Free Nanberry by Jackie French

his head. ‘I don’t have time to argue with you. You be a good boy, and help Maria and Lon.’ He picked up the stick with the silver end that he used to help him walk. It was another English thing, using a stick even when you didn’t have a sore leg or foot.
    Nanberry watched Father White stride down the dirt lane between the huts. Behind him in the kitchen the bungu — o’possum — chattered, demanding corn.
    Nanberry, he thought. I am no pet. I am Nanberry Buckenau. Nanberry.

Chapter 21
SURGEON WHITE
    C OCKLE B AY H OSPITAL ; S YDNEY C OVE ,
1 A UGUST 1789
    Late winter breezes fluttered a touch of fresh air into the sour stench of the hospital. Surgeon White glanced out his office door as a tiny canoe, almost level with the water, vanished into one of the coves.
    Surgeon White found himself smiling.
    Only a couple of months ago he’d thought the whole race of natives wiped out. But they were trickling back to the harbour — and they were healthy too. He supposed many had fled inland to escape the infection. There had been no signs of the disease for weeks.
    â€˜Sir!’ One of the convict porters puffed up the hill towards him.
    â€˜What is it?’
    â€˜Bad case, sir. Cove got ’is leg crushed under a tree down by the stores. Got ’im in the surgery ’ut.’
    Surgeon White nodded. He reached for his surgical apron and his bag of instruments. ‘I’ll be there directly. Get the iron hot, will you?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    He heard the young man’s screams as he neared the hut. Its bark roof was already half rotted, offering almost no protection from the rain. Army surgeons on the battlefield work under better conditions than I do, thought Surgeon White. At least they could get medicines.
    The blood had left a wet trail on the dirt floor. Too much, and bright red, thought the Surgeon. An artery cut …
    He looked down at his patient, a skinny lad but so tall he only just fitted on the bench. The youth panted in agony, his eyes wide and terrified, his face sweating. Black hollows under his eyes showed he’d lost a lot of blood already. His trousers were black with it.
    He might only have minutes to live.
    The Surgeon grabbed a scalpel, slit the trousers and assessed the leg quickly. Bone protruding. Blood pumping. He pressed down on the artery. The pumping stopped. He gestured to one of the convict assistants. ‘Press here. Hard. Don’t let up.’ He bent down and picked up his bone saw.
    â€˜No!’ This scream was anguish as well as pain. ‘Don’t cut it off! I can’t be a cripple! I can’t!’
    â€˜The leg is crushed, boy. There’s dirt in it, bits of cloth. If it gets infected you won’t just lose your leg — you’ll be dead.’
    â€˜May as well be dead as have only one leg!’
    â€˜There’s work for a man with a wooden leg …’
    â€˜Not here there ain’t. I want a farm o’ me own one day! Please, sir. Don’t cut it off!’
    The Surgeon hesitated. ‘Very well. But I warn you — if infection sets in I’ll have to cut it off anyway. And this is going to hurt.’
    â€˜I can take it. I can take anything. Just don’t take me leg!’
    â€˜I’ll do my best then. What’s your name?’ he added to try to distract the youth while a porter put the iron in the fire.
    â€˜Jack Jackson. Work in the stores,’ his breath came in panting gasps. ‘Seen your housekeeper there.’
    â€˜Maria? She’s a good girl.’
    A year ago the Surgeon could have given Jack laudanum to ease the pain, and got him drunk on gin to boot. But there was none of either left now.
    The Surgeon nodded at the three convict porters. They held Jackson down on the bench as Surgeon White wrenched the leg into shape. Jackson howled like a dog. Sweat ran down his face.
    The Surgeon strapped thigh and foot to a length of wood, to keep it