Never you fret, sir

Recently I posted an account of a Russian doctor performing a self-surgery (an appendectomy).

A scene from H.M.S. Surprise, where Dr. Stephen Maturin operates on himself, removing a bullet from his own body:

The fever is far too high, sir,’ said M’Alister, ‘but I hope it will come down when we have extracted the ball. We are almost ready now. But it is very badly placed.’
‘Should he not be taken to the hospital? Their surgeons could give you a hand We can have a litter ready in a moment.’
‘I did suggest it, of course, as soon as we found the bullet right under the pericardium - flattened and deflected, you understand. But he has no opinion of the military surgeons, nor of the hospital. They sent to offer their assistance not half an hour since, and I confess I should welcome it - the pericardium, hoot, toot - but he insists on performing the operation himself, and I dare not cross him. You will excuse me now, sir: the armourer is waiting to make this extractor he has designed.’
‘May I see him?’
‘Yes. But pray do not disturb him, or agitate his mind.’

Stephen was lying on a series of chests, propped up with his back against a thrum-mat, the whole covered with sailcloth: over against him, showing his naked chest in the fullest light, a large mirror, slung by a system of blocks and lines: beside him, within reach, a table covered with lint, tow, and surgical instruments - crowbills, retractors, a toothed demi-lune.
He looked at Jack and said, ‘Did you see her?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am deeply obliged to you for going. How was she?’
‘Bearing up: she has all the spirit in the world. Stephen, how do you feel?’
‘What was she wearing?’
‘Wearing? Oh, a sort of dress of some sort, I suppose. I did not attend.’
‘Not black?’
‘No. I should have noticed that. Stephen, you look damnably feverish. Shall I have the skylight unshipped, for air?’
Stephen shook his head. ‘There is some little fever, of course, but not enough to cloud my mind to any degree. That may come later. I wish Bates would hurry with my davier.’
‘Will you let me bring the Fort William man, just to stand by? He could be here in five minutes.’
‘No, sir. I do this with my own hand.’ He looked at it critically, and said, more or less to himself, ‘If it could undertake the one task, it must undertake the other: that is but justice.’

M’Alister came back, holding a long-nosed instrument with little jaws, straight from the armourer’s forge. Stephen took it, compared its curve with his drawing, snapped its levered beak, and said, ‘Cleverly made - neat -charming. M’Alister, let us begin. Pray call for Choles, if he is sober.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’ asked Jack. ‘I should very much like to help. May I hold a basin, or pass the tow?’
‘You may take Choles’s place, if you wish, and hold my belly, pressing firmly, thus, when I give the word. But have you a head and a stomach for this kind of thing? Does blood upset you? Choles was a butcher, you know.’
‘Bless you, Stephen, I have seen blood and wounds since I was a little boy.’

Blood he had seen, to be sure; but not blood, not this cold, deliberate ooze in the slow track of the searching knife and probe. Nor had he heard anything like the grind of the demilune on living bone, a few inches from his ear as he leant over the wound, his head bent low not to obscure Stephen’s view in the mirror.

‘You will have to raise the rib, M’Alister,’ said Stephen. ‘Take a good grip with the square retractor. Up: harder, harder. Snip the cartilage.’

The metallic clash of instruments: directions: perpetual quick swabbing: an impression of brutal force, beyond anything he had conceived. It went on and on and on.

‘Now, Jack, a steady downward pressure. Good. Keep it so. Give me the davier. Swab, M’Alister. Press, Jack, press.’

Deep in the throbbing cavity Jack caught a glimpse of a leaden gleam; it clouded; and there,
half-focused, was the long-nosed instrument searching, deeper and deeper. He closed his eyes.
Stephen drew his breath and held it, arching his back: in the silence Jack could hear the ticking of McAllister’s watch close to his ear. There was a grunt, and Stephen said, ‘Here she is. Much flattened. M’Alister, is the bullet whole?’
‘Whole, sir, by God, quite whole. Not a morsel left. Oh, brawly feckit!’
‘Easy away, Jack. Handsomely with the retractor, M’Alister: a couple of pledgets, and you may begin to sew. Stay: look to the Captain, while I swab. Hartshorn - put his head down.’

M’Alister heaved him bodily into a chair: Jack felt his head pressed down between his knees and the pungent hartshorn searching his brain. He looked up and saw Stephen: his face was now perfectly grey, glistening with sweat; it was barely human, but somewhere about it there was a look of surly triumph.

Jack’s eye moved down to Stephen’s chest, ploughed open from side to side, deep, deep; and white bone bare... Then McAllister’s back hid the wound as he set to work - a competent back, expressing ease and a share in the triumph. Competent activity, short technical remarks; and there was Stephen, his chest swatched in a white bandage, sponged, relaxed, leaning back with his eyes half-closed.

‘You took the time, M’Alister?’ he asked.
‘Twenty-three minutes just.’
‘Slow...’ His voice trailed away, reviving after a moment to say, ‘Jack, you will be late for your dinner.’

Jack began to protest that he should stay, but M’Alister put his finger to his lips and led him on tiptoe to the door. More of the ship’s company than was right were hanging about outside it. Discipline seemed to have been forgotten.

‘The ball is out,’ he said. ‘Pullings, let there be no noise abaft the mainmast, no noise at all,’ and walked into his sleeping-cabin.
‘You look wholly pale yourself, sir,’ said Bonden. ‘Will you take a dram?’
‘You will have to change your coat, your honour,’ said Killick. ‘And your breeches, too.’
‘Christ, Bonden,’ said Jack, ‘he opened himself slowly, with his own hands, right to the heart. I saw it beating there.’
‘Ah, sir, there’s surgery for you,’ said Bonden, passing the glass. ‘It would not surprise any old Sophie, however; such a learned article. You remember the gunner, sir? Never let it put you off your dinner. He will be as right as a trivet, never you fret, sir.’