Free Nanberry by Jackie French Page A

straight. He reached for the tweezers and extracted every bit of cloth he could find in the wounds.
    Now for the great gashes in the leg. He bent and lifted the iron out of the fire with a pair of tongs. It glowed white hot, then red as it began to cool. The Surgeon carefully pressed it for two seconds — no more — to the flesh within each gash in the man’s leg.
    Jackson screamed, then fainted.
    White bit his lip. At least his patient would feel nothing for a while. And maybe, just maybe, he had saved the leg. The hot iron had sealed the wounds and perhaps stopped infection from the dirt too.
    White wiped his bloody hands on his apron, then took it off and handed it to his convict assistant. Well, he had done what he could. ‘Give him sarsaparilla tea when he wakes up — well boiled, make sure of that. Keep the leg dry. When the flies lay maggots in it, come and tell me, but don’t try to wash them out. Understand?’
    â€˜Why not, sir?’
    Surgeon White nodded. He liked a man who asked questions. Perhaps this one could even be trained to be a surgeon too.
    â€˜Maggots eat dead flesh. They stop the wound rotting. Once rot starts you have to cut the whole leg off, fast, before it spreads. But you have to watch maggots carefully, stop them eating into good flesh once they’ve cleaned the wound, or the wound will just get bigger. You understand?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Good. I’ll look at him tonight. But if the wound begins to swell, send me a message at once. I’ll need to work fast. If wounds have dirt in them there’s a risk of gas gangrene.’
    â€˜I’ve heard of that, sir.’
    â€˜Good man. And don’t touch the wound if it swells — if you have any cuts on your hands you might get infected too. Then you’ll be dead as well.’
    â€˜But what about you, sir? Mightn’t you get gas gangrene if you touch ’im?’
    â€˜It’s my job,’ said the Surgeon. Typhoid, dysentery, cholera, diphtheria, gas gangrene — a surgeon risked them all.
    â€˜Sir?’ It was another of the convict porters. ‘A message from the Guv’nor. He’s sending out an expedition to capture another native to replace Arabanoo. He asked if you’d bring your little native boy down to the harbour to interpret.’
    The Surgeon’s face brightened at the thought of his adopted son. ‘I’ve never known a child to pick up a language so easily — nor a man. I’ll fetch the boy now.’
    He put his hat and coat on, and walked swiftly home. The colony needed some way to talk to the natives. He’d heard there’d been an attack on convicts out hunting. Or that was what the men had claimed they’d been doing in the bush. The Surgeon frowned. He wouldn’t put it past the wretches here to have been after native women.
    He was sure Andrew would be able to translate for the Governor. Perhaps they didn’t even need to capture another adult native. Andrew was a brilliant child. He already spoke Englishalmost like a white man — better English than most of the convicts, for he spoke with the Surgeon’s own gentleman’s accent.
    Suddenly the Surgeon realised that the boy still didn’t know that any of his people had survived. Maybe he would want to go back to them …
    No. How could a lad who had been welcomed into a gentleman’s home want to go back to the miserable native life?
    He pulled open the door of his hut — it sagged even more since the beginning of winter. ‘Maria?’
    The girl looked up. The o’possum sat on her lap, nibbling at a bunch of leaves. She dropped it back into its basket, as though embarrassed to be seen petting it. ‘Yes, sir?’
    â€˜Where’s Andrew?’
    â€˜Out in the garden, sir. He’s pulling up the carrots and eating them, like he’s never seen a carrot before.’
    â€˜I doubt he has,’ said the