Britannia's Innocent: The Dawlish Chronicles February – May 1864 by Antoine Vanner

Author:Antoine Vanner [Vanner, Antoine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Old Salt Press
Published: 2019-12-07T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

Dawlish visited Killigrew as often as he could. He had recognised him as a competent officer before but there had been no personal bond of respect or affection such as he felt towards FitzBaldwin. But now, sitting with him in the foetid church, Killigrew’s life seemed very precious to him. The reality of the amputation had dawned on the wounded man, recognition of what his future might be little less a torment than the pain itself. He was feverish now and not always coherent. It was hard to know what to say to him. No subject, least of all the raid, interested him and he refused Dawlish’s offer to take down a letter. It would kill his parents, he said, his sisters too. He would write himself when he was better.

And that would be never.

Dawlish forced himself to stay, to hold Killigrew’s shoulders, to try to lend him strength when the older Swiss lady –her name was Madame Racine – changed the dressing. She must have previous experience, for she showed no sign of revulsion as she cut away the bandages and pad. The Swiss doctor, Venel, stood behind her and let her work without advice or interruption.

The stump was exposed. The orderly who thrust the soiled bandages into a sack was too slow to hide the blood and pus. Killigrew saw them and thrashed his head from side to side and moaned. And there was another smell now, a whiff only, but more foul, more putrid than any other in this dreadful place. Doctor Venel bent over the stump, looked closely, sniffed and probed. He looked up towards Madame Racine. Their eyes meet and his head shook ever so slightly. No need to say the word.

Gangrene.

*

The Hulde left for Aalborg and took some forty sick and wounded with her. Killigrew was not among them – the amputation had been far above the knee, Doctor Venel told Dawlish, and the chance of a haemorrhage was high, enough to kill him. Several of the volunteer nurses were gone but the young woman who called herself a helper had not. Dawlish realised that it pleased him that she hadn’t, for he had half-expected it, but would have been disappointed if she had. There was something heroic about her, a willingness to take on what others would shirk, despite the ridicule her blotched face must so often evoke. He saw her busy when he visited Killigrew. Her tasks were menial – changing bedding, feeding patients too weak to feed themselves, washing bodies, fetching and carrying for Madame Racine – but that did not seem to deter her. He raised his hand to his cap brim when they passed but did not speak because he did not know how to begin.

It came easily in the end, on the night before he would go back to the redoubts with Granville’s company. He had come to see Killigrew and he found her by him, giving him laudanum for a spoon.

“Could you please hold up his head, monsieur? It’s easier that way.

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