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.”
No one spoke after that. There were many skilled fellows on board but no one seemed to want to be in charge. Reluctantly Jack said, “I have a considerable knowledge of metalwork. Especially with the forge.” Still, no one spoke. Jack continued. “Coop, where will you be working—on the Star or the Pete?”
“I’ll begin on the Star. I’ll need two helpers.” Again silence.
Jack looked around. “Quince will be down for a few days, so unless there’s an objection, I’ll make up a duty roster. Will that be satisfactory with all?”
The crew seemed to perk up. They rose as one and looked to Jack expectantly.
“When Quince returns, I’m sure he’ll have a grand plan for all of this, but until then, let’s do what we can to get started.”
The men set to, seeming pleased at the prospect of having a goal.
Jack went below to see Quince. “How are you feeling, Skipper?”
“Better. Much better.” Still pale, but cool to the touch, he had just awakened. “I have what seems to be a giant drinking headache, which I suspect comes from too much rum.” He struggled for a weak grin. “What’s the news on deck?”
“Well, the men were reluctant to get started. Not unwilling—just without direction. I told them I’d make up a work detail and they seemed pleased at that.”
“Yes, they would be. They need leadership. I’m surprised that Cheatum stood for any meddling on your part.”
“He’s gone.”
“Gone? Wha’d ya mean?”
“Him and Smithers took the pinnace and half the foodstuffs and left. Probably at first light.”
“That jackass. I’ll have his hide, I will. I guess ya have to expect this kind of thing from a damn fool like Cheatum. I told the captain when he first came aboard he was trouble. Where do you think he’s off to?”
“Yesterday he said he was going to the Philippines. We all voted him down, but he went anyway.”
“If I ever see that fat toad again, I’ll have my hands roun’ his throat good and proper.” Quince became too animated and tried to settle down. “I’ve irritated my hand again. I’ll have to remember to let it heal. There’s still considerable pain in my fingers.”
Jack dared not speak.
“You have a funny look on your face, lad. What is it?”
“Your hand… don’t you remember? We had to take it.”
“What are you saying?” Quince rose and brought his right arm up to eye level. “Sweet Jesus Mother of God, what have you done, Jack?”
“We had no choice. You were steaming with fever. You had dead skin all about and there was pus running out of your arm like… we all felt it was the thing to do.” Jack leaned heavily against the far bunk.
“Who did it?” Quince had a dark scowl on his face.
Jack couldn’t meet Quince’s eyes. “I did.”
Quince lay his head back down and stared at the ceiling with a vacant expression. Then, after a few moments, he started to laugh. “You? You did it?” He laughed until he couldn’t contain himself. “I’ll bet you were scared outa yer wits, weren’t you, lad?”
Jack looked at this giant of a man in this filthy bunk. How could Quince, who had just realized his arm was gone, lie there laughing?
“That was only the half of it—I felt I couldn’t breathe. Paul fainted, Hansum was singing hymns, Quen-Li was chanting some chink gibberish. It was pure hell.” Jack was laughing now, too.
Quince’s face was red. “Help me out of this piss hole.” He raised himself up on his left elbow and gazed through tears at his stumped right arm. Jack helped him to his feet and held him tight around the waist as the big man wheezed and staggered to the ladder.
“Damnation. I’ll have to teach you about playin’ with knives, lad. Or keep me eyes peeled sharp or you’ll have my leg.”
What a strange pair they must appear to be, Jack thought. The giant Quince bent in pain, Jack’s right arm firmly around his waist, escorting him to the port rail.
“So it was left to you, Jackson?”
Jack nodded.
“It took guts, that I know—you’ll make a good-un someday, lad. You surely will.” Jack wondered whether he would have been able to do the operation if he hadn’t so dearly wanted to get back to Cuba; or if indeed he had reacted as a man, confident in himself and what he could accomplish.
The weather changed almost hourly during the next fortnight, from heavy winds to threatening clouds and rain and back to wind. But the men seemed to be right with the work, and struggled through the wet conditions.
High up in the rigging of the Star, Paul shouted to the men below that war canoes were coming hard and fast from the north. Jack took one of the long rifles and dropped down on the stripped quarterdeck. He could see four natives in each boat, with two bareheaded white men slumped in the forward canoe. Cheatum and Smithers.
The boats slipped into the calm lagoon, dropping the passengers off in waist-deep water. Without a word, the warriors turned and headed back to the island.
Cheatum and Smithers stood with the waves lapping at their backs. All hands on both ships turned toward the men with tropical sunburnt faces and clothes hanging in tatters.
“Give us food and water.” Cheatum was the first to speak.
No response.
“For God sakes. Our craft was swamped ten days out, we bailed her, but the foodstuffs were ruined.” He rocked back and forth, arms spread in supplication. “We had to turn around and we made it back to the big island but we couldn’t survive in the bush so we asked the Belaurans to bring us here. They weren’t too hospitable, I’ll tell ya.”