Free The Enterprise of England by Ann Swinfen Page B

these men, the more I cursed Leicester under my breath. In some ways, I held him more guilty than Parma.
    We were nearly at the end of the row, and I was looking forward to resting at last, for my father and Dr Stephens had just finished all the other patients. I knelt down beside a young man with a thatch of golden curls who reminded me a little of Simon. Peter was fetching a final supply of our wound salve, while I began to unwind yet another bandage from around a blood-stained leg. The soldier watched me with a despairing look in his eyes.
    ‘Not much use you trying to treat it, Doctor,’ he said. ‘It’s nearly a month since a Spanish cannon ball smashed into my leg. I know what’s happening.’
    As I peeled off the cloth, I understood what he meant. The unmistakable stench of gangrene rose from his body. Revealed to sight, his leg was a mass of festering flesh.
    ‘I will do what I can to ease your pain,’ I said. ‘But you are right.’ I felt I owed him honesty.
    Peter came back and together we cleaned and salved the leg, holding our breath against the stench. The lower part of the leg, from the foot to just below the knee, where the original injury was located, had turned a bluish black colour. I squeezed the toes of the soldier’s foot hard.
    ‘Can you feel that?’ I asked.
    He shook his head.
    I tried pressing at various points up his leg. There was no feeling. Even above the knee, where the skin was not yet discoloured, he shook his head every time I pressed, until I was halfway up his thigh.
    ‘Yes, I can feel that.’ His voice was colourless with despair. I knew that he had abandoned all hope of life.
    ‘There is only one course,’ I said, hating every word. ‘The leg must be amputated.’
    ‘Is there any use in that, doctor?’ His voice was so quiet I had to lean closer in order to hear him. ‘Once the gangrene has taken hold, it will reach my heart, won’t it? Even if it don’t kill me, I’ll be maimed, only half a man.’
    I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Listen to me. We will save you if we can. If you live, then it is part of God’s purpose that you should live. I know it will be hard, but you must make of your life the best you can.’
    I felt ashamed as I spoke, sounding as righteous as a street preacher, I who had my health and strength. What did I know of the life that would lie ahead of a soldier who was left crippled? What could he do? How could he live? Yet I was all the more determined to save him.
    ‘I will see how quickly we can fetch a surgeon,’ I said. ‘As physicians we are not permitted to carry out amputations, except when there is no other way, as on the battlefield, but there are surgeons we can call in.’
    I patted his shoulder and rose to my feet, but he turned his head away and closed his eyes. I saw that tears were seeping from beneath his eyelids.
    ‘Stay with him,’ I murmured to Peter, and went to look for my father.
    He was sitting with Dr Stephens on a bench in the corridor just outside the ward. Seeing them there together, exhausted, I was conscious how old they had both grown. Their skin was grey and slack with fatigue, their bodies somehow collapsed and sunken with the frantic effort of the last hours. The sight chilled me. I depended on these men for their wisdom and guidance, even Dr Stephens, with his old fashioned ideas.
    ‘I have a patient who needs an urgent amputation,’ I said without preamble. ‘Gangrene in his leg almost up to the knee. Some nerve damage above. How soon can a surgeon be fetched?’
    Faced with a practical problem they both straightened and looked at each other.
    ‘Hawkins?’ said my father.
    Dr Stephens pursed his lips. ‘Thompson lives nearer.’
    ‘Aye, but Hawkins is the better surgeon.’
    ‘You are right. Though I am not sure he will care to be roused in the middle of the night.’ Dr Stephens turned to me. ‘Can we wait until tomorrow?’
    ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘It must be done at once.’
    ‘Very