Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG
1st Jul 2013 from TwitLonger
#DailyLines #WRITTENInMYOwnHEARTSBlood #Book8 #OutMarch25th #theHippocraticoathhasitslimits
Clarence—if it was Clarence—actually _had_ bitten him to the bone. Horse and mule bites could be serious, but usually resulted only in deep bruising; equines had powerful jaws, but their front teeth were designed for tearing grass, and as most bites were through clothing, they didn’t often break skin. It could be done, though, and Clarence had done it.
A flap of skin—and a good chunk of flesh--about three inches wide had been partially detached and I could see past the thin fatty layer to the gleam of tendon and the red membranous covering of the radius. The wound was recent, but had stopped bleeding, save for a little oozing at the edges.
“Hmm,” I said noncommittally, and turned his hand over. “Can you close your fingers into a fist?” He could, though the ring finger and little finger wouldn’t fold in completely. They did move, though; the tendon wasn’t severed. “Hmm,” I said again, and reached into my bag for the bottle of saline solution and a probe. Saline was a little less painful for disinfection than dilute alcohol or vinegar—and it was somewhat easier to get hold of salt, at least when living in a city—but I kept a tight grip on the enormous wrist as I poured the liquid into the wound.
He made a noise like a wounded bear, and the waiting onlookers took several steps back, as a body.
“Rather a vicious mule,” I observed mildly, as the patient subsided, panting. His face darkened.
“Gonna beat the gaddam bastarding fucker to death, soon as I get back,” he said, and bared his yellow teeth at me. “Skin him, I will, and sell his meat.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t advise that,” I said, keeping a grip on my temper. “You don’t want to be using that arm violently; it could bring on gangrene.”
“It could?” He didn’t go pale—it wasn’t possible, given the temperature—but I’d definitely got his attention.
“Yes,” I said pleasantly. “You’ve seen gangrene, I daresay? The flesh goes green and putrid, beastly smell, limb rots, dead in days—that sort of thing?”
“I seen it,” he muttered, eyes now fixed on his arm.
“Well, well,” I said soothingly, “We’ll do our best here, won’t we?” I would normally have offered a patient in such case a fortifying draft of whatever liquor was available—and thanks to the Marquis, I had quite a good supply of French brandy—but in the present instance, I wasn’t feeling charitable.
In fact, my general feeling was that Hippocrates could turn a blind eye for the next few minutes. Do no harm, forsooth. Still, there wasn’t a great deal I could do to him, armed with a two-inch suture needle and a pair of embroidery scissors.