Free The Survivor by Paul Almond Page A

Two. And so he had occasionally invited Ben into this main sawing area to see how it all worked, as part of Ben’s general education.
    That morning, Hall told James he had noticed a small malfunction — every so often, as the log was hefted closer to the saw after each plank had been sheared off and kicked out, it gave a jolt. Hall had decided they should try to fix it after nightfall, so as not to shut down the mill at the height of activity. Today he’d gone off to Bonaventure to try and find a carpenter who might help them, and left the mill to James. The board had flung up, struck Ben on the head, knocked him backwards and then, as he grabbed for support, his arm had come against the sharp heavy-toothed saw blade.
    Act fast. The blood came pumping in spurts out of the mangled forearm and wrist and fingers. How much of his arm could be saved?
    Auguste, a tall, long-faced worker, and Serge, the burly log-jumper, rushed up. “A strip of finer cloth!” James cried, repeating it in French. “I need a better tourniquet.”
    Auguste hurried off. James thought fast: Get him to a doctor? What doctor? No doctor that he knew of in New Carlisle — three hours away on foot. And they had no horse available anyway. The realization struck him — no one else. He would have to handle this alone. Think fast, but think clearly. A life was at stake.
    Auguste returned with a strip of cloth. James tied it quickly around the arm, picked up a firm twig, thrust it into the bandage and wound it tight. “You’re going to be fine, Ben, just fine.”
    He hoped Ben’s state of shock would keep him still while he thought out his next move. The battles he had seen on the Bellerophon should serve him now. In one of them, he had assisted the ship’s surgeon. He made himself look down with a professional eye at the boy’s arm. Fingers sliced off, hand mangled, wrist torn apart, exposing the bone in a mass of raw flesh and white tendons. The tourniquet had to be released every ten minutes or so. What next?
    One thing was certain: no way to save the hand. Amputation? Inside, his stomach churned. He loved the little lad. What lay ahead might turn the stomach of any grown man — even a surgeon. Nothing for it, he had to amputate.
    “Light a fire,” he ordered, and Auguste hurried off. Then, to ’Ti-Pete, “Go into the mill, ready the saw right away.” ’Ti-Pete jumped to obey: the command was given with such force and alacrity, as when James had commanded his gun crew.
    “Ben,” he said, looking into the hazy eyes, “you’ll have to trust me. In half an hour, it will all be over, and you’ll go to sleep. I was in the Navy, Ben, I have seen it many times. You’ll soon be fine.” He knew that telling a lie was the best thing he could do, in the circumstances. Ben nodded. “Water,” he mumbled.
    “Water!” James commanded, and as he picked the boy up, a container was duly brought. “And rum! A flagon of rum.”
    Serge ran back to the bunkhouse. The saw had been thrust into gear, and its whine grew. James looked down at the little lad in his arms. Quickly, before he thought too much about it, he picked him up and headed into the mill where the logs were hauled up the inclined planks.
    Ben must have sensed what was going to happen, for he started to squirm. “No!” He screamed and clutched fiercely at James.
    “Ben, this will be quick.”
    “No no no,” yelled the boy. He struggled in James’s arms, with fighting strength.
    “Help me!” James demanded. ’Ti-Pete quickly tightened his grip on the lad.
    “Ben, be brave. We’ve got to. It will save your life.” The rum appeared. “Drink this, Ben.” James motioned for ’Ti-Pete to lie him on the wood platform in front of the long slicing saw. He put the bottle to his lips, and the lad, looking up into James’s face, took a swig and grimaced. “More Ben, more, it will help.” He drank a few slugs, coughing and spluttering.
    Auguste came up. “Le feu, ça va.”
    “The