Chapter 68
CHAPTER FORTY ONE.
AMONGST THE WOUNDED.
Weary as our walk down to the mouth of the Gap had been, that back seemed far worse, and we reached the fire by the counting-house, which still burned brightly, being fed with more wood, to find my father anxiously awaiting our news.
"Gone!" he said. "Yes, but they may return. Two--no we cannot spare two men, one must go and keep watch to warn us of their return."
"I'll go, Captain Duncan," said Bigley, limping up. "I can't walk about much, but I can sit down there on the top rocks and watch."
"Very good, my lad," said my father, "but take your pistols and fire twice rapidly if boats come in again."
As Bigley squeezed my hand and started off, my father exclaimed:
"Now I must have a messenger to go to Ripplemouth for Doctor Chowne.
What man is not wounded?"
There was a murmur among the group a.s.sembled about the fire, a grim blood-smeared powder-blackened set of beings, several of whom had had their hair scorched away by the explosion. There was not a man who was not ready to go, but there was not one who was not wounded.
"I hardly know whom to send," said my father. "Sep, can you get over there?"
"I'll try, father," I replied from where I was sitting down on a piece of rock; but I spoke so faintly that my father came to my side, and caught my cold damp hand, and laid his upon my wet forehead.
"Madness!" he muttered. "Look here, my lads," he cried, "a couple of the women must be found at once."
"Ahoy! Duncan, ahoy!"
It was a distant hail from high up on the track.
"Heaven be praised!" cried my father, and then he shouted, "Chowne, ahoy!"
There was an answering hail, and in five minutes more Doctor Chowne came scrambling down the side of the ravine upon his pony, with Bob hanging on to its tail.
"My dear boy!" exclaimed the doctor, grasping my father's hand. "We heard the guns, and could make out the lights of a big vessel off here.
I was afraid that something was wrong, and going up the hill yonder I could see the glow in the sky. That decided me, and we came over together. Anybody hurt?"
"Well, yes, a little," said my father grimly.
As he spoke the first grey dawn
It was a doleful sight upon which the doctor gazed round as he stripped off his coat. My father, blackened, scorched, and blood-stained, was standing with the foreman, six men were sitting or half reclining on the ground, and four more lay on their backs as if insensible.
It was a ghastly answer to the question, "Is anybody hurt?" for there was no one without a serious wound.
"Ah! I see," said the doctor grimly. "Well, is anybody killed?"
"Heaven forbid!" cried my father.
"Amen," said the doctor. "Here, Bob, bandages, scissors. Fine lesson in surgery for you. Now, captain, you first."
"No, no--the men," said my father.
"Here, I've no time to waste," cried the doctor. "Now, then, who's worst?"
"Mas'r Sep," cried the foreman loudly; and there was a sort of chorus of "Ay, ay!"
I tried to protest, but I felt sick, and as if I should faint, and the doctor cried:
"Hold your tongue, sir. Now then, what is it--bullet or sword cut?"
"Oh!" I shrieked, for he had seized me rather roughly.
"There, eh?" said the doctor, "that's it, is it? Here, knife, Bob."
"What is it?" said my father excitedly; "an operation?"
"Yes," said Doctor Chowne, "on his coat. Only going to rip it off, man.
What a fuss you do make about your boy!"
"But tell me, Chowne," cried my father, "is he badly hurt?"
"Badly hurt? No. A few ribs broken seemingly. I'll soon bandage him up."
He did, and very painful it was; but at the same time it seemed to give me strength and confidence, as he wound the stout bandage round and round and left Bob grinning at me as he fastened the ends, while he went to another patient.
"Been a regular fight, then?" said Bob, who kept on questioning me, and making me tell him everything, though I felt as if I could hardly speak.
"Yes," I said, "terrible."
"But old Big; where's he?"
"Wounded, and keeping watch where the Frenchmen went."
"Old Big wounded, eh? And a regular fight--French and English too.
Well, of all the shabby mean beggars that ever lived, you and old Bigley are about the two worst."
"What do mean?" I cried angrily.
"There, don't wriggle that way or I shall stick the needle in you. To go and have a big genuine fight like that and never let me know."
"Here, Bob, quick!" cried the doctor, and my old school-fellow had to go and help bandage another's wound.
"He will have his grumble," I said to myself, smiling as well as I could for one in pain.
The daylight grew broader, and the blackened counting-house and cottages more desolate-looking, the whole place seeming to be suffering from the effects of some terrible storm, and as I lay there I saw the doctor go on busily bandaging the poor fellows' wounds, every one suffering the pain he was caused without a murmur. The worst cases he temporarily bandaged, leaving the rest till the men were better able to bear it, and at last he came round to my father, who was wounded in two places.
"Die? No: there are some ugly chops and holes, but I'm not going to let any of the brave fellows die," cried the doctor cheerily. "Now the first thing is to get the women back and a roof over that long shed in case it should rain. I'll have a lot of ling cut for beds, but I must have some help. Perhaps I had better ride over to the village--no, I'll send my boy. But I say, Duncan, I think you ought to have given better account of the Frenchmen."