Excerpt
Bartolomé had cut the leg swiftly. He nodded and looked me in
the eye, discarding the leg with its black toes. It rolled once,
returning in a half-turn at a different angle, thumping softly on the
wood.
“Bring the iron!” he ordered.
“Listen,” I said, “there is a new method to heal amputations. If we
find the veins and shut them off and put ointment in the wound, it
will heal.”
“No time for nonsense,” he said. “Bring the iron.”
Benjamin appeared with five red-glowing irons. I took one,
regretting the missed opportunity to try the new method, and stuck
it to the stump. The flesh sizzled. I continued until the wound was
evenly cauterized. The reek of burnt skin filled the deck.
We placed him on a makeshift bed. Benjamin packed the
amputated leg in some discarded sailcloth with a stone for weight. It
splashed into the dark waters, and, for a moment, I hesitated about
the appropriate prayer.Arequiem seemed an exaggeration. I settled
on a short blessing.
The night was well advanced. Bartolomé and I, in the privacy of his
cabin, were ridding our mouths of the bad taste of the amputation
with yet another cup of wine. I could still smell the stench of burnt
skin.
It could have been the amputation or having lived in a monastery
from the age of seven, but I felt devilishly intoxicated and more alive
than I’d ever felt. I sat comfortably at the table where Bartolomé
spent so many hours by candlelight writing of the day’s events in his
log book.
The cabin was astern and occupied the whole width of the ship.
Directly below was the magazine where cannons and gunpowder
were stored. Above was the quarterdeck where the long tiller
moved softly to adjust our course, causing the rudder to creak.
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