At Death's Door
'
"Quickly now," the Jamaican doctor urged upon releasing his patient's neck. "This won't subdue him for long, and indeed, we do not want a repeat performance, Sir."
With Sir Edward in the lead, the two sailors hoisted the now unresisting body up between them and hastily continued their trek into the bowels of the 74-gun ship of the line. As soon as the small party entered the sick berth and the ship's surgeon Dr Ingram-Bassenthwaite approached them to offer his help, Commodore Pellew started barking orders in his usual, clipped manner.
"Doctor Ingram, there is no time for pleasantries or introductions, I'm afraid. Kindly assist Dr Llewelyn here with his assignment of saving this man's life, if you please." He indicated the body enshrouded in rough cloth. "He is exclusively responsible for the young man's treatment, and I expect you to support him in this endeavour in every possible way, Sir. Is that understood?"
"Aye, Sir," the surgeon intoned dutifully before shifting his attention towards his fellow doctor. Commodore Pellew did not doubt for one second that his orders would be carried out with utmost precision. His surgeon was a most reliable chap, who customarily observed the line of command keenly.
While the two sailors placed the wrapped body on the awaiting table, Dr Llewelyn took charge straight away. "I need boiling hot, fresh water," he directed. Two nearby loblolly boys immediately jumped to carry out his command. "And one strong man who can hold him down if necessary."
"Carter, you stay. Mitchell, you may go," Ingram-Bassenthwaite ordered the retreating men. The first seaman gave a grunt of assent and stood aside while his companion left.
Under Sir Edward's watchful eye, both doctors carefully began unwrapping the unresponsive figure outstretched on the table before them, critically scanning the young man's body as they went. Even Dr Llewelyn, despite his earlier intervention, only had the barest idea of what to expect about his patient's condition.
Shortly after the coarse canvas was disposed of and the surgeons, one after the other, had begun assembling their tools, the loblolly boys returned with a steaming bucket of water, mindful about not sloshing the precious liquid on the floor. They placed the container next to the table and stepped back a few steps to be out of the way but remain within easy reach if their help was needed.
"Good," Dr Llewelyn acknowledged. "Dr Ingram, please start removing the bandage from his midsection while I prepare the spongia somnifera." At the other surgeon's questioning look, he elaborated patiently, "a sponge soaked with opium to render the lad deeply insensible, Sir."
He called for one of the loblolly boys to fetch two empty bowls while he produced a wooden case and a length of leather strap from his bag. Upon the loblolly boy's swift return, he filled one of the bowls with hot water from the bucket, then opened the clasp on the smoothly polished wooden case and lifted its lid to reveal two sponges. The middle-aged doctor divested his elegant jacket and took one of the sponges out, dipping it into the awaiting bowl before turning his attention to his patient.
Dr Llewelyn regarded him carefully, taking in the young man's lax features, his clammy skin and deathly pale complexion. Moved to sympathy by the lad's youthful appearance, he stroked a few blond strands out of his face in a fatherly gesture of affection. As the wet sponge was placed over Kennedy's nose and mouth, his patient's brow furrowed minutely but the creases melted almost instantly and his body relaxed impossibly further.
"He is out cold," the doctor announced to the room at large, "hopefully for the duration of the procedure."
Anxious about Kennedy's welfare but painfully aware that he was of no use in this situation and needed elsewhere, Commodore Pellew reluctantly pried himself away from the mesmerizing scene. "Dr Llewelyn, I trust you will at once advise me on any change, Sir, and I expect your report as soon as you are finished here."
The two surgeons were entirely focused on their patient and seemed to pay him no mind at all. Just as well, he surmised. With a last uncharacteristically tender glimpse at the lieutenant's unconscious form before retreating from the sick berth, he fervently hoped that the young man at least stood a chance and he had not merely prolonged his suffering needlessly.
In the meantime, Dr Ingram-Bassenthwaite had cautiously removed the bandage and was appraising the injury with deft fingers. "I fear this wound is mortal, and our efforts will prove in vain," he observed fatalistically.
"We are here, Sir, and he is still alive so we might as well try and save him!" Dr Llewelyn retorted reprovingly. In truth, he did not hold out much hope, either but giving up while the lad still fought for his life was not an option.
"Has the ball been taken out at least?"
"I cannot say, Sir." The commandeered surgeon handed the length of leather strap to his colleague and began prodding the wound lightly to better assess the injury himself. "Wrap one end around his wrist, Sir," he instructed the other man, "then loop it through underneath him and wind it around his other wrist, if you please."
"Whatever for, Sir?" The ship's surgeon asked bewilderedly. Never in his professional career had he heard of such an odd request.
"This way, should he wake during the operation, he won't be able to make a grab for the wound, Sir, and interfere with the procedure before we are able to restrain him again," Dr Llewelyn explained distractedly while critically eyeing the injured man's breathing and, being satisfied with his observation, removed the sponge.
"Huh," was the entirety of the other's reply but he proceeded as asked.
The newly appointed doctor then filled the second bowl with fresh water and placed a box of small cotton balls as well as a set of forceps and other instruments within easy reach. "First I will explore the injury to see for myself how bad the damage is and whether or not the ball or any other debris remained inside the wound. Could you please direct one of the boys to hold a lantern closer, Sir, so I can see a little better?"
Ever attentive, the taller of the loblolly boys immediately approached the other side of the table and, standing next to Dr Ingram-Bassenthwaite, held a lantern aloft, adjusting its position to illuminate the supine man's midsection.
The Kingston-based doctor shifted slightly in order to address the seaman at the head of the table. "Carter was it?" The sailor looked at the surgeon and nodded mutely. "Carter," he continued, certain that he had the man's attention, "I believe the lad should stay insensible for a good long while yet but if he starts stirring or moving, you are to hold him down by his shoulders."
With a final glance towards the assisting doctor to ascertain he was ready, Dr Llewelyn took up his particularly sharp knife and with a steady hand made the first incision.
Having attended to his captain's duties and then retired to his day cabin, Sir Edward had walked the length and breadth of his quarters worriedly like a caged tiger. Surely the floorboards must show extensive wear by now for all the impatient pacing he had done. It had been hours! And still no word from either doctor. Despite his fraying nerves, he logically concluded that it probably was a good sign. If the two surgeons were still too occupied to report to him, Kennedy almost certainly was still alive.
Nevertheless, the secluded privacy of his cabin, which afforded him the invaluable luxury of indulging in his pacing unseen, pitifully also provided him with little distraction. Unbidden, his jumbled thoughts drifted back to the previous days' shabby business.
As early as the initial stages of the ill-conceived court-martial, Commodore Pellew had gathered enough facts about the mutiny to conclude that, to his ever-lasting dismay, the tribunal he had found himself presiding over, proved nothing more than the Admiralty's unconscionable witch-hunt for a convenient scapegoat instead of a board of inquiry into the truth of the matter. In addition, it had become increasingly apparent that Dr Clive was not only completely indifferent to leaving the lieutenants of the Renown hanging out to dry with his testimony but also altogether dispassionate about not even bothering to attempt saving Kennedy's life for lack of prospects of success. Subsequently, Pellew had resolved to act on the dying man's behalf as well as subtly use his influence to steer the outcome of the trial into a more favourable direction.
Although his involvement in the court-martial afforded him very little opportunity to attend to the matter personally, some well-placed, discreet inquiries had brought to his attention a skilled local doctor, who came highly recommended by the gentlemen of Kingston and who was lauded for having a steady hand and no taste for excessive drink or the like. So, without going into too much detail about his charge, the commodore had called upon this individual and availed himself of the surgeon's services.
Little did Sir Edward care whether his own ship's surgeon was sooner disposed towards being offended by this obvious lack of confidence in the man's abilities or rather relieved at not being burdened with the responsibility of caring for such a grievous wound. As a matter of fact, he needed someone whose sole obligation lay with tending to the injured lieutenant and who would not be distracted by other ailments of the men aboard. And while Dr Ingram-Bassenthwaite was a competent enough fellow with his fair share of experience, mediocrity wasn't going to save Kennedy's life!
Insistent knocking on his cabin door drew the commodore from his troubled musings back to the present. By the sound of the rapping, it possibly wasn't the first attempt to get his attention. Being rather ill-pleased at the disruption, his tone carried even more gruffness than usual as he inquired who and what their business was.
Obviously having thoroughly intimidated whoever stood in front of his door, the marine sentry answered instead. "It's Andrew, the loblolly boy, with a message from the surgeon."
Pellew's agitation piqued and his voice sounded unexpectedly tense to his own ears as he called for the boy to enter. Not intending to scare the messenger further, the commodore put forth every effort to calmly sit at his desk and appear unperturbed when the loblolly boy stepped over the threshold.
"What is it, Andrew?" He said mildly, almost convincingly collected.
"Sir, I come with a message from the surgeon, Sir. I'm ta report tha' the young man is not doing well, he isn't, and the surgeon can't leave him at the moment."
"So he is alive, then?"
"Yes, Sir," the loblolly boy confirmed.
"Very well. I shall come to the sick berth myself to have a word with the doctor," Pellew announced. "Run along now."
"Aye, Sir." Andrew saluted smartly and practically fled from the commodore's presence.
In spite of resorting to a dignified stroll rather than the hurried gait he was aching for, Sir Edward made good time below decks. On entering the sick berth, he immediately spotted Dr Llewelyn at the far end of the room attending to the injured man on the table. Approaching with a deliberate pace, he saw the doctor frown at the lack of reaction from Kennedy after gently stroking a set of fingers over his patient's throat with a practised hand, then proceeding to probe the back of his mouth with an oblong object, which elicited no visible response, either.
"Dr Llewelyn," the commodore greeted, making his presence known. Yet, wishing not to disturb the infirmary's occupants at this late hour, his voice was hardly above a whisper. "How is he, Sir?"
"Alive, for now." There was some hesitation before the surgeon continued. "He is still breathing, Sir, but the strain of the operation has caused him to slip beyond the reach of consciousness or even opiates."
Once Pellew was in clear view of his former lieutenant, he was barely able to suppress an involuntary gasp. With his ghostly pallor and nearly translucent skin, Kennedy looked more dead than alive. In fact, he had seen corpses look more lively than the young man lying in front of him.
"He cannot swallow," the doctor declared somewhat frustratedly, too exhausted to heed impeccable manners any longer.
Commodore Pellew blanched, for it took no particularly learned man to deduce what that meant. A desperate edge crept into his tone of voice. "Will he survive, Sir?"
"His chances would have been significantly improved if action had been taken sooner, or that previous butcher of a surgeon had cared to do more than bandage him up and watch him die." Thinly contained bitterness was colouring the doctor's words. "Commodore, I shall be quite frank with you, Sir. Should he not improve enough within the next few days to at least take some water, there is very little I can do for him, I fear, and he will surely perish."
Sir Edward swallowed at this discouraging piece of news. "Where is Dr Ingram-Bassenthwaite?" He asked curiously. Actually, the commodore had been surprised to find his own surgeon missing from the room.
"Resting," Dr Llewelyn replied wearily. "We will take turns sitting with him."