Night came on.  The sea ran high until dawn.  As the sun rose the English coast was again visible, but, as the weather had abated a little, they turned back towards the French coast, tacking as they went.

Towards evening Javel, junior, called his comrades and showed them some black spots, all the horrible tokens of mortification in the portion of the arm below the broken bones.

The sailors examined it, giving their opinion.

“That might be the ‘Black,’” thought one.

“He should put salt water on it,” said another.

They brought some salt water and poured it on the wound.  The injured man became livid, ground his teeth and writhed a little, but did not exclaim.

Then, as soon as the smarting had abated, he said to his brother: 

“Give me your knife.”

The brother handed it to him.

“Hold my arm up, quite straight, and pull it.”

They did as he asked them.

Then he began to cut off his arm.  He cut gently, carefully, severing al the tendons with this blade that was sharp as a razor.  And, presently, there was only a stump left.  He gave a deep sigh and said: 

“It had to be done.  It was done for.”

He seemed relieved and breathed loud.  He then began again to pour water on the stump of arm that remained.

The sea was still rough and they could not make the shore.

When the day broke, Javel, junior, took the severed portion of his arm and examined it for a long time.  Gangrene had set in.  His comrades also examined it and handed it from one to the other, feeling it, turning it over, and sniffing at it.

“You must throw that into the sea at once,” said his brother.

But Javel, junior, got angry.

“Oh, no!  Oh, no!  I don’t want to.  It belongs to me, does it not, as it is my arm?”

And he took and placed it between his feet.

“It will putrefy, just the same,” said the older brother.  Then an idea came to the injured man.  In order to preserve the fish when the boat was long at sea, they packed it in salt, in barrels.  He asked: 

“Why can I not put it in pickle?”

“Why, that’s a fact,” exclaimed the others.

Then they emptied one of the barrels, which was full from the haul of the last few days; and right at the bottom of the barrel they laid the detached arm.  They covered it with salt, and then put back the fish one by one.

One of the sailors said by way of joke: 

“I hope we do not sell it at auction.”

And everyone laughed, except the two Javels.

The wind was still boisterous.  They tacked within sight of Boulogne until the following morning at ten o’clock.  Young Javel continued to bathe his wound.  From time to time he rose and walked from one end to the other of the boat.

His brother, who was at the tiller, followed him with glances, and shook his head.