Guns to the Far East by V. A. Stuart

Sea Fleet had seen him holding—and fully meriting—the warrant rank of Gunner. He had gone home to Ireland on leave after the Huntress paid off and they had lost touch, Phillip recalled, but …
    â€œO’Leary,” Midshipman Lightfoot went on, “stole the best part of a bottle of whisky from the wardroom and poured it over the dressing on my leg, sir. He swore it would cure me and prevent gangrene! Certainly something did. I …” He paused, eyes bright, “Sir, would you like me to see if I can find some whisky for you? It might help and O’Leary did swear by it, sir. And he was a better hand at surgeon’s mate than that fellow Brown.”
    Phillip shook his head. The Russian army surgeon who had treated him at Odessa and later at Yenikale had shared O’Leary’s faith in the efficacy of raw spirit as a guard against infected wounds, he remembered wryly, but all the same … He sighed. “I shouldn’t imagine there’s a drop of whisky left on board, Mr Lightfoot, so don’t trouble yourself. I’ll be all right.”
    â€œIt’s no trouble, sir,” Lightfoot assured him cheerfully. “I think Padre Thompson has some. I’ll go and ask him.” He scuttled off, ignoring Phillip’s half-hearted protests, to return just as the ship was coming to anchor in Hong Kong harbour, triumphantly clutching a silver-stoppered flask.
    â€œThere’s not much left, sir,” he announced breathlessly. “But it might do the trick and the padre says you’re welcome to it.” He removed the stopper. “Where’s the bone actually broken, sir?”
    Phillip indicated his forearm and braced himself as the boy emptied the contents of the borrowed flask on to his already sodden dressing. The pain was excruciating for a moment or two and he was hard put to bite back the anguished expletive which rose to his lips, but then it faded to a dull ache and he was able to voice his thanks with appropriate restraint.
    Three hours later, he was lying on one of the busy operating tables aboard the hospital ship, again being offered whisky but this time in a china mug, held to his lips by Dr John Crawford, the Raleigh ’s competent Scottish surgeon.
    â€œDr Anderson fears you’ll need to lose this arm, Commander Hazard,” the surgeon said, as Phillip gulped down the undiluted spirit, wretchedly aware of what, in these circumstances, its consumption portended. “But needless to tell you, I shall save it if I can. Right … over on to your face, if you please, and let’s take a look at you. Easy does it, we’re not in a rush now.”
    His assistant cut away the dressing carefully and Phillip waited in an agony of suspense, as Crawford’s strong fingers probed and palpated. Finally he said, “Well, you’ve quite a variety of Chinese ironmongery embedded in the flesh of your upper arm and shoulder but I can remove most of it easily enough. In addition you have an open fracture of the radius and normally that would call for amputation. But the wound is clean … in heaven’s name, what did you use to cleanse it?” He bent closer, wrinkling his nose suspiciously. “Whisky, eh? Well, it seems to have done no harm and the bone’s not splintered—indeed, it’s gone back into place quite nicely. I think we’ve a better than even chance of saving your arm, Commander. I’m prepared to take it, if you are.”
    â€œMost certainly I am,” Phillip returned, without hesitation. He breathed a silent prayer of thankfulness, blessing both Lightfoot and O’Leary in his relief. “That’s the best news you could possibly have given me, Doctor—believe me.”
    â€œIt will take time,” the surgeon warned. “Time and patience. You’ll not be following Commodore Keppel up the Canton River for a good few weeks and nor will the brave Cox’n Spurrier. But I