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- 9955
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- 2026-01-30T20:48:36.274Z
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- start_line
- 9884
- text
- or I can do nothing whatever.”
These articles being removed, he snatched off his wig, placing it on
the gun-deck capstan; then took out his set of false teeth, and placed
it by the side of the wig; and, lastly, putting his forefinger to the
inner angle of his blind eye, spirited out the glass optic with
professional dexterity, and deposited that, also, next to the wig and
false teeth.
Thus divested of nearly all inorganic appurtenances, what was left of
the Surgeon slightly shook itself, to see whether anything more could
be spared to advantage.
“Carpenter’s mates,” he now cried, “will you never get through with
that job?”
“Almost through, sir—just through,” they replied, staring round in
search of the strange, unearthly voice that addressed them; for the
absence of his teeth had not at all improved the conversational tones
of the Surgeon of the Fleet.
With natural curiosity, these men had purposely been lingering, to see
all they could; but now, having no further excuse, they snatched up
their hammers and chisels, and—like the stage-builders decamping from a
public meeting at the eleventh hour, after just completing the rostrum
in time for the first speaker—the Carpenter’s gang withdrew.
The broad ensign now lifted, revealing a glimpse of the crowd of
man-of-war’s-men outside, and the patient, borne in the arms of two of
his mess-mates, entered the place. He was much emaciated, weak as an
infant, and every limb visibly trembled, or rather jarred, like the
head of a man with the palsy. As if an organic and involuntary
apprehension of death had seized the wounded leg, its nervous motions
were so violent that one of the mess-mates was obliged to keep his hand
upon it.
The top-man was immediately stretched upon the table, the attendants
steadying his limbs, when, slowly opening his eyes, he glanced about at
the glittering knives and saws, the towels and sponges, the armed
sentry at the Commodore’s cabin-door, the row of eager-eyed students,
the meagre death’s-head of a Cuticle, now with his shirt sleeves rolled
up upon his withered arms, and knife in hand, and, finally, his eyes
settled in horror upon the skeleton, slowly vibrating and jingling
before him, with the slow, slight roll of the frigate in the water.
“I would advise perfect repose of your every limb, my man,” said
Cuticle, addressing him; “the precision of an operation is often
impaired by the inconsiderate restlessness of the patient. But if you
consider, my good fellow,” he added, in a patronising and almost
sympathetic tone, and slightly pressing his hand on the limb, “if you
consider how much better it is to live with three limbs than to die
with four, and especially if you but knew to what torments both sailors
and soldiers were subjected before the time of Celsus, owing to the
lamentable ignorance of surgery then prevailing, you would certainly
thank God from the bottom of your heart that _your_ operation has been
postponed to the period of this enlightened age, blessed with a Bell, a
Brodie, and a Lally. My man, before Celsus’s time, such was the general
ignorance of our noble science, that, in order to prevent the excessive
effusion of blood, it was deemed indispensable to operate with a
red-hot knife”—making a professional movement toward the thigh—“and
pour scalding oil upon the parts”—elevating his elbow, as if with a
tea-pot in his hand—“still further to sear them, after amputation had
been performed.”
“He is fainting!” said one of his mess-mates; “quick! some water!” The
steward immediately hurried to the top-man with the basin.
Cuticle took the top-man by the wrist, and feeling it a while,
observed, “Don’t be alarmed, men,” addressing the two mess-mates;
“he’ll recover presently; this fainting very generally takes place.”
And he stood for a moment, tranquilly eyeing the patient.
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