Jackson is as quick as he can be with the tools that he has, cursing the lack of light, the lack of assistance, the lack of suitable surgical equipment. Cursing everything. He's aware, dimly, at some point, that he's attracting an audience, but he doesn't let it distract him from the task at hand. Let them watch, let them see what their Yankee doctor can do under pressure.

By the time he's done, he's aching and tired, sweat beading his brow. But the wound is fixed, and Drake lies sleeping on the dead room table. Jackson turns to clean his equipment - and himself - with more than a little satisfaction at a job well done.