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day—there was no room for so many concerned faces in our tiny cabin. When we were alone with our patient, William made a low, airy whistle. “You managed to splinter the bone, Davy.”
    The seaman laughed, through his pain, at his own bad judgment. “I thought I could carry the beer, but it carried me, all the way down, with only my hand between it and the planking.” He chattered anxiously, adding, with a frightened laugh, “I’ve seen a sailing man die of a mangled finger before.”
    â€œSo have we all,” said my master. “We’ve watched injuries like this sour and poison many a strong young man.”
    â€œBefore their time!” howled Davy.
    â€œBut we’ll keep you in the world of the living, yet,” said my master kindly. “Hold the injury still,” said my master to me, moving the oil lamp closer to the bloody sight. The middle digit of Davy Wyott’s left hand was flattened, blood bubbling.
    To his patient my master said, “A quick blow with a keen edge, Davy, and you’ll die an old and toothless mariner, many winters from now.” To me he added, “A cup of spirits of wine, if you please, Thomas, for our brave patient. And the chopper from the hook.”
    The cleaver, he meant.
    The blade gleaming on the wall.

Chapter 14
    â€œIs there no way,” quailed our patient, “to save the poor, mashed thing?”
    My master gave a gentle smile. “My dear Davy, it’s only one wee finger.”
    The patient drank down the amber-colored aqua vitae, a good quantity. I gave him a second serving, and he drank that straight down, too. “Merciful doctors, you are,” he gasped earnestly when he had quaffed the spirits, “both of you.”
    I did my best to look kind and wise, but I never did like amputations. I had never performed one, nor did I want to—I had a particular horror of the sudden violence such operations demanded. My master spoke to me, partly in Latin to disguise our consultation, “The sinistral ossa metacarpalia as a whole is sound, Tom.” The hand, he meant, was uninjured, except for the crushed finger.
    â€œ Bene, bene ,” I said, trying to sound breezy and unconcerned. Davy nodded at the sound of Latin words—medical novices had been known to utter Latin-sounding nonsense to impress and reassure patients.
    â€œOrdinarily,” my master continued in slow-cadenced, calming Latin, “an operation would be carried out under the sky, where there is more space and light.”
    I was ready to agree that it would be hard to envision a more cramped setting. In clear, gentle English, my master instructed Davy to pray, and the patient echoed the words, his voice ragged.
    â€œAlmighty and merciful God,” my master intoned, “extend your goodness to us, your servants, who are grieved and in great need of your love.” It was the prayer my master always used at such times, and Davy followed along, his words slurring as the distilled spirits dulled his tongue.
    At the final phrase, “with Thee in life everlasting,” my master lifted the chopper.
    â€œNo, please, wait!” cried our patient, jerking his hand, my strength not enough to steady him.
    â€œFetch the mallet, Tom, if you will,” directed my master in a whisper.
    Where it was necessary, a blow to the head would render a patient unconscious. Doctors provided themselves with a wooden mallet for just this purpose, and I had used it on a few patients before—the task required a judicious touch in order to stun but not to permanently injure. I retrieved this hammer from the place where it was suspended on the wall, and Davy began to beg, “No, don’t batter my skull, worthy doctors, please leave my head whole.”
    Distracted by the mere sight of the mallet in my hands, Davy was not watching the cleaver.
    I never had to use the hammer. Davy screamed, half in pain and half in wonderment, at