Elisha Barber: Book One Of The Dark Apostle (15 page)

W
hat else might be said in his absence,
Elisha had no idea. He was grateful to the lady for keeping the physician off his back while he returned his barbering tools before hurrying into the hospital. The work on the water must wait for tomorrow. He found Matthew in the kitchen, his irons in the fire and a fierce glower on his face.

“It’s high time you showed your face. Or are you ashamed to?” the assistant surgeon demanded.

“Are you planning to cauterize my amputees?”

“Of course I am. Some of us are not barbarians.”

“No, naturally, sir. But should you have to stoop to such labor? I’m sorry for my absence—I understand the trouble it must have caused you.”

Straightening, Matthew folded his arms and glared. “I don’t believe you have any idea of our troubles, Barber.”

Bowing quickly, Elisha said, “How could I? I’m ignorant in the proper procedures, as you know, sir.”

Matthew looked flustered, not sure how to take Elisha’s apparent capitulation. “Obviously, or you would know that the great physician Galen advised cautery for amputations and ligature only for injuries touching the vessels.”

“But,” Elisha said brightly, “I’ve had the opportunity to observe your technique these past two days. I think I can manage it, and you can return to your own work. You shouldn’t be bothered with these men. A few of the more able-bodied soldiers can assist me.”

Matthew narrowed his eyes. “And if you botch the job, there’s only you to blame.”

“Even so, sir.” Elisha kept his head bowed, as Matthew debated with himself and finally quit the room with admirable speed.

Taking a deep breath, Elisha sighed and leaned against the door frame, arms crossed.

“Sorry, I should’ve paid closer mind,” Maeve said, rushing up to him. “Who’s to be first, then?”

“Who’s the best screamer?”

“Sorry?” Her head pulled back as her brow wrinkled.

“I need a good screamer.” He led her out of the kitchen to survey the men before him.

“I’m not understanding you, Elisha,” she complained. “How’s the sound of his scream going to be of help?”

“Here’s the question for you, Maeve, have we lost any of the men I’ve cut since I got here?”

The frown deepened, and she plunked her hands on her hips. “Nowt that I recall.”

“And how many before, when the surgeons got at them?”

Maeve’s eyes sought out the doorway nearby, leading into the yard of corpses. “Most, I’d guess, most the night they come in.”

He lowered his voice, leaning close to her ear. “What they do beyond the curtain, I don’t care a whit. If I’m wrong, then on my head be it, but I’ll appreciate your silence on this point.”

“But it’s always been done, cutting, then cautery.”

“On my head be it,” he repeated urgently. “I’d rather not cause more pain than I must.” Or have to explain the treatment he’d learned from a woman, and a Moorish one at that. Ligature was reputedly a technique of witchcraft as well as of surgery.

Pursing her lips Maeve appraised him in a way so like his mother used to, as if she couldn’t tell if he deserved punishment or reward.

“Please,” he said. “Give me a few days. If we start losing them, I swear I’ll do the cautery.”

Shaking a finger in his face, she said, “Your head.”

“My head, absolutely.”

She frowned out at the soldiers. “Maclean’s your best screamer, then.”

“Bless you!” He grinned.

“Cor!” She slapped at him, then bustled off to check on the latest gunshot victims.

“Ruari? I’ll need a hand. Which one’s Maclean?”

A burly fellow recovering from a sword to the gut raised his head. “That’s me.”

Elisha realized that, on the day he’d arrived, Maclean was the one shouting curses at the ceiling.

“Do you trust me?” Elisha asked, swinging around to direct the question to the room at large.

Lowering his chisel, Arthur called, “Aye! And why not? How long’s it been since we’ve heard any singing?”

A few men burst into laughter, then one of them piped up, “And ye bring that girl round here, we’ll trust ye right enough!”

“If only I could,” he sighed. “For the moment, I ask you to keep quiet with the others,” he said, lowering his voice with a nod toward the curtain. Then, louder, he said, “As God is my witness, I’ll do all I can for you. Ruari, let’s take the first man.”

“Aye, Elisha,” Ruari replied, but the two went over and lifted Maclean, carrying him off to the kitchen.

Once there, Elisha made the man comfortable, and explained his role. Maclean caught on quickly, giving screams of agony such as they’d never heard before. He was at times ear-splitting; other times he shrieked like a woman, until they’d counted off, at regular intervals, all the men who should have been cauterized. When Maclean was once again ensconced upon his straw pallet, with a nearby pitcher for his thirst, Elisha gathered up the surgeon’s irons and carried them ceremoniously through the curtain. The officers gazed at him in horror, some few crossing themselves as he returned the tools with a bow.

Washing and re-dressing the wounded filled the time until the horn blew to tell them the hold had been called. This time, Elisha hurried to the head of the stairs, with Ruari at his side, and took up a post before the church tower. As the soldiers straggled in from the field, he sorted the dead from the dying, the wounded from the merely dazed. When the trickle became a
flood, and while Elisha plied his needles and set the easier fractures, Ruari went among them and continued the sorting process until all the men had been sent off, or waited in their turn for the barber’s attention.

As he washed and rethreaded his needle, Elisha called out, “Ruari? What’s your trade?”

“A carpenter, same’s our lord!” the soldier shouted back.

Looking at the weary men waiting for stitches, and the wailing men waiting for bone setting or the saw, Elisha gave a grim smile. “How’d you like to be a barber?”

“Me? Are ye daft?”

“Most likely,” Elisha replied. “All I ask is you can handle a saw.”

Ruari gaped across the field of battered soldiers, then slowly made his way to Elisha’s side. “You mean for me to cut them?”

“There’s a lot more of them than of me. The officers get three bloody surgeons all to themselves, and I’ve not even an assistant.” He looked up from the arm he was stitching to meet Ruari’s uncertain gaze. “It’s too much for me, and that’s a fact.”

“But I know nothing about it.”

“I’ll show you, Ruari.”

With a nervous chuckle, Ruari asked, “What if I cut off the wrong leg?” But he knelt beside Elisha as they started the round of cutting—outside this time, rather than spill so much blood down in the hospital for the women to clean up day after day. Elisha showed Ruari how to investigate the extent of the damage and decide which bones to set and bind and which to cut right away.

“Try not to cut at the joint, if you can. It takes longer to heal. For legs, if you give at least a handbreadth below the joint, they’ll take better to a wooden leg.”

“I’ve made a couple of those myself,” Ruari offered, brightening.

“Likewise, if you draw up the flesh—” Elisha demonstrated, using his left hand to elevate and position the leg the way he wanted, “—it forms a better cushion for the bone afterward.”

After tying a tight band above the man’s ruined knee, and giving thanks that he was unconscious, Elisha demonstrated how to hold the knives and
how much pressure was required at various stages. He’d nearly done when the physician’s assistant, Benedict, cried, “Barber!”

Elisha’s head jerked up, but he looked back down to his saw and kept cutting, with short, delicate strokes. Just a little longer…

“Holy Rood, Barber, you’re needed!”

Shooting a glance to Ruari, Elisha gritted his teeth.

“Must be a knight down,” the soldier commented.

“I’m not done here!” Elisha shouted back, carrying on the bloody work.

In answer, Benedict suddenly towered over them. “Man’s like to die anyhow, come on.”

“Just a few more minutes.”

Stooping down, careful not to get his robes in the blood, Benedict looked him in the eye. “I thought you understood the system of discipline here. Or do you need a flogging to remind you?”

Taking Ruari’s hand, he placed it on the handle of the saw. “Like this, you’ll manage.” He shifted to allow Ruari to support the damaged limb.

Ruari looked doubtful, but he made a stroke, and Elisha kept his hand on top a moment longer, steady and sure, and Ruari’s next stroke was even and strong.

Shaking blood from his fingers, Elisha rose and followed Benedict across to the handful of waiting nobility. On a litter borne by two squires a knight reclined propped on his armor. His leg showed a long, bloody gash, but not too deep.

“This man needs stitching,” Benedict said to Elisha.

“Clearly, but where are the surgeons, my lord?”

“Yes,” the knight stated shrilly. “I should at least be seen by the surgeons, not some—” He flicked his fingers at Elisha without finishing the sentence.

“They’re busy just now,” Benedict replied. “Go to.”

Darting a glance back at his waiting soldiers, Elisha felt his fingers clench. He brought up his hand, wishing he dared to strike the blank, expectant air from the young physician’s face but was brought up short by a gasp of horror from the knight.

“He must wash first,” the knight insisted. “I’ll not have peasant blood touching my person.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Elisha snapped, pounding over to the nearest bucket to splash the blood from his hands. There was low-born blood enough on the knight’s flesh already, blood from the foot soldiers who had died to preserve him. Shaking off the drops, Elisha returned, threading a long needle.

“Wait, won’t you give me something for the pain?”

With a little smile, Elisha said, “I ordinarily just strike the patient unconscious with a hammer. But perhaps the physicians have some superior solution?” He raised his eyebrows at Benedict, who gave him a look usually reserved for lunatics.

Evenly, Benedict replied, “You must forgive me, sir, but we’ve run a bit low on supplies so far from the city. I am sure a man of your fortitude is more than capable of withstanding the pain.”

Disgruntled, the knight settled back, gesturing for Elisha to proceed.

At the first tug of the needle through his skin, the knight fainted dead away and remained so for the rest of the procedure. Elisha cut the string when he was through, inclined his head toward Benedict and asked, “May I now return to my work, my lord?”

“Please do. You stink of sweat and putrefaction,” Benedict sniffed.

Elisha forced a brief bow to the physician. By the time he settled next to Ruari again, two of the untreated men had died.

This time, Elisha waited silently as the cullers pulled the corpses from his hospital. He finished his night’s duties on the verge of collapse and barely made it up the stairs before his knees gave out. Yanking off his boots, he stretched his weary feet. Lying spread-eagled on the floor, Elisha could smell his own stink, and recalled Benedict’s jeer. He knew he’d not sleep easily in any case, not with the faces of the dead waiting to greet him. After a while, he gave it up and pushed himself back to his feet.

Quietly and unchallenged, he limped across the courtyard, stepping over his half-dug ditch. What had seemed a good idea at dawn, now looked like a folly that only made him more exhausted than he should be, and he splashed through the gully without paying attention. He slipped between the off-kilter doors of the main gate and took himself down to the river. On both sides, the king’s encampment spread out, the royal pavilion glowing from within. Elisha
might pass the entire war without laying eyes on the king. If he did see him, like as not, it would be for no good.

Without taking off his clothes, Elisha stepped into the chilly waters, wrapping his arms around himself. The water here swirled into a wide pool before slipping beneath the bridge and off to the hills. Surrendering to the icy tug, Elisha ducked into the pool, coming up quickly as the cold slammed into him. After a time, he grew used to it and splashed about as long as he could stand it, letting his long hair flow out around him. It felt so good to be wet with something clean, to be covered for a change in purity, not stained by another man’s life or death.

Reluctantly, he pulled himself out, shivering, stripped off his wet clothes, and wrung them out. He lay on the grassy verge, his feet tapping ripples in the water. Overhead, dark clouds scudded between the earth and the stars, making an eerie glow around the moon. Elisha shut his eyes while his mind was still full of the moon and stars.

“But can it be?”

Elisha’s eyes popped open, and he sat up, searching the night for whoever had spoken. There was no one to be seen.

“I’m no expert in divination, Marigold.”

The voice had neither gender nor tone, and Elisha hurriedly pulled on his wet britches, still looking for the unseen speakers. He heard no more and took a step back into the water, peering along the river to see if there might be a boat.

“Then why have you called yourself Sage?”

“Why indeed, Sage?”

“A name, no more.”

Confused, Elisha turned a full circle. From the camp came the sound of drums and voices and a flute near the royal pavilion.

“Leave off, it’s of no issue what we call ourselves.”

“But if I could meet you in person—”

“Unthinkable!”

“Out of the question!”

“Marigold, you know as well as any, and better than most, that secrecy is essential.”

Elisha sank back onto a stone. Perhaps his exhaustion had brought on some hallucination. He pressed his hands over his ears.

As loud as ever, a voice said,
“I know, I know. For my mother’s sake. But the words seemed so clear—a healing hand that carries death. A healing hand.”

“We’ve all heard it, Marigold. So your mother caught a glimpse of this man’s potential. It happens. It’s not a sign.”

“It could be, if we let it.”