Captain Barker realized that he had been holding his breath. He exhaled deeply and then inhaled again. "Mr. Gronberg. Splash the saw with rum and hand it to me, if you please." He passed the knife to the carpenter and took the small handsaw.
He sawed as quickly as possible. The femur is the largest bone in the body—he had read that in the medical guide. He would probably have never had thought of it were he not cutting through the unfortunate sailor's leg. His arm was sore when finally he was through and the severed leg dropped on the bunk.
“Mr. Pugsley.”
“Aye, sir." The sail maker held out his hands to be doused in rum, and then stepped forward and deftly began tying off the larger arteries and veins. The flow of blood slowed.
“Jeremiah, get the hot tar from the galley stove and be quick about it." He motioned to the leg. "And someone throw that over the side, please.”
For a moment no one moved. Jeremiah took a step backward. Then Fred snorted, "Get out of my way," grabbed the mangled leg and made for the cabin door, returning a few minutes later, with one fewer limb.
Captain Barker realized that he was drenched in sweat, which began to drip into his eyes. He took a rag from his pocket and wiped his face and hands.
When the cook returned, Pugsley eased the tourniquet and dabbed the bleeding stump with the tar. He then took a rum-soaked needle and thread and sewed the flap of skin over the stump.
“You have a fine hand with a needle, Mr. Pugsley," the captain commented.
“Why, thank you, sir.”
The captain looked at Fred. "Is he still breathing?”
“Yes, sir, he is.”
“Nicely done, sir," Gronberg said.
Barker exhaled deeply. "Thank you all for your assistance. Clean up a bit here. Jeremiah, boil some cloth for dressings. We'll want to bandage him up in a few hours. Then Gronberg, Pugsley and Jeremiah join me in the mess. Perhaps we can find a better use for a tot of rum.”
Fred returned to the fo'c'sle as the captain was turning. "Fred, you are off watch, are you not? Why don't you join us in the mess in a few minutes as well.”
Fred had ventured into the cabin, the realm of officers and apprentices, only twice, once to help pitch an errant stove overboard and once when stitching a new sail. The mess room seemed larger when it wasn't filled with canvas and sewing sailors. When he arrived, the captain was pouring large tots of rum for the carpenter, the sail maker and the cook. Fred gratefully took a glass when offered.
“Well, we should know in a day or two if Jerry is on the mend or not," the captain suggested, apparently trying to make conversation. He remark was greeted with four "Yes, sir's," to which the captain responded with a wan smile and said no more.
“James." They all turned. At the other door to the officer's mess stood Mary Barker. She wore a simple dress and her hair was pulled back from her face. Fred had seen her only at a distance, a figure on the poop deck. Now, up close, he was struck by how pretty she was and also how tired and worn-out she seemed. Just like everyone else aboard the ship.
He wondered what it must be like for her and her children to be stuck in the cabin for weeks on end. As hard as his life as a sailor was, he wondered what that sort of confinement must be like in a small cabin in heavy seas. He searched his memory for a line from Samuel Johnson. "Being on a ship is being in a jail, with the chance of being drowned.”
“I'm, sorry, James, I didn't realize that you were entertaining.”
“No need to apologize, dear. Come in and join us.”
“Oh no, I must look a fright.”
“You look wonderful.”
“I should see to the children. Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
That evening, Fred couldn't help wonder what sort of man would bring his wife and children to sea, in waters such as these.
At dinner that evening in the mess room, Mary was amazed by her husband's appetite. She thought that the amputation might have lessened his desire to eat. Just hearing about it had lessened hers. Still, he ate the stewed canned beef and potatoes with a will. Her brother, Thomas, was dining with them and ate heartily as well.
“What will the poor sailor do with only one leg? How will he live?" she asked.
James looked up. "Let us first pray that he does live. If the leg gets infected, he may yet die.”
“Oh," Mary replied.
“I think he will pull through," Thomas said. "The captain did a fine job and was ably assisted by Pugsley and Chips.”
“Thank you, Mr. Atkinson," the captain replied. "Only time will tell.”
“Those poor sailors," Mary commented, looking down at her plate. "I hear that some are suffering from frostbite.”
“Unfortunately so," the captain said. "Several are not fit for duty. Too many sailors would rather spend all their pay on drink and debauchery than decent clothing to protect themselves against the weather.”
“The pierhead jumpers are the worst," the second mate added. "They came aboard with the least and are suffering for it.”
“And most are too proud or too bullheaded to take any help," the captain said. "On a past voyage, I recall seeing a sailor at the helm, shivering terribly. His coat was thin and totally unsuitable. I offered him a spare overcoat and was ready to call for a relief at the wheel while he put it on, but he just brushed me off. 'No, sir. No need.'
“You know, my dear, I've sailed half my life and I still find deep-sea sailors to be an odd lot. Some of the best lack any ambition, whatsoever. They spend their money as fast as they can ashore, drinking themselves insensible, then go and find another berth. Their only home is the ship they are on at the moment. They are as fond of routine, as ribbon clerks ashore. They will keep working like plow horses as long as they get their full whack, but don't give them anything but sailor's grub. On the Devonshire Hall, I once sent a whole chicken forward for the crew, only to have it sent back. A surly sailor returned it saying, 'This ain't proper sailor food. All's we wants is our salt junk and Harriet Lane.'”
Harriet Lane had been murdered and dismembered near the docks in London in 1872, and ever since then sailors had called canned meat by her name. An odd sort of immortality.
“Poor Harriet Lane," Mary murmured.
13. Reaching the Limits
One morning, the wind shifted slightly more northerly and eased just a bit. All hands were called to make sail, and for the first time in a week they set the topsails and t'gallants. For a few hours, at least, the helmsman steered more west than south. By that nightfall, the gales had returned and the wind veered back to where it had been for countless days.
“All right, you lazy bloody farmers. Furl the upper fore t'gansail," Mate Rand bellowed. Fred walked toward the ratlines in the darkness to furl the sail. He once would have run but he was wearing out. They were all wearing out. Behind him was Gabe Isaacson, a merchant's son, another misfit like himself who had no more business going to sea than he did. For that alone, he liked Gabe.
Fred and Gabe climbed the windward ratlines up to the foretop, up the topmast ratlines to the crosstrees and up the t'gallant ratlines to the t'gallant yard. The sheets had been eased and the bunts and clews hauled so that the sail was partially gathered up. Their task now was just to finish the job, to tie the gaskets and properly furl the sail. The wind, however, tossed the sail wildly and Fred and Gabe, who laid out to starboard, doubled over with their stomachs on the yard and their feet jammed in the footropes, reached down to grab the dancing heavy sail, slick with spray and cold and slippery as ice.
Fred would just get two handfuls of sail under control, bunched up under the yard, when a gust would yank it from his grasp. "You motherless son of a bloody whore, come back here," he screamed for no other reason than it felt good.