Free The Survivor by Paul Almond Page B

fire’s going? Good.” James grabbed Serge and whispered in French, “Look, we’ve got to amputate. You’ll hold his arm against the saw. ’Ti-Pete will work the saw. I’ll help you. You’ll have to hold him tight, the arm tight, otherwise it won’t be a clean slice. Use all your strength.” Serge stared in surprise, even horror.
    “Think you can do it?” James looked into his eyes. Serge stood silent, stricken with doubt. Then he nodded, clenched his fist and held it up, indicating his readiness.
    “Good,” James said. “Let’s go fast.”
    To Auguste, who was standing by, still stunned at what was about to happen, he ordered, “Go back, check the fire in the cabin. Stick in our shovel. I need it red hot. Quickly!”
    Auguste turned and ran out. “All right.” James gestured to Serge. “Pay no attention to anything. Just do what has to be done.”
    “Oui oui, je fais mon possible.” Serge picked up Ben, who writhed vigorously, twisting in his arms. But big Serge, obviously a father with children of his own, spoke in calming French as he tightened his grip. He stepped beside the saw.
    With stomach falling through his boots, James reached out and took the mangled arm. “Quickly!” Ignoring Ben’s cries, in one clean swoop, Serge and James placed the arm against the saw and the blade sliced cleanly through the forearm, quicker than ever James had imagined. He let the discarded hand drop. Then he raced around to the other side of the saw where Ben screamed and stout Serge looked as if he might faint.
    James grabbed Ben from his arms. “It’s done, Ben, it’s done.” He carried the swooning lad quickly outside, laid him on the grass, and set about loosening the tourniquet. Serge came out to stand beside him.
    The blood streamed out. He let it flow for a moment and then tightened it again, stanching the flow.
    “Where’s that shovel?” he asked. Serge shook his head. James looked toward the cabin, then gathered Ben in his arms. Ben had sunk into deeper shock as they hurried into the bunkhouse. Just as well.
    Auguste sat heating the shovel in the fire. James laid Ben on the nearest lower bunk and motioned for ’Ti-Pete to hold him. He spoke into the lad’s eyes. “Ben,” he said, “it’s almost over.” He prayed hard for God to give him the strength. “When you wake up, you’ll be fine.”
    Just then, one of Hall’s customers from New Carlisle came by, calling out in a broad Scot’s accent, “Where are yae all?” He stopped in the doorway as he saw the men. “Won’t be long, sir.” James came over and checked the shovel, already glowing.
    The Scotsman stepped in and stood aghast. “Hello, Sir,” James called. “We’ve had an accident. You’ll have to wait.”
    “Angus Maclean. But can I help ye?” James noticed his strong, freckled forearms and firm blue eyes under his sandy hair.
    “No thank you, Mr. Maclean.” He turned. “Now Auguste, give me that shovel. I’ll have to press it against Ben’s stump.”
    Angus stepped forward, his fearful eyes wide with horror. “Ye cannae. I will nae allow it!”
    “Mr. Maclean,” James said flatly, “it’s our only chance. Cauterize the stump. I’ve done it in the Navy.”
    “Look!” Maclean’s voice rose. “The boy’s got no hand!”
    “I had to amputate. Now he must not see this coming. Moments like this, a man has ten times his strength. We’ve got to do it without him knowing.” He turned to Auguste. “I’ve seen dying men take four others to hold them down. We must be quick! No slip ups. That redhot shovel goes cleanly and fast against his stump. Understood? Are you with me?”
    Angus lowered his eyes, sighed, and then lifted them. “Dear Lord, ha’e a bit of mercy.”
    “Ben oui. Je suis là.”
    “Cover Ben’s face with a blanket,” James ordered. “Quickly. Hold him, Serge.”
    Serge leapt to do as he was told. James peered at the shovel. Yes. Glowing red. Flashes of his own trauma when he’d been