“The sponges, Steward,” said Cuticle, for the last time taking out his teeth, and drawing up his shirt sleeves still further. Then, taking the patient by the wrist, “Stand by, now, you mess-mates; keep hold of his arms; pin him down. Steward, put your hand on the artery; I shall commence as soon as his pulse begins to—now, now!” Letting fall the wrist, feeling the thigh carefully, and bowing over it an instant, he drew the fatal knife unerringly across the flesh. As it first touched the part, the row of surgeons simultaneously dropped their eyes to the watches in their hands while the patient lay, with eyes horribly distended, in a kind of waking trance. Not a breath was heard; but as the quivering flesh parted in a long, lingering gash, a spring of blood welled up between the living walls of the wounds, and two thick streams, in opposite directions, coursed down the thigh. The sponges were instantly dipped in the purple pool; every face present was pinched to a point with suspense; the limb writhed; the man shrieked; his mess-mates pinioned him; while round and round the leg went the unpitying cut.
“The saw!” said Cuticle.
Instantly it was in his hand.
Full of the operation, he was about to apply it, when, looking up, and turning to the assistant surgeons, he said, “Would any of you young gentlemen like to apply the saw? A splendid subject!”
Several volunteered; when, selecting one, Cuticle surrendered the instrument to him, saying, “Don’t be hurried, now; be steady.”
While the rest of the assistants looked upon their comrade with glances of envy, he went rather timidly to work; and Cuticle, who was earnestly regarding him, suddenly snatched the saw from his hand. “Away, butcher! you disgrace the profession. Look at me!”
For a few moments the thrilling, rasping sound was heard; and then the top-man seemed parted in twain at the hip, as the leg slowly slid into the arms of the pale, gaunt man in the shroud, who at once made away with it, and tucked it out of sight under one of the guns.
“Surgeon Sawyer,” now said Cuticle, courteously turning to the surgeon of the Mohawk, “would you like to take up the arteries? They are quite at your service, sir.”
“Do, Sawyer; be prevailed upon,” said Surgeon Bandage.
Sawyer complied; and while, with some modesty he was conducting the operation, Cuticle, turning to the row of assistants said, “Young gentlemen, we will now proceed with our Illustration. Hand me that bone, Steward.” And taking the thigh-bone in his still bloody hands, and holding it conspicuously before his auditors, the Surgeon of the Fleet began: