shipâs medic to report to me at once. Let us pray the wind is at our backs, because we do not have one moment to lose!â
Chapter VIII
The Second Opinion
Morning came at a crawl.
The cracked window fractured the sunlight, painting the cabin in an eerie glow. Incessant creaking echoed around as the ship peaked and fell in the rough sea. Prometheus stood guard over Renard as he lay unconscious in one of three bunks in the cabin. Captain Slater had obliged Destineâs request not only of private quarters for her company, but also use of the shipâs medic. Eric Markham was an unkempt man, with lank hair and three daysâ growth of beard. He looked unflinchingly at Renardâs wound as he prodded around inside it with a metal instrument.
âHereâs the little bugger!â he announced, as he lifted a small metal pellet out of the hole in Renardâs stomach. âNow that the bullet is out we need to stitch the poor bastard up, or his guts will be spilling out all over the deck.â Reaching into his pocket, Markham pulled out a small leather pouch. âGunpowder,â he said helpfully, as he took a pinch and sprinkled it liberally over Renardâs wound. He walked over to the stove in the corner of the cabin and took out a poker that had been resting in the coals, its tip glowing white-hot. âThat hole is far too messy for me to even attempt to stitch him at the moment, so weâre going to use an old seafaring trick for wounds of this type. Your friendâs lucky heâs unconscious, because this is going to hurt like hellfire.â
Markham thrust the hot poker onto Renardâs wound and the gunpowder ignited with a white flash. The cabin was ripe with the stench of burned flesh. Markham wafted the wisps of smoke away and took a closer look at the wound.
âThat should just about do it!â he said. âItâs not going to look pretty, but by the state of his face, itâs not like anyone would notice. Iâll need to patch him up, and then weâll see how long he lasts. I give him a fifty-fifty chance⦠with gunshots itâs hard to tell. Heâs lost a fair old amount of blood.â
âThank you for your efforts, Monsieur Markham, we shall keep him under close observationâ said Madame Destine. âHow long until he wakes?â
âDepends on how tough he is,â replied Markham. âIf he makes it through the day, thereâs as good a chance as any that heâll recover relatively quickly. And if he doesnât, well⦠letâs put it this way⦠the mess I just made of his gutsâll be the least of his worries!â
âWe shall pray for his speedy recovery,â said Destine, quite truthfully.
âIâd better be off,â said Markham. âThe cookâs got a dose of syphilis thatâs causing him no end of irritation, and if I donât give him something for the pain, God only knows whatâs going into the stew!â
Prometheus winced, making a mental note to skip dinner.
Renard was naked from the waist up with a dark red stain seeping through the bandages wrapped around his stomach. He was a ghastly shade of pale, and his chest was speckled with sweat. In truth, he looked dead already. Once Markham had left the cabin, the strongman reattached the leather straps around each of Renardâs wrists, binding him to his bunk.
âJust in case he wakes up and tries to slit our necks in the night,â he said, receiving a firm nod of agreement from Destine. âWeâre still a long way from Rome, Madame. What if he dies on us before we get there?â
Destine shook her head firmly. âDo not fear on that score, Aiden. I have heard that some people can survive for several days with a wound such as Antoineâs. All depends on his willpower, and this is my son we are talking about, remember? If he has anything, it is a strong will. But he must not die. He
shall
not
Marion Chesney, M.C. Beaton