After the strong daylight the darkness of the orlop made Wilson's features indistinct at first. “One of my men can have a look at it, if y'like, else I'll be with you presently.” King nodded, like every man on board he knew the protocol in treating the injured and, despite the nearness of the enemy, he felt in need of rest and was in no rush to return to duty. “Or, if you've a mind, you can watch my work.” The surgeon's teeth shone yellow in the gloom as he grinned. Wilson stood hunched under the low deck head, above a group of sea chests that made up his operating table. Copley was lying ready for him, his body naked except for a bundle of rags that covered the wounded leg. Four lanthorns hung from the low deckhead, their golden light casting soft shadows over the macabre scene, giving King the impression that Copley was already dead. “How's he, Skirrow?” Wilson asked his assistant who was wiping the body with a turpentine soaked rag.
