All this time the surgeon was cutting his pantaloons from his leg, and now a shocking sight presented itself to our view. The foot and leg were blue and shrivelled, and connected with the thigh by only a small ligament; the knee pan too was shattered. The doctor made the young man swallow a glass of brandy, containing a strong dose of opium, and then began to amputate the limb above the knee. As long as the knife was used, Aaron remained firm, but when the saw grated against the bone, he murmured with a shudder:
“I’m going on deck captain: I can’t stand this––I’m sick as a dog.”
He was so weak that I released him and took his place, holding Wiggins in my arms. Wagtail, too, was soon 98 obliged to beat a retreat, but Gelid remained firm as a rock. The leg was amputated, the arteries tied, and the surgeon busy in loosening the tourniquet, when suddenly the thread which bound the principal artery, gave way, and a stream of blood gushed forth, as if driven by an engine. The poor fellow had hardly time to cry “Take away that cold hand from my heart!” when his eyes grew dim, his lower jaw fell, and in a minute it was all over with him.
“Dead as Julius Cæsar, captain,” said Gelid coolly.
Dead enough, thought I, and left the cabin to go on deck. At the foot of the companion-ladder, I stumbled over something.
“What the deuce is this?” growled I.
“It’s me, sir.”
“Me––and who’s me?”
“Reefpoint, sir.”
“Gracious God! what are you doing here youngster? You’re not wounded, I hope.”