Whumptober 2022

Prompt 11: Sloppy Bandages | Self-Done First Aid | Makeshift Splint

Even now, it wasn't easy. Not that PT Barnum had expected it to be.

The dream had almost been lost, dropped for something bigger by his own grasping hands. He had made so many mistakes—big mistakes. Unforgivable, he might have said, except that it wasn't for him to decide that.

And so even though it wasn't easy—it was good.

Barnum was walking back from a meeting with a canvas supplier—it had gone well, he thought, the sample bolt tucked under his arm—toward the makeshift tent city that had sprung up on the grounds by the railroad tracks. Everyone had pitched in to make it what it was, to make sure none of their own lacked shelter or food or a place in the circle at night around the cookfire. Daytime open-air shows were drawing crowds, again; Barnum whistled as he walked, lost in thought, as evening descended.

He was in no way ready for the walking-stick that suddenly appeared in his path.

"Oh—beg pardon!" he said reflexively as his feet tangled in each other and the sudden obstacle. He flailed momentarily, then dropped down hard onto his knee, wincing. He looked up as a form reached toward him.

But he didn't see what he expected: another distracted gentleman equally surprised, reaching now to recover his stick, or perhaps offer Barnum a hand. No—the fading daylight instead showed him a pinched face and a pair of malevolent eyes.

Worse was the pair of rough-looking street men flanking his adversary, grim and dangerous. All this he took in at a glance, and made to spring to his feet—but that had been anticipated, and instead he found himself dodging a heavy punch, rolling backward into the street.

Now, Barnum may have been taken off his guard; may have been dressed for a meeting, not a brawl; may have been passed prime fighting age, out of the practice of hard days on the railroad surrounded by harder men. But he wouldn't go down that easily.

The malevolent-eyed man stepped back, letting his muscle do the job he'd paid them for. Another fist flew at Barnum's face; he slid under and grabbed it, this time, using his currently low position to pull the man off balance. He, too, fell into the street. Barnum kicked out at his fellow, who howled in sudden pain as his knee took the blow. Barnum scrabbled for half a loose paving stone he felt under his fingers; it lent weight to the next kidney punch he threw at an opponent.

Then something caught his attention, a flash of metal in the malevolent-eyed man's hand. Barnum threw himself backward, slugging the paving stone at the man even as he fell on his back in the street once more.

He only just had time to hear it crack against the man's hand—see the grimace on his face change from hatred to pain—

—when there was a shout, an almighty clamor, and, his neck saved only by an instinctive hunch, a screaming fire tearing up his left arm and across his shoulder—and the world whited out in pain.

Moments later he gasped back to awareness. The runaway carriage was still careening down the street, its lantern just rounding a corner, driver shouting furiously. He rolled his eyes the other way; the street men were already slouching back into the alley, unwilling to stay around to be implicated when the man they'd been paid to rough up might now be dead. And the first man, though glaring at Barnum with hatred, clutched his hand to his chest protectively, walking stick long forgotten in the gutter. He also walked away into the deepening shadows, giving Barnum one last sneer, hissing through clenched teeth.

But all this was as background. Barnum lay in the street, gasping. Everything grew quiet but for the harsh rasp of his breaths.

But he couldn't stay there forever. He had to get home. Home…

He gritted his teeth, rolled onto his uninjured side. He panted. He sat up. He edged himself further out of the street, up against an abandoned storefront. He shook. He gingerly tried to move his left arm.

He flinched and stilled.

But there was nothing for it.

With his good hand, he worked his matchbook and penknife out of his pocket. He struck a light on the cobblestones, and, hand shaking, forced himself to look at his arm.

He closed his eyes.

The match burned to his fingers. He shook it out, hissing.

He forced his eyes open.

He struck another match, located the bolt of cloth. Crawling painfully, he managed to catch hold of it, dragging it back with him as he slumped against the brick wall again. Then slowly, painfully, he felt his way through cutting the shredded jacket and shirt off of his mangled arm.

The night grew colder. He shook with chill as well as pain. The knife caught broken skin, tearing at exposed flesh. He gasped, vision flickering.

He set his teeth and went on. He forced his injured off-hand to grasp the cloth as he hacked and tore it into strips, then wrapped it, the contact like fire, as tightly as he could around gouged-out skin.

Time rolled by excruciatingly.

He startled at the hoot of an owl, unaware he had slipped into a daze.

He couldn't stay here. But his muscles shook uncontrollably as he tried to rise.

He struck a match to get his bearings, looking out into the street—and his eyes caught a polished silver handle.

Bemused, relieved, and a touch vindictive, he laughed. Then he reached for the malevolent-eyed man's walking stick and stumbled to his feet.

"Barnum? Barnum!"

"Phil'p," he slurred. He staggered, yelped as someone touched his injured arm. Light from the circus camp's cookfire haloed the dark shapes that gathered around him.

"Whoa! Hey, careful," someone snapped. He sagged, and hands caught him, this time on his uninjured side. He groaned as pain shot through him all the same.

"Don't stand there gawking, move! Get him to the tent!"

"Let…tie." He lurched toward her voice.

"Don't move, you fool," she said, but her voice and hands were gentle.

"Had t' g't…home."

"Well, you made it." "We got you, okay?" "You're safe now, come on." The voices ran together, and his mind couldn't pick out the speakers. But unmistakable was the worry, the affection, the care with which he was shuffled to a tent, laid down on a cot.

Then—"Shh…rest. You're home." That was Charity.

He slept.