and the soon-to-be-so. And Bonden tended to ignore most of the strains and sprains of life at sea — there was no getting around them, and no sense in pestering the Doctor with burnt thumbs and scraped elbows when he had more important work to do. In truth, he would not be sitting here now if not for the fact that the Captain had witnessed this particular tumble and personally sent him belowdecks. No sense in taking chances, Bonden, now get you below at once. So here he sat, looking about the dimly lit room and trying not to think of the past occupants of the table upon which he perched. He watched the Doctor’s back as he bustled at his great cupboard — that cabinet of mysteries rumored to be filled with all manner of strange specimens and mystical potions. The colors of the Doctor's banyan shifted in the lamplight with his movements and the sway of the ship. Above him, on the wall, were tacked drawings and charts of both humans and animals, all marked and lined in close-cramped script. Bonden squinted at the words, picking out those few he knew on sight. Man. Sea. God. England. Many lines were full of marks and letters he didn’t recognize; no doubt written in one of the many foreign tongues the Doctor was fluent in. Bonden’s mouth moved silently as he tried to sound one out. L--Leg--L’egalité-- “Alright, Mr. Bonden,” said the Doctor brightly. Barrett started and sat up straight, taking his eyes away from the Doctor’s words. He was turning to face Bonden, smiling genially and carrying a wound length of bandage and a small wooden box. “I believe we are ready to proceed with this operation. Let’s have that hand.” Bonden offered up the hand he’d been cradling in his lap, wincing only slightly at the movement. The jagged splice of wood protruded a good two inches from the pad below his thumb, his fingers curling protectively inward. His palm and wrist were streaked dark with dried blood. If it were up to him he’d have plucked the splinter out and been done with it, but the Captain had insisted on a “proper dressing.” Seemed like a waste of the Doctor’s supplies, when a piece of neckcloth and a good pour of rum would have sufficed. Maturin placed his kit on the table and took the injured hand in both of his own, peering at the wound through his spectacles. “Well, this is a lovely little hatpin. However did you acquire it?” “Pulley broke haulin the tops’l, sir. Snapped through a rail and knocked me clear off m’feet. Don’t know how I managed it, I’m usual quicker on m’toes.” The Doctor smiled at him over the rim of his spectacles. “I would say your reflexes are in no doubt, Mr. Bonden, as you are in my surgery with a splintered hand and not a fractured skull.” Bonden grinned and nodded. “Aye, sir, I reckon so.” Maturin reached into his box and withdrew a small set of forceps. He leaned to the desk at his side and held the tips over the flame of the candle there. Bonden felt a nervous twinge in his belly, and gave himself a sharp reprimand. A man who’d stared down as many pistol barrels as himself should not fear a bit of warm metal in the hands of a physician. Instead, he looked down into his lap and tentatively flexed his fingers, baring his teeth a bit at the throbbing. “Are you in a good deal of pain?” Bonden’s head whipped up to find the Doctor watching him, and he suddenly felt silly. “No, sir. It’s not bad. Truth is I don’t feel much at all in my hands these days. ‘Cept maybe the ache when it’s damp out.” Maturin stepped over and lifted the hand to his eye level once more. Bonden could see his eyes moving as he studied it: the thick, layered calluses covering the palm and finger-pads; the swollen, permanently bent joints of the fingers; the white lines of scar tissue looped over the knuckles. The hand looked twisted and crude against the clean white skin of the Doctor’s long fingers, and Bonden’s eyes wavered and fell. “These hands have shed blood for this ship many times,” said Maturin. “They are the gift you’ve given to your Captain. They’ve served us all well.” Bonden felt his cheeks beginning to grow hot. He tilted his hand a bit in the Doctor’s grasp, exposing the pink swathe of the freshest scars across his knuckles, and looked up. “They’ve served me a time or two as well,” he grinned. Maturin chuckled. “So Jack has told me on several occasions. Well, then, let us do what we can to ensure their continued benefits, shall we?” With his thumb, he slid Bonden’s fingers open as straight as they could go. His other hand poised the forceps at the base of the splice. “Hold as still as you can, now,” he said, “this will likely smart a bit.” And then he gripped Bonden’s fingers as tightly as possible and jerked the splinter out with one quick movement and a gruesome ripping sound. Bonden winced and hissed a quick breath, but did not speak. Fresh blood welled up from the empty wound, and the Doctor pressed a wad of cloth to the flow and closed Bonden’s fingers around it. “Put pressure to it,” he said, and reached for his kit. Bonden watched him drop the offending piece of wood onto the table and replace the forceps into their case. His fingers were light and fast as he worked, unrolling a clean bandage and opening a small jar and larger bottle. The familiar pungent smell of spirits hit Bonden’s nose, accompanied by a stranger, more bitter scent. It never failed to amaze Bonden, watching the Doctor at his skill, no matter how great or small the procedure. He had never seen fingers fly with such precision, as if knowing what to do before the Doctor had even decided himself. He sat and watched Maturin spread his hand open again and begin to wipe the filth and clotting blood from the wound, discarding the soiled cloth and wetting another with a douse of spirit. So rapt was his attention that Bonden almost didn’t notice the fiery sting of alcohol, just as he couldn’t feel the soft swipes of the cloth against his thickened, scar-numbed skin. Maturin’s fingers were pale and thin against the leathery brown of his palm, seeming to blur a little as they moved across the surface. “How d’you keep your hands so fine, Doctor?” He was embarrassed before the sentence was even finished, and the Doctor’s knit brow and sudden stillness redoubled the feeling. Immediately regretting his words, Bonden stammered, “I mean— you’re a physician, I know, not a common— but some days I can barely close a fist and I’ve never...” He sighed, giving up. “They’re just so quick, is all.” Maturin looked at him with neither reproach nor amusement until his words trailed off into uneasy silence. And then, without a word, he lifted his free hand and turned the back of it to Bonden’s view. Down the smooth, blue-veined skin ran a single white line, long and curling diagonally from the knuckle of the small finger to disappear into the frill of his sleeve. The thin, delicately precise scar of a sabre slash. “My hands are neither more nor less fine than your own,” he said. “They have merely adapted to their purpose, as everything here must do.” Bonden held his gaze in silence, unable to find a word for a response. Before he could try, Maturin grinned at him and reached for the kit. “Now then,” he said, “I believe that is clean enough, so let us get you suitably bandaged.” He drew out a length of cloth and laid it across Bonden’s palm. Then he reached for the small jar and, inserting his fingers, drew out a daub of a sticky dark green substance. “I’m going to put a bit of this into the wound, and the bandage will keep it in place for the night,” he explained. “It will sting a bit, I’m afraid, but that is to be expected. This is a tincture to prevent festering, from a plant called the--" “Cinchona,” Bonden said. Maturin’s eyes went wide at the perfect pronunciation. “However did you know that?” “You told me, sir,” replied Bonden. “The last time I were in here.” Stephen stared at him. “And how long ago was that, exactly?” “Near six months, sir. When I stepped on that broken grate by the mizzen and you had to sew up my toe.” Maturin said nothing, merely continued to stare at him keenly. Bonden dropped his eyes and began to feel strangely ashamed, as if he’d spoken out of turn. Finally he felt the Doctor’s fingers return to their binding, and he looked up to find Maturin smiling softly. “I would that my assistant had so good a memory for my teachings,” he said. The tincture did sting, burning and itching in the throbbing wound, but Bonden didn’t flinch away from the probing finger. The doctor bound the hand tight and had him clench his fist a few times to ensure full range of motion. Bonden didn’t flinch then either, and Maturin stepped back and smiled broadly, pleased with his handiwork. “There you are, Mr. Bonden, right as rain.” Bonden hopped off the table and opened his mouth to thank him but the Doctor continued, “Nonsense, I won’t hear it, it was the least I could do for the hands that keep us all from drifting off the map. Now, wait there one moment longer if you please.” Gathering his supplies, he turned back to his cupboard and began opening cabinets. Bonden hesitated, holding his hand against his chest and attempting to peer over the Doctor’s shoulder as he moved. “Do you have access to hot water?” “Aye, sir, the lads boil pots nightly for scotch coffee.” Maturin turned to him, holding out a small green bottle stopped with a cork. “When the joints of your hands trouble you, place two pinches of this in a bowl of warm water and bathe them before you sleep.” He waited until Bonden finally extended his good hand and took the bottle, and then a grin curled his lips as he added, “Come back when it’s empty and I’ll tell you what’s in it.” Bonden chuckled and dipped his head. “Thank you, Doctor. ‘Hap it won’t be six months again.” Ducking another grateful nod, he clutched the bottle and turned to leave the tiny surgery. At the curtained door Maturin’s voice stopped him. “Barrett?” He turned to see the Doctor standing before his cupboard, his arms crossed lightly over the folds of his banyan. “Should you ever feel the inclination to add more secrets of physic to your uncanny memory, you are welcome in this study at any hour.” Bonden’s eyes flicked briefly to the words on the wall, and then he smiled and lifted his bandaged hand to his forehead. “Aye, sir.” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ home