Doctor Harry Goodsir 000

The sickbay is quiet at this hour. Quiet enough that Goodsir can hear the creaking of the ship beneath the ice, the groan of timber under pressure, the distant murmur of men changing watch somewhere above deck.

Most of the injured sailors have long since been seen to. The lamps burn low. Shadows stretch across the cramped room. Harry ought to be sleeping.

Instead, he is standing over Cornelius Hickey's bunk with a basin of fresh water in one hand and a bundle of clean bandages in the other.

Thirty lashes.

Even thinking the number makes his stomach tighten.

The punishment had drawn half the ship to watch. Goodsir had tried not to look. He had failed. The sound had carried regardless. The crack of rope against flesh is not something a man easily forgets.

Officially, Hickey had already been treated. The worst of the bleeding stopped. The wounds cleaned. Yet when Goodsir checked on him before retiring, he had found the dressings soaked through and half-peeled away, as though their owner had either been too stubborn or too angry to leave them alone.

Neither possibility surprised him.

So here he is.

He sets the basin down beside the bunk and carefully unwinds the ruined bandages.

"Try not to move."

An absurd thing to say, really. Hickey has never shown much talent for obedience.

The lantern light catches the torn flesh across his back. Angry red welts crossing pale skin. Goodsir swallows hard and reaches for a clean cloth.

"I know it hurts."

His voice is softer now, almost apologetic.

"Though I suspect you'd sooner bite my head off than admit it."

The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself.

He dips the cloth into warm water and gently presses it against one of the lashes.

"You may curse at me if it helps. Most men do."