CLINIC BLAST

Doctor Lacroix Clinic, Later at Night:

Aramis sat beside the bed in the glowing light of a candle, softly whispering words of encouragement to the unmoving patient. He couldn't take his eyes off of his brother, lying motionless and ghostly pale; if not for the labored rising and falling of his chest, the medic would have thought his brother was a corpse.

The medic chided himself—if only they had arrived at the gallows sooner. If they had been faster, perhaps Athos wouldn't be lying so still, clinging to life by a thread. "Had it not been for the king, we wouldn't have found you at all," Aramis whispered. "Mon Dieu, when your heart stopped beating, all I could think was that Jean-Marc had won—we had lost you."

The medic swallowed the sob in his throat, trying hard not to get emotional. He clutched tightly to the limp hand in his own as he absently rubbed his thumb over the knuckles. He gazed at the bandages covering the patient's chest, save for a small tent of linen and cotton positioned over Athos' wound.

"It's an incredible life-saving system the doctor is using on you, Athos," Aramis said, speaking to the unconscious patient as though he were awake. The medic examined the ingenious system designed to drain fluids from the chest through a thin, tin tube, inserted into the wound, to a glass jar, where the bloody fluids were collected.

"Doctor Lacroix sutured your wound but left a small space open, allowing for a tube to drain fluids from your chest. This doctor has taken very good care of you; he has already taught me so much. He was even open to one of my suggestions," Aramis huffed with amazement. "We've administered a salt solution to compensate for your blood loss; we'll give you another treatment tomorrow. You remember that technique I learned from our two favorite physicians, Doctors Molyneux and Berteau? You lost a lot of blood at Blois, but if you could survive that, you can survive this!"

Aramis shuddered as the bloody images of Athos on the gallows platform flashed through his mind. The sickening amount of blood, squishing under his hands as he compressed the chest, caused his stomach to rebel. He leaned over to the side and coughed, feeling his stomach turning and the bile rising.

"Aramis!" d'Artagnan called out, rushing to the medic's side. He grabbed a basin and placed it under Aramis just as he lost the battle with his upset stomach. The medic spit out the sour bile and grimaced at the taste left in his mouth. "I'm sorry," he croaked.

"Don't be sorry, Aramis," d'Artagnan said, squeezing his friend's shoulder gently. "You've been sitting with Athos for a while now. Why don't you take my seat and get some rest; you look exhausted, mon ami," he smiled.

"Alright," Aramis consented without argument. "I'll close my eyes for a little while, but I want you to wake me if anything changes," he ordered. "I mean it, d'Artagnan, wake me immediately."

"Don't worry, if something happens, I'll wake you," d'Artagnan promised. "Now, go on and get some rest."

Aramis shuffled to the vacant chair then plopped down wearily. He glanced over at Porthos, asleep in the chair beside the bed, and chuckled; he wondered how such a man his size could sleep on a small piece of furniture. The medic leaned his head back and closed his eyes, and fell asleep instantly.

D'Artagnan watched Aramis sleeping and smiled as he heard the soft snores coming from the bone-weary medic. The Gascon turned his attention back to Athos and sighed, unable to wrap his mind around the events of the past day. The young protégé picked up his mentor's hand, but gasped at the coldness of his long fingers.

"Why are your hands so cold?" D'Artagnan wrapped his other hand around the chilly fingers then blew his warm breath over them. He continued holding Athos' hand between his own, occasionally rubbing on the skin to warm it, for what seemed like hours. Finally, he brought the hand up to his lips, softly kissing the fingers before resting the hand back down on the bed.

"Athos, what has Jean-Marc done to you?" the Gascon whispered sadly. He stared at the pale, sickly-looking man beside him and shook his head with disbelief. How could he be the same dynamic, imposing Musketeer he had challenged to the death a few years ago? D'Artagnan smiled as the years of memories played through his mind. He was grateful to have been taken under the wing of one so highly esteemed as Athos, yet he feared his mentor would be taken from him.

"You really have made quite an impression on His Majesty, Athos. The king insisted on staying here at the clinic with us," d'Artagnan reported with surprise. "He sent a messenger to the palace that he wanted to remain here with us. The king says it breaks up the monotony of his day-to-day duties at the palace, but I think His Majesty believes this to be another one of his adventures."

The Gascon quieted as he stared at his friend and brother. "I can't do this. I can't lose you, Athos," d'Artagnan said, choking back the tears. "Please, fight for us… for me. You're the greatest fighter— the greatest warrior—that I know. Don't let Jean-Marc beat you! I know you're stronger than…" the Musketeer couldn't finish as a heart-wrenching sob swallowed his words.

The young protégé fell forward against the abdomen of his mentor as the tears began to fall. He allowed the sadness and fear to flow from him freely; he let his emotions fall away with the droplets of tears, dampening the blanket. He cried until the tears had dried, leaving him feeling empty and worn.

D'Artagnan didn't bother lifting his head, but continued leaning against Athos, relishing the warmth underneath him; as long as he felt heat, he knew his brother still lived. Finally, he sat up to rest his forehead on his hands, elbows resting on the bed, as though he was praying. "I will keep watch over you, my brother," he resolved.

"I'm not going to let you go without a fight—you know our brothers won't either—so you may as well get used to us being here until you're well. You are going to get well again," d'Artagnan said, sitting up as he dried his face with his sleeves. The Gascon grasped the hand of his mentor and kissed it once more. "I'm never letting you go…"

Three Days Later:

An exhausted Aramis sat in the chair, just recently vacated by Porthos. The men had been taking turns keeping vigil beside the bed of their unconscious brother for days; the mood in the sickroom was thick and somber. There had been no change, but yet Athos still held on. As long as their brother's heart continued to beat they had hope.

Aramis took Athos' hand and sat quietly, thinking about the harrowing days they had come through; they'd been the worst days of his life. He thought about the life-saving efforts he and the doctor had performed, each a desperate attempt to reverse the devastating trauma done to his friend's chest.

The chest tube was working brilliantly at keeping fluids from building around Athos' heart and lungs, while at the same time, preventing infection from setting in; the strange apparatus was ultimately responsible for keeping Athos alive. The saline solution had also done its job at restoring some of the patient's natural color, but the risk of death wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

After countless hours of keeping vigil beside the still-unconscious patient, Aramis noticed Athos beginning to stir. "Athos?" the medic asked, alarmed. "Athos, it's Aramis; I'm here with you. Can you hear me?" he asked, squeezing the hand lightly.

Athos felt like he had been stabbed in the chest with a dagger pulled from the fire; the pain was sharp and piercing. He resisted waking, especially at the onslaught of pain it brought. As he neared awareness, his moans of pain intensified. His side flared with every movement; his head throbbed with every beat of his heart. The lieutenant threw his eyes open, gasping as the searing pain took his breath away.

"Jeannn…" Athos rasped, panicking. Sharp flashes of torment burned, causing the lieutenant to cry out as his agony became unbearable. He reached toward his sore chest, wanting to tear out the very part of his body causing him so much pain.

"Athos, stop!" Aramis ordered, jumping to his feet in alarm. "Stop, or you'll pull your drainage tube out!" He grabbed hold of Athos' hands, holding them firmly at his side while he called for help. "Doctor Lacroix, come quickly! Porthos! D'Artagnan, help! Athos is waking up… he's panicking!"

Porthos and d'Artagnan rushed over to the bed at hearing Aramis' screams for help. "Athos, no!" they each yelled as they grabbed hold of Athos' shoulder and pushed down.

"Athos, stop it right now!" d'Artagnan shouted with authority. "Stop it before you hurt yourself!"

"Athos, I'm here," Porthos soothed. "I've got you, brother." The big Musketeer moved aside to allow the doctor room, all the while keeping his hands firmly planted on his brother's shoulder.

"Athos, I'm Doctor Lacroix," the physician said. "I need you to calm down, son. You were shot, which is why you are experiencing such extreme pain, but you must stop thrashing about. Your squirming could cause the drainage tube to slip out and you'll tear your stitches—you could start you bleeding again. Do you hear me, son?"

"Athos, it's Aramis… can you hear me, mon cher?" the medic whispered in his friend's ear. "Listen, you're going to be alright, but you need to calm down. I know it hurts, but you'll only make it worse if you keep this up."

"No… hurss…" Athos whispered. In awareness, the pain was too overwhelming. The lieutenant let himself go, allowing his eyes to slide shut. He drifted into blissful unconsciousness where, at last, he felt no more pain. His head lolled to the side and his body went limp. His struggling stopped.

Gasps of alarm echoed, then the room went eerily quiet. Everyone held their breath, watching with wide eyes as the doctor pressed against Athos' neck for a pulse.

"I have a pulse," the doctor said, nodding to the men. "He has only lost consciousness, which is for the best. We cannot have him thrashing about and tearing out his stitches; he will only worsen his condition."

"Mon Dieu," Aramis said, crossing himself. He let out a long breath and then bent over at the waist with his hands planted on his knees. "I didn't think he would wake up like that—not like that."

"Bloody hell, neither did I," Porthos said, wiping at his brow with his handkerchief. "When he passed out, I thought for a minute that he was…"

"So did I," d'Artagnan interjected, assuming Porthos' train of thought. The Gascon scrubbed a hand down his face, but left the hand resting over his partially open mouth. "His pain must be excruciating."

"Thank God, he's sleeping," Captain Tréville whispered. "The pain is too much for him yet." The older man wearily leaned his forehead against the wall, holding to the door jamb so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

"Captain Tréville, you should be resting!" Doctor Lacroix scolded. "You shouldn't be on your feet quite yet."

"I'm fine…"

"Doctor, is Athos going to be alright?" D'Artagnan cut to the chase. He anxiously stared at his mentor, his heart still racing in his chest.

"Athos has been unconscious for a few days now; it's actually a good sign that he's starting to come around. The sharpness in pain roused him to awareness, but yet that pain was so extreme his body couldn't deal with it," Doctor Lacroix stated. "I am quite grateful that he regained consciousness, even if it was a short time. It is indeed a good sign."

"Yes, well," Aramis grumbled, "if he wakes up panicked like that again, we may not be so grateful. Athos is a fighter, as he has proven already. He is strong and stubborn, but even Athos has his limits. His body can't always keep up with his headstrong will."

"He appears to be resting now, though there is no telling when he might wake up again," the doctor reported. The older man looked around the crowded room and frowned. "There are too many people in here; it is too disruptive to the patient."

"We are not leaving!" d'Artagnan protested, stubbornly. "Athos could wake up again in severe pain; he needs to know that we're here with him if he panics. I want to be with him."

"And so do I," Aramis stated firmly. "If he's is in severe pain, then I need to know about it. If he starting to come around, well, we all want to be with him. Besides, Athos needs us."

"That's right, Doc, there's no way I'm leaving, so don't ask," Porthos said, resolutely.

"Alright, that's enough, gentlemen," the captain ordered. "Doctor, my men are very close—closer than most brothers. Please allow them to sit quietly in the room, just in case Athos awakens."

"Fine, Captain, they can stay," the doctor relented. "But everyone must remain quiet and not wake the patient; Athos needs his rest."

"They will be quiet," the king interrupted, making heads turn toward the doorway. "I'll make sure they comply with your orders, Doctor."

"Your Majesty," Captain Tréville sighed. "You shouldn't still be here, Sire. Surely, you would be more comfortable at the palace, Your Majesty."

"Nonsense!" the king waved off the captain with a smile. "The doctor has allowed me use of his apartment, so I am well rested. I sent word to the palace of my whereabouts, and informed them that I would be here a while longer. I would be utterly useless at the palace; I am simply beside myself with worry. I would much rather be here with you—with my men—than back at the palace listening to reports of the queen's latest tea party. I want to be here with you," he pouted.

The Musketeers were stunned into silence, not sure how to respond. The men never expected the king to show such concern; they were used to the monarch being more solemn and formal.

"Your Majesty…" Tréville began to protest, but stopped short. The captain already had this discussion with the king and it was fruitless. The stubborn monarch always did what he wanted anyway, regardless of the captain's protests.

"Good, it's settled then," the king said happily. "I will join the rest of you in here and keep watch from this corner," he pointed.

"Yes, Your Majesty, I guess it is settled," Captain Tréville sighed, tipping his head respectfully. "Doctor, we will all be staying with Athos, it appears," he declared. "Should he need us, in any manner, we'll be right here with him."

Hours Later:

"Is that the king snoring or the captain?" d'Artagnan asked his two brothers, suppressing a giggle.

"Well, the captain has an excuse," Aramis whispered quietly. "With that head wound of his, I'm surprised he's managed so well these last few days. I really wish we could have treated his wound sooner."

"Better yet, if the head wound hadn't happened in the first place," Porthos grumbled. "Damn that Jean-Marc; if I ever get my hands on him…"

Suddenly, the building rocked with a violent explosion, sending debris of stone, mortar, glass and shrapnel flying through the air like missiles. The group of men fell off their chairs as the concussion of the explosion sent a wave of acrid, hot air pushing through the room.

"Protect the king!" Captain Tréville yelled to Porthos over the roaring noise in the next room.

~§~

"Your Majesty, are you hurt?" Porthos asked, after the dust had settled. The king was lying on the floor, covered with dust and small chunks of debris; his chair had landed across his body, with the back resting against the monarch's head. "Mon Dieu, Your Majesty, are you hurt?"

"Of course I am hurt!" retorted the king. "I hit my head on the floor; I think my head is bleeding!" King Louis rubbed all around his head, checking for blood, but his fingers came back clean.

"You're not bleeding, Your Majesty, thank God," Porthos shook his head with relief. "How is Athos, dammit?" he asked, but no one answered. The large Musketeer stood to check on his unconscious friend, fearing what he might find. Athos was already critically injured… and now this?

Strangely enough, earlier that day the king had moved from his perch in the back corner of the room to sit beside Athos. A few hours later, the doctor had moved a large table in the room, which he filled with food and drink, and had placed it at the foot of Athos' bed. It appeared the prophetic moves had saved the lives of both Athos and His Majesty.

"Dear God, what the hell happened?" Aramis cried out. The medic groaned as he pushed aside a large beam lying across his chest so he could sit up. "Is anyone hurt?" he asked, wincing as he moved large pieces of stone from his legs and torso. "Mon Dieu, how is Athos?"

"Athos has some debris on 'im from the blast, but it appears that large table just saved him from most of the impact… and His Majesty too!" Porthos uttered with surprise. "Where is the captain?"

"I'm here, Porthos," the captain replied from under a pile of rubble. "I am fine, just take care of His Majesty and Athos."

"I am not too badly injured, Captain," the king said, now sitting up on the floor.

"What about d'Artagnan?" the captain asked. "D'Artagnan, where are you?"

"I'm here, Captain," d'Artagnan called from under his chair and chunks of debris. "Merde, I think I got hit in the head with a piece of… something."

"D'Artagnan, are you alright?" Aramis asked, untangling himself. He rushed to kneel beside his youngest brother, shoving fallen debris out of the way. The medic frowned at the stream of blood running down the Gascon's face, but let out a relieved breath at seeing the cut wasn't too deep. "We will have to stitch that up…"

"Never mind me, what about Athos?" d'Artagnan inquired. "Is Athos alright? Is he hurt worse?"

"Slow down, mon ami," Aramis replied. "I'll go check on Athos if you're sure you're alright." The medic waited for a nod before turning his attention to the unconscious patient. He worked with Porthos at brushing away the dust and particles of debris from Athos' face and body.

"Thank God, you pulled 'at blanket over 'im earlier," Porthos uttered with relief. "It protected his little chest tent—the tube is still intact! I never thought I would be so grateful for Athos bein' cold."

"Me either!" Aramis' long fingers snaked around Athos' neck then pressed down on the carotid artery, waiting for a heartbeat.

"Is he alright?" the Gascon dared to ask.

"Yes, I have a pulse," Aramis reported with relief to the group. "Thank God!"

"Thank God, indeed," the king said. After a brief pause, he added, "Did someone just try to blow us up?"

"Jean-Marc knows we're here!" Captain Tréville exclaimed. He rushed to the doorway and gasped at the severity of damage done to the other half of the clinic. "Doctor? Where is the doctor?" he wondered at seeing the waiting room and parlor destroyed. "Damn, this has to be Jean-Marc's handiwork; no one else would have reason to bomb this clinic. We have to think of His Majesty's safety first—above all else. We must get him back to the palace at once!"

"Cap'n, if Jean-Marc is behind this," Porthos paused, "how are we going to get the king out of here without 'at bastard aimin' at us?"

"Is there anyone well enough to ride to the palace?" the captain inquired. "It's not that far, perhaps less than one thousand paces, but we need a carriage sent to our location. We have to move His Majesty out of here… and we're also going to have to move Athos."

"Captain, you can't be serious!" Aramis said, horrified. "He shouldn't be moved in his condition; he just had chest surgery!"

"We have no choice, Aramis!" the captain snapped. "Athos has to be moved to a more secure location; Jean-Marc will certainly be back to check on the damage. That man is so hell-bent on revenge, he won't stop until either Athos, the king, or myself—or all of us—are dead!"

"I'll ride to the palace," d'Artagnan called out. "It's not that far, so it should only take a few minutes."

"I'll go with you," Porthos offered. "You'll be safer wit' someone watchin' your back."

"Hello?" a man called into the room. "Is there anyone hurt in here?"

The startled Musketeers immediately drew their pistols and trained them on the stranger moving through the mounds of debris. "Who are you and what do you want?" Porthos growled.

"Whoa, hold on… I just wanted to see if there was anyone hurt!" yelled the man. "I just dropped off my beef at the butchery shop around the corner and heard the terrible explosion—I meant no harm!"

"Do you have a wagon with a canvas covering?" Tréville asked the man.

"Well, yes, but…"

"Good, give us your coat and hat," the captain ordered. The captain took the items from the man and gave them to King Louis. "Put these on, Your Majesty. I would feel better if you were disguised before we move you out to the wagon; he might be watching us. Would you be so kind to drive His Majesty to the palace?" Captain Tréville asked the driver. "D'Artagnan and I will be coming along as his security."

"Yes, of course," the man replied. "I'll do anything for His Majesty!"

"I'll ride in the back with you, Your Majesty," Tréville said as he covered the monarch under a pile of blankets. D'Artagnan sat next to the driver up front with his pistol ready, watching for the suspect, Jean-Marc. The wagon rolled home toward Palais du Louvre, where His Majesty would be kept under watch, should the bandit strike again.

"Bloody hell," Porthos huffed angrily. "Now, what do we do about Athos?"

"He cannot ride in a wagon, that's for sure," Aramis replied, adamantly. "He wouldn't survive the trip—even the short ride to the palace. I need not remind you of the trip home from Chamarande," he shuddered. "No, we need to look for a carriage, at the very least."

"I'll go look for one," Porthos said as he left the room.

"Athos, I need you to listen to me, brother," Aramis said as he began preparing the patient to leave. He carefully removed the drainage tube then packed a wad of cotton tightly around the wound; he finished by wrapping the area with a secure bandage. "That's going to have to hold until we get to the palace. We have no other choice, but… Madre de Dios, I don't like this!" The medic ran a shaking hand through his dusty hair. "How much more does Athos have to endure, dammit?" he yelled up at the ceiling.

Just then, the large Musketeer returned and rushed into the room. "I've found a carriage! Let's go," he called, "let's get Athos loaded up and out of here. Quickly, before Jean-Marc comes lookin' for us!"

"Dammit, Athos shouldn't be traveling!" Aramis objected angrily. "I know he can't stay here, but the ride to the palace is too dangerous—moving him could kill him."

"I know 'at Aramis," Porthos said, sadly. "But right now, we don't have a choice; Athos has to be moved. You know the cap'n is right, Jean-Marc will be back."

"Dammit to hell, I don't like this—not one damn bit!" Aramis grumbled. "Merde!" he cursed, slapping his knee in resignation.

"I don't like it one damn bit either, Aramis," Porthos retorted. "But we'll be extra careful with 'im!"

"I'm scared, Porthos," Aramis hesitated at the bedside. "Athos has already suffered through so much," he sighed. "So help me, if anything happens to Athos because we move him, I swear, I will rip Jean-Marc apart with my bare hands!"

"And I'll help you rip 'im apart!" Porthos growled. Turning back to Athos, he furrowed his brow with concern. "Should I just pick 'im up?" he asked, not sure of what to do.

"If only we had a stretcher and could keep him flat on his back…" the medic's voice trailed as he looked around the room, but found nothing they could use.

"Even if we had a stretcher, the carriage isn't wide enough," Porthos disputed impatiently. "Bloody hell, we've got to go!" The big man gently scooped Athos into his arms, trying his best to keep the patient's torso flat. He followed behind Aramis, who helped guide the large Musketeer over the debris.

Aramis ran ahead to the carriage and opened the door. "Easy now," the medic said as he continued guiding Porthos along. "Do you need me to take him while you get in?"

"No, I can do this without jostling 'im too much," Porthos said, grunting as he stepped up with his armload. He shuffled sideways into the carriage, easing his way in, while ever mindful of the precious cargo in his arms. He finally maneuvered slowly down onto the seat, panting from exertion; large drops of sweat streamed down his face.

"Are you alright, Porthos?" Aramis inquired with worry.

"I'm fine," Porthos breathed heavily. "Let's get out o' here!"

"Yes, let's go," Aramis said. The medic banged on the roof to signal the driver they were ready to roll. "Remember to take it real slow and easy," he told the driver.

Porthos held Athos flat across his lap, doing his best to cushion against the bumps and bounces in the road. Aramis knelt in front of the seat, keeping his fingers on the patient's neck, monitoring his pulse.

Soon, the carriage pulled onto the long, narrow road leading to the front of the elegant Palais du Louvre. When the carriage came to a stop, Aramis suddenly gasped. "Oh God, I can't feel his pulse!"

"You bastards! You can run, but you can't hide," the sadistic man snarled as he stepped over the rubble in the medical clinic. "I know where you went."

Jean-Marc gazed west, toward the palace. "Don't think you are safe from me there, Captain Tréville. Perhaps I should up the stakes and hit the king where it really hurts. You got away from me this time, boys, but I'm not finished with you yet. I have another plan in mind… and it's going to be a blast!"

A/N:

For my longtime readers, you may recognize some familiar names/places in this story. Did you catch the references from my early story Promises to Keep with the Doctors Molyneux and Berteau? Do you remember the special "technique" with the saline solution to which Aramis is referring to?

I also mentioned Chamarande, which is taken from my story Breathing. If you remember, after Athos was seriously wounded (Double Trouble), he was returned to the garrison in the back of a wagon from the Château de Chamarande.

Now, I am including these notes about the chest tube for those who otherwise might not believe that this procedure was actually practiced, even well before the 17th century! Many people do not give the physicians and scientists of that day due credit, as many believe that we in the 21st century have the exclusives to intelligent, innovative medicinal techniques… but research proves otherwise. Many of these brilliant physicians were way ahead of their time, all they were lacking was the technology to practice as the doctors do today. They had to make do with the knowledge and means of their time, but their extensive notes and experience greatly influenced the advancement of medicine today.

The practice of draining fluids from the chest (thoracic cavity) has been documented for thousands of years. Today, for cardiothoracic surgeons it is a basic skill. There is little thought given to the gradual progression of this skill over the course of centuries that has brought us to our current understanding in the management of the chest tube.

The first description of thoracostomy (small incision in the chest to insert a tube) begins with Greek physician, Hippocrates (c. 460-370 B.C). His written instructions included "Insert a hollow tin drainage tube to remove fluids, pus, blood, and leaving it in place until the cavity is completely dried out."

The procedure was recorded in Medicine in the Crusades in which drainage of fluids (pus) facilitated healing of a chest wound after Baldwin I of Jerusalem (c. 1058-1118) was struck by a lance.

A clear mention of a tube thoracostomy was in Wolfram von Eschenbach's Parzival, written between 1210 and 1220. He describes a knight named Gawan, who has sustained a chest wound in a joust.

There lay a man pierced through,
with his blood rushing inward…
"I could keep this knight from dying
and I feel sure I could save him
if I had a reed,
You would soon see him and hear
him in health, because
he is not mortally wounded.
The blood is only pressing on his heart."
He grasped a branch of the linden tree,
slipped the bark off like a tube –
he was no fool in the matter of wounds –
and inserted it into the body through the wound.
Then he bade the woman suck on it
until blood flowed toward her.
The hero's strength revived so that he could speak and talk again."

In the 14th century, leading French surgeon/physician, Guy de Chauliac (1300 – 25 July 1368), used the technique for management of chest trauma and made great advancements of the procedure. He believed in treatment of penetrating thoracic wounds by using "tents" and drains (hollow tin tube) to allow blood and decaying organic materials to escape. He suggested the use of a tent to cover the wound, with wads of cotton to keep the wound dry, all the while keeping the thin, hollow tin tube in place. Further, daily irrigation of warm wine or a honey/water mixture was collected and measured for four or five days, until the fluid collected was clear. Irrigation was halted, the tent and tube was left in place; the wound was dressed with cotton to absorb residual drainage. Smaller tents and cotton dressings, with shorter tubes, were used until the patient was healed

Fascinating Stuff!