There ain’t no Room for Shirkers in our Band of Brothers — said Mr. Hickey. And while we need this Surgeon — for I do Plan to Take care of your Dear Men’s health, every Man Jack of you — he must be Punished when he Refuses to Serve our Common Good. Twice he Has Refused this Morning. We shall Remove Two Unessential Appendages as a Sign of Our Displeasure.
And with that, Mr. Hickey Proceeded to prod at Different Parts of my Anatomy with the Pistol Barrel — my Fingers, my Nose, my Penis, my Testicles, my Ears.
Then he Raised my Hand.
A Surgeon needs ’is Fingers if he’s going to be any Use to us — he announced Theatrically and Laughed. We’ll save those for Last.
Most of the Men Laughed.
He don’t need his Pizzle nor Bollocks, though, said Mr. Hickey, prodding at the Aforementioned Parts with his Very Cold Pistol Barrel.
The Men Laughed again. The Anticipation, I think, was very high.
But today we is Merciful, said Mr. Hickey. He then ordered Mr. Manson to lop off Two of my Toes.
Which two, Cornelius? asked the large Idiot.
You choose, Magnus, said our Master of Ceremonies.
The Assembled Men laughed yet Again. I could Sense their Disappointment that something so Banal as Mere Toes were being Removed, yet I could also Tell that they enjoyed seeing Magnus Manson as the Master of My Phalangeal Fate. It was not their Fault. The Average Seaman Turned out Here had no Formal Education Whatsoever and Disliked anyone who did.
Mr. Manson Chose my Two Big Toes.
The Audience laughed and applauded.
The Shears were Applied quickly and Mr. Manson’s great Strength worked to my Advantage in the Procedure.
There was more Laughter — and great Interest — as my Medical Kit was brought and everyone watched as I Tied Off necessary Arteries, Stemmed the Bleeding as Best I could — all the while feeling rather Faint — and applied Preliminary Dressings to the Wounds.
Mr. Manson was directed to Carry me back to my Tent; his Ministrations were as Gentle as a Mother’s to a sick Child.
That was also the Day when Mr. Hickey thought to Relieve me of My more Efficacious Medicinal Bottles. But before that Morning, I had Already Poured the Majority of the Morphine, Opium, Laudanum, Dover’s Powders, poisonous mercury Calomel, and Mandragora into a single Opaque and Innocent-Looking Bottle marked Sugar of Lead and hidden that somewhere Other than my Medical Kit. I had then used water to bring the Visible Levels of Morphine, Opium, and Laudanum up to previous Heights.
The Irony here is that each time I Dose Mr. Manson for his “Tummy Aches,” he is receiving more than Eight Parts water to Two Small Parts morphine. The Giant does not seem to notice the Loss of Efficacy, however, which once again reminds me of the Importance of Belief in the entire Medical process.
Since that Day of Lt. Hodgson’s Demise, I have Demurred again to the Sum of Eight more Toes, One Ear, and my Foreskin.
The Last Operation created so much Mirth among the Assembled Men, despite the fresh Corpses lying in front of them, that one would have Thought that the Circus had come to Perform for them.
I know why Mr. Hickey has never made Good on his repeated Threats to relieve me of my Male Member or Testicles. The Caulker’s Mate has seen enough Shipboard injuries to know that Bleeding from such Wounds often cannot be Stopped — especially when the Surgeon is the one bleeding and Quite Apt to be unconscious or suffering from Shock when the Operation must Necessarily be Performed — and Mr. Hickey does not want me dead.
Walking has been very Difficult since my Seventh through Tenth toes have been Removed. I had never truly Understood how Essential our Digits are for Balance. And the Pain, of course, over the past Month, has not been Insignificant.
I think I would be Committing the Sin of Pride — not to mention that of Lying — if I said Here that I had not considered Drinking from my hidden bottle of Morphine, Opium, and Laudanum (and other materia medica) all mixed into the hidden bottle I have Thought of for so many Weeks as my Final Draught.
But I never took the Bottle out of hiding.
Not until this Hour.
I Confess I had thought the Effect would be more Rapid than it is Proving.
I can no Longer feel my Feet — which is a Blessing — and my Legs have just gone Numb up to the Patella. But at this Rate, it will be another Ten Minutes or More before the Potion reaches and Stills my Heart and other Vital Organs.
I have just Drunk more of the Final Draught. I suspect I was a Coward for not Drinking it all down At Once to begin with.
I confess here — for Purely Scientific Purposes should someone someday discover this Diary — that the Mixture is not only Quite Potent but Quite Intoxicating. If anyone else here were alive this dark, stormy Afternoon — except for Mr.Hickey and possibly Mr. Manson up in their Throne Pinnace
— they should see my Last Moments spent with Bobbing Head and Drunkard’s Grin. But I do not Recommend that this Experiment be Repeated for anything
but the most Dire of Medicinal Purposes.
And this leads to a true Confession.
For the First and Only Time in my Medical Career and Life, I have not Served a Patient to the Utmost of my Ability.
I speak, of course, in regards to poor Mr. Magnus Manson.
My Initial Diagnosis of the twin Gunshot Wounds was a Lie. The Bullets were small of caliber, it is True, but the Tiny Pistol must have packed a Great Charge of Powder, for both Projectiles had — it was Obvious from my first Inspection — penetrated the Idiot Giant’s skin, flesh, muscle layer, and stomach lining.
From my first Consultation, I had known that the Bullets were in Mr. Manson’s Belly, Spleen, Liver, or some other Vital Organ, and that his Survival Depended upon Exploratory and then Removal Surgery.
I Lied.
If there is a Hell — in which I no longer Believe, since this Earth and some of the People in it are Hell enough for any Universe — I would be and should be Cast Down to the Worst Bolgia of the Lowest Circle.
I Don’t Care.
I should say here — my Chest is now Cold and my Figners… fInGErS are also growing Cold.
When the Storm STRk about one Monf ago, I thank’d Gd.
It seemd at the Tim that we wer Actully going to Gt to Terrorr Camp. It Seemed that Mr. Hickey had won.We were — I believ — less than Twenty MIls frm thatt Camp and Pogrssing 3 or 4 miiles a Day in narPerfect wether
when the Fist of The Enlesss Storms Hit.
If there is a Godd… I… thank you, Deaare God.
Snowe. DAarknss. Terrrible winds Day and Nigt.
Even the Men who could Wlk cld not Pulll. The Harneesess were Abandoned. The Tents blew dwno, then bleww away. The tempretre Droppped 50 degres.
Winter hd Strukc like Gd’s Hammmer, and Mr. Hickey cuoold do Nothing but set Tarps aside his Thronepinacce and Shoot Half the Men to Feed the Other Half.