Wake of the Perdido Star (40 page)

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Authors: Gene Hackman

BOOK: Wake of the Perdido Star
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Jack began helping Hansum with Quince, who passed in and out of delirium. Someone needed to be with him constantly.
“He be in a bad way,” Hansum said. “Yessir. Real bad. Wouldn't surprise me if he was to pass on over. Yessir. Wouldn't surprise at all.”
“He seems to be real hot with fever, Hansum. What can we do to stop it?”
“We can jus' keep bathin' him with cool water. That's about all. Yep, that's about it.”
Jack went on deck and strolled; most of the sailors were on shore, stretched out in the shade of coconut palms. It was hot and no one seemed to be in the mood to deal with the complicated reclamation of the
Stuyvesant
.
At the other end of the ship, Cheatum and Smithers had just begun a meeting with several of the crew. Cheatum strode to the rail and shouted to the hands on shore. “Ahoy, you lubbers, get your lazy bottoms here on deck in the next ten minutes—we're havin' a meetin'. Shake a leg, do ya hear?”
“What's this about?” Paul said to Jack. “Are we finally going to get started on the work at hand?”
“I'm not sure.... Knowing Cheatum, I'd doubt this has to do with work.”
“Do you think he called us here so we could see what a manly gait he has?”
Cheatum, overhearing, turned quickly toward Paul.
“I seem to be the most senior and the most experienced sailor here, so this is what I've come up with.” His eyes flitted from man to man, alternately challenging and looking for support. “Several of the hands and I have decided we'll not be part of this harebrained scheme of trying to mate this hulk to the
Star
. It's too much work by half, and I have my doubts it could ever be completed.” Cheatum paused. “A group of us will take the pinnace. We'll stock her with fresh water and provisions and take our chances on making it south with the trades to the Philippines, where we'll try to find passage back to the States.”
The silence slowly thickened; most of the men were at a loss as to how to deal with the news. Jack had been worried that something like this would happen. The fact that it came from Cheatum was no surprise.
“Who will go?” came a weak voice.
“Haven't decided yet, but it definitely will be me, Smithers, and three others, as that's all the pinnace can hold. What with all the food and drink we'll need.” Cheatum's gaze stopped on Jack and Paul. “But there are several that I know won't be goin'.”
“You'll not be taking the pinnace, the jolly boat, or the gig anywhere until after we've all taken a vote on how we're to proceed in this matter,” stated Jack. “There's also Quince to deal with. He's
desperately ill. I'd think a sailor of your years would think twice about leaving a shipmate to die.”
“Why you pip-squeak. I've half a mind to snap you in two.” Cheatum's words began to agitate the men.
“Well, you got the part about having half a mind correct,” Jack said, smiling. “We'll take a vote, and the majority will rule. And if you still want to try me after the vote, I'll not be hard to find.” Jack faced the men squarely and spoke in an even voice. “All in favor of allowing Cheatum to take the pinnace and four men, raise your hand now.” Only two agreed—Smithers and Cheatum. “It looks like you'll be staying here, Second Mate, with our happy little family.”
Jack turned to the others. “Quince is in a bad way, men. Something needs to be done soon if he's to stand a chance.” Jack winked as he moved past Cheatum and Smithers, feeling their eyes on him as he went down the companionway ladder.
Paul sidled up next to Jack and gazed down at Quince. “You are one brave son of a bitch. What in the hell were you thinking, speaking to Cheatum like that?”
“He's a bloody coward—and besides, we had no choice. With the loss of five men, we could never save this ship.”
Hansumbob had taken a filthy piece of sailcloth off Quince's arm and was bathing the wound with cool water, trying to get the swelling to go down.
“Jack, there seems to be bubbles a comin' up under the skin. I don't think the skin flap, what I pushed back over his arm, is goin' to take.”
The tight quarters were alive with a stench—a brownish pus seeped out from under the skin where Hansum had laid it back against the tattered arm. Quince's eyes were closed, the fever eating at him.
“What's to be done, Jack?” Paul asked.
“I've never seen anything like this,” Jack said with trepidation. “Maybe someone in the crew would know what to do. Let's ask.”
Jack sprang up the stairs. The men were still standing about, discussing the recent vote. “I want every man to file past Quince and take a look at his arm. Then let's meet back here and see if any of you have any ideas.”
The men quickly made their journey then met back on the quarterdeck. Jack waited for an answer. Most of them tried to ignore his presence.
“What is it? Come out with it. Who has an idea? What are we to do?”
The men sat and said nothing.
Quen-Li spoke. “Arm very bad. Must come off quick. Otherwise Quince die soon—tonight I think. Better one arm than no life.”
Jack turned to the other men. Red Dog spoke up. “I've seen this before. The bubbles under the skin. The rot come from the wound, the stink . . . the arm's dead, that's what. He soon be dead, too. No doubt about it.” The sailor spoke gruffly but with sympathy.
“Why don't we take a vote, Jackson?” Cheatum said. “That seems to be the order of the day. Since it's goin' to be a democratic society, let's all vote on how to save Quince. An aye to snip off the offendin' member, a nay to let him lay and rot.” Cheatum heartily enjoyed his labored joke. Some of the men grinned slightly. But Jack, in the absence of any other idea, thought the recalcitrant seaman might have something at that. He had taken it upon himself to institute a vote on the Cheatum sail-away idea; now they would vote on a decision that might take a man's life.
As before, the majority ruled: “All right, we'll take his arm,” Jack declared. “Who will do it?”
“You.” The shout from Cheatum came bursting through his ugly mouth with a vengeance. “You, Dr. Jack. You lad, you're so confident in your ability to make decisions. You with all your worldly knowledge. You with your fine sense of what is proper. Just you.”
Jack looked at the men. No help there. All were frightened at the prospect of one of their mates dying, but none wanted to touch the arm.
“Right. I'll begin at once. Who'll help?” Jack wondered why he expected more from these grown men. The fact that most of them wanted only to follow a leader puzzled him.
“I'll be there,” Paul stepped forward.
“We must act quickly,” Quen-Li added.
When the men returned to Quince, they found him unconscious, and their efforts to wake him failed. Jack feared he was already dead.
“Quen-Li, get Coop's saw,” Jack said. “I'll need it to cut the bone. Paul, I'll need a sharp knife and some heavy string and needle from the sail locker. Also, try to muster up some rum. Hansum, get a long piece of iron and put some men to heating it over the forge—it needs to be red hot, and make it quick.” The men all left to get the various items, leaving Jack alone with Quince. “I'm going to do the best I can for you, Skip. I've never done this nor has anyone else aboard ship. I'll do my best and pray.”
Quince didn't answer. His breathing was shallow. When the men reassembled, Jack spoke: “I'll cut down through the muscle and leave a piece of skin to fold over the wound; then we'll sew it up. Sounds simple enough, doesn't it?”
No reply.
“Paul, you hold Quince's arm above the elbow. Hansum, get a tot of rum ready and hold his head. If he wakes, give him the rum, and for God's sake, hold him still. Quen-Li, hold his legs. I can't believe he's going to sleep through this. Ready?”
They all nodded. Jack took the sharp knife and made a quick incision completely around the arm, jogging out at a point on the upper forearm for the flap. Blood flowed from the shallow wound and Quince groaned. Jack never stopped but cut quickly through the muscle. While he worked, he heard Hansum softly singing what sounded like a hymn. He became unaware of it when the
artery spurted fresh blood up his arm to his elbow. Undeterred, he grabbed the saw. Slipping a number of times in the blood, he cut through the hard bone in three short strokes, provoking a sudden cry from the patient. The offending arm fell heavily on the crimson floor. Quen-Li began to murmur something in his native tongue. Jack called for the needle and string.
The arteries were flowing freely, though not as wildly as Jack had expected. The blood vessels seemed to recoil into the pulsing muscles of the stump, as if the body had its own plan to slow the bleeding. Not really understanding why but knowing instinctively it must be done, Jack folded the arteries over and pinched them. His hands almost invisible in the gore of the wound, he took three stitches in one artery to stop its bleeding. Another artery deep in the underside of the muscle was not as big as the first but also bleeding. Jack again pinched it off and sewed it neatly. He paused for a moment to think and then took the large piece of muscle on top of the forearm and laid it across the bone. Quince came fully awake, screaming. Through the labored shouts of pain, the young man spoke in his ear. “It's Jack. Your arm has become dead-like. It's full of pestilence. There's nothing for it but to take it off.”
Quince's eyes popped open and for a moment he seemed lucid. “You'll not take my arm, lad. I'll have your heart! You'll not take it—please.”
“Listen. We've taken it already. It's just a few stitches and it's over. I need for you to lie still and show your grit.”
The first mate seemed to calm slightly, but it was all the men could do to hold him still on the berth.
Jack swabbed the area of the wound and asked for the cauterizing iron. Paul handed it to him. In one quick motion, Jack lay the iron on the raw end of the wound, effectively sealing the arm. Quince's screams made the hairs on Jack's arms rise. After the hot iron, Jack again brought the muscle over the bone, lay the flap across it and began sewing. He felt, rather than heard, Paul slump to the floor.
By this time the first mate lay fairly still, shaking slightly. Hansum had given Quince nearly half a liter of rum and it finally took effect. Jack felt barely able to breathe, but knew he had to complete his work. He finished sewing the skin, cut the remaining cord, and looked at the wound. It seemed neat enough. He took a swig from the bottle of rum and passed it around to Quen-Li and Hansum. As an afterthought, he washed the blood from the stitching with the rest of the rum, wrapping the arm in a sailor's undershirt that hung from the upper berth.
Jack dropped the knife, needle, and cord along with the saw. He scooped Paul up from the sticky floor and pulled him up the ladder, propping him against the port rail. A fresh breeze came off the shore, and Jack drew in the clean air. He raised his bloody hand and gazed at it. Surprisingly, it was steady. He wondered how he had accomplished the amputation. A sense of pride swelled in his chest which he quickly tried to squelch.
“Is it over?” Paul was very pale.
“It's either over, or just beginning. We'll soon see.”
The next morning the pinnace was gone—along with Cheatum, Smithers, and nearly two hundred pounds of foodstuffs from the galley of the
Stuyvesant
. Furious, the crew gathered on the foredeck.
“The cowardly bastards have taken half the fresh supplies.” This from Dawkins as he paced back and forth.
“Well I for one say let's not worry about something that can't be changed. Let's use whatever skills we have to resurrect this craft,” said Jack. “Everyone, what do you say?” The whispers from the men were positive. “I see the ayes have it. How shall we start?”
Coop spoke. “The
Star'
s quarterdeck, rails, an' helm need to be stripped off 'er an' stored. Whilst that work's being done, the
Stuyvesant'
s ribs need cleanin' up, waitin' to be mated.”

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