Ramage and the Renegades

Bowen looked up at her for the first time: up to this moment he had rarely taken his eyes off Ramage's wound or his face.

'You notice, ma'am, that we all seem to be rather familiar with the, er, routine of patching up our captain. The fact is he does get himself knocked about. I remember the last time, at Curaçao, was just like this except that -'

'Jackson told me,' she said hurriedly. The strange thing was she had not felt faint when she had to retie the tourniquet, wash the wound and staunch the bleeding; when she believed he was dying and thought that if he was to be saved she would have to do whatever was necessary. But now, with Nicholas obviously not dying - not even in any danger, according to this surgeon, who was clearly an extremely competent man - she could feel the strength going from her knees, and the lantern was beginning to blur.

'The brandy, Jackson,' Bowen snapped. 'The lady.'

Southwick bent down and caught her as she slid sideways. 'There, m'dear, just have a sup of this . . . gently, it'll make you cough . . . now swallow.'

'Put her down on her back,' Bowen said, 'and get her head on a level with her heart. Now, ma'am, breathe deeply, and when you feel better, I'd be glad of your help.'

Quickly she sat up, the faintness vanishing. 'Yes, what can I do?'

'Just hold his forearm up high enough for me to pass the bandage round... You see, you don't feel faint while there's something for you to do: when you thought he was dying, you took control. Now you've no responsibility, you get the vapours, like some silly young woman in a London drawing room!'

Bowen was right, of course, and she smiled at him. 'I don't like brandy, though!'

'Just as well,' Bowen said cheerfully, 'I nearly killed myself with it, years ago. You'd never believe I once had a flourishing practice in Wimpole Street... took to brandy...' He continued winding the bandage, pausing now and again to straighten an edge. 'Lost all my patients - they shunned a drunkard. So I became a naval surgeon . . . My first ship was commanded by Mr Ramage, who decided no drunkard was going to tend his sick ... So he and Southwick here, this man with a head of hair like a dandelion run to seed, decided to cure me . . . Succeeded, although it was a grim business for both of them -'

'Not too pleasant for you either,' Southwick said.

'No, it wasn't. Anyway, I've had not a drop of alcohol since. A new man, a new life, thanks to these two. I'm not telling you that story, ma'am, to frighten you off brandy, which you obviously dislike, but to show you that old Southwick and I do our best to keep an eye on him.'

Had this man Bowen guessed? Was she being too obvious? That seaman Jackson was watching her, smiling. And the white-haired man, too. She bent her head and concentrated on holding Nicholas's arm.

Finally Bowen said: 'That's it. Perhaps you'd close the medicine chest again, Southwick. It's no good offering him any Tincture of Opium, to make sure he sleeps, because he'll insist he has to stay awake. Now, how do we get him down into the boat?'

'Oh no!' She said it before she could control herself, and continued hurriedly: 'I mean, he must stay here. We have plenty of cabins with comfortable beds - enough for all of you. And fresh meat and eggs - just what he'll need while he convalesces.'

She saw Nicholas's right hand signal to Bowen, who leaned over as he whispered something.

'We'll see about that!' the surgeon said disapprovingly. 'Aitken and Southwick can deal with them!'

Again the hand signalled and Bowen listened. 'Sir, with respect, I'm beginning to think it would be best if you stayed in this ship.'

'Southwick...'

Bowen moved back to let the white-haired man move nearer.

'Get a stay-tackle rigged . . . Lash me in a chair...'

'Aye aye, sir,' the old man said reluctantly.

They were taking him away. It had something to do with the Lynx. If only they would go away for a few minutes . . .

She watched as Southwick and the seaman went to the ropes and began pulling on some and loosening others.

'Ma'am,' Southwick called, 'could you ask a couple of men passengers to bring up a chair with arms?'

She ran below, hurriedly gave instructions, and came back to find Bowen sitting crosslegged on the deck beside Nicholas. She called to Southwick that the chair was being brought up and, kicking her skirt sideways, sat opposite Bowen, with Nicholas lying between them, apparently asleep, his bandaged left arm lying across his stomach.

Bowen looked across at her and said quietly: 'The cutlass slash will soon heal - you cleaned it perfectly. The weakness, which looks so distressing to you, as though he's dying, his face so pale, his voice weak, is simply the result of losing so much blood. But the human body is very resilient. It'll have made up that quantity of blood in a matter of hours. By breakfast time he'll be grumbling. By dinner time he'll be impossible!'

'Thank you, Mr Bowen. I. . . well, I thought he was dying when they brought him on board.'

'So did Jackson and Rossi, and the other man, until you got to work. They say you spotted the tourniquet was loose, and stopped them panicking.'

'That's not true, but it is nice of them to say it.'

'Ah well, here comes the chair. I'll go and see what Southwick and the men are going to rig up.'

As soon as the surgeon had left she turned the lantern so that the light was not in his eyes. In fact, he was almost in shadow.

'Are you awake?' she whispered.

'Yes . . . where has everyone gone?'

'They are arranging a chair, so they can lower you into the boat. Are you warm enough?'

'The shivering ... it's reaction, not cold... Thank you for helping me; I heard what Bowen said.'

She shook her head, her eyes swimming with tears. 'You will rest now, promise me. The Lynx, whatever you plan, can be done by your officers. This man Southwick, he's obviously a very competent man.'

'You didn't -' he winced, and then continued '- think so yesterday.'

'Your chair is nearly ready,' she whispered.

She leaned down and her hair tumbled over them. He was still shivering and as she held his face in her hands the skin was cold.

She kissed him and said: 'I'm going now - I'd rather you didn't see me cry like a baby.' She stood then and ran aft to the companionway but had to wipe away the tears that blurred her vision before she dared to walk down the steps.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

It was a few minutes past nine in the morning when the surgeon's mate sitting beside Ramage's cot saw that his eyes were open and called to the Marine sentry: 'Pass the word for Mr Bowen an' tell him the captain's awake.'

Bowen arrived almost immediately, and grinned when he saw Ramage watching him.

'How's the patient feeling?'

'My arm hurts like hell, I feel dizzy, and I can still taste that dam' soup you made me drink. It was too hot and it burned my tongue.'

'Your recovery has obviously started, sir,' Bowen announced, feeling under Ramage's armpit. 'Ha, no swelling there. No more than the pain you'd expect in the arm. No throbbing?'

'No, it just aches,' Ramage said grudgingly. 'The pain of those stitches has gone.'

'An excellent piece of embroidery, if I may be allowed to boast. Two weeks and I'll be taking them out and you'll be admiring a handsome scar which will impress the ladies.'

'Yes, I shall parade through the drawing rooms in a ruffled shirt with the sleeve rolled up. Now, call Silkin: I'm going to wash, he can shave me and help me dress, and then you can rig up a sling.'

Bowen shook his head. 'You must stay in your cot for at least three days. You've lost a lot of blood, which the body must make up. Exsanguinated, that's what you are, sir, and it means -'

'I can work it out, and I hate your medical terms. Pass the word for Silkin, please and -'