Chapter Thirty One.
“A Traitor.”
No movement above him, no swish and horrible thud of a great two-handed sword, but a free course for the lad to spring from the last step into the long room, its blackened, pitch-besmirched floor covered with charred patches, and pieces of pitch, broken pots, and, above all, scores of empty cartridge-cases lying scattered about, and all lit up by the bright sunshine which streamed in through the open barricaded windows, Stan stopped short, with his follower crowding up and pressing upon him, pistol in hand, and gave a sharp look at every barricade to see if any of the enemy were crouching behind the holes in the window-opening; and, satisfied that the place was free, he waved one of the revolvers he held above his head and led off in a wild and excited—“Hip! hip! hip! hurrah!”
The shout was taken up and repeated with all the force of his companions’ lungs, while as the lad made a rush to the nearest window and gazed out on to the river, his lips parted for another cheer and his revolver-armed hand rose for a fresh wave.
But his lips closed again, his hand dropped to his side, and nothing but a hoarse, murmuring sound came forth in the words:
“I can’t—I can’t; I’m dead-beat now.”
“Hold up, my lad!” cried the lieutenant wildly as he sprang forward just in time to catch Stan as he reeled, and eased him down into a sitting position upon one of the bales, supporting the lad’s head against his breast. “Where are you hurt?”
“Nowhere,” said Stan in half-suffocated tones. “Done up, I suppose—too much for me. Water, please. Here,” he added feebly, “give the cowards one more cheer. No, no,” he added huskily and with more animation; “we’ve all done enough. Thank you!”
He took the tin of water dipped for him from one of the buckets brought up for extinguishing fire, drank with avidity, and then rose and staggered to the bucket-side, dropped upon his knees, and bent over to bathe his burning temples and smarting eyes.
“Hah!” he ejaculated as he rose and began drying his face with his blackened handkerchief. “It was very weak and cowardly, but I couldn’t help it. Sort of reaction, I suppose, after such a strain. I can’t help feeling a bit ashamed.”
“Of being so cowardly, sir?” said the lieutenant dryly.
“Yes; it was very weak,” replied Stan.
“Oh yes, very,” said the lieutenant, with a curious croak in his throat. “I never saw such a cowardly lot as we all are in my life.—Eh, lads?”
A wild, half-hysterical laugh arose from the party, and the next minute a most absurd performance was gone through, the men all beginning to shake hands with one another, the biggest fellow present with tears running down his cheeks.
“Shocking cowards, all of us, Mr Lynn,” said the lieutenant huskily; “but we’ve sent them flying with fleas in their ears.”
“Yes, yes,” cried Stan excitedly now, as he fast recovered from his weakness. “Oh! it was bravely done, but you ought to have had a man to lead you. Here, we must go down and let Mr Blunt hear the news.”
“Yes, directly,” said the lieutenant; “but when I tell him—I mean, we tell him—all that has been done, I think I know what he’ll say.”
“Say?” cried Stan, staring at the speaker. “What will he say?”
“That he couldn’t have done it better himself.”
A tremendous cheer arose at this, and the colour began to return to the young leader’s face, while to turn the conversation, which was growing painful, Stan suddenly said, addressing all:
“Why, it must have been that last volley!”
“Yes,” said the lieutenant; “that was too much for them. They stopped, though, to carry off all their wounded.”
This last was said as they stood gazing out of the windows at the six great junks gliding slowly up against the current with all sail set, but no remark was made about the way in which the broad river was dotted with ghastly-looking objects floating away with the stream and, fortunately for those at the hong, fast growing more distant; but all knew how busy the defeated enemy must have been plunging those who had fallen into the river before they sailed away.
“Now let us go down, sir, and see if Mr Blunt is well enough to hear the news.”
“Yes; he ought to have been told before.”
“We left him half-asleep,” said the lieutenant meaningly. “I wouldn’t wake a wounded man, sir, even to give him the best of news.”
“Perhaps it would be best to wait,” said Stan wearily, and looking as if all the spirit in him before had completely gone.
“Feel done up, sir?”
“Yes, horribly,” replied Stan as they reached the head of the stairs, and both glanced round and then looked in each other’s eyes.
“What were you looking round for?” said Stan.
“To see that there was no sign of fire anywhere about. Weren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Stan. “How horribly the place smells!” Then, with his thoughts reverting to the late engagement: “I say, the enemy must have lost very heavily.”
“Awfully, sir,” said the man; and then meaningly, “Didn’t you see the crows?”
Stan’s brave companion was alluding to a long line of dusky birds that were following the dismal objects floating in direful procession down the river, and coming up from all directions to join their friends.
“Yes,” said the lad, with a shudder, “I saw them;” and at the same minute a voice came from behind, one of the party calling the attention of another to the same strange piece of animal instinct.
“I say,” he said, “look how the crows are coming up. How can they know when there is a fight?”
He called them crows—the common term—but he meant vultures, the scavengers of the Chinese villages and towns.
Blunt was sleeping heavily, or rather, he was lying back in a state of semi-stupor, the result of his wounds and the exertion of moving when in so weak a state. Wing was at his side, busily wafting the fan to and fro, but closing it quickly from time to time to make a blow at some troublesome, obtrusive fly, but never hitting once.
“Still asleep?” said Stan in a whisper.
“Yes, sleep velly fast,” replied the man. “Velly bad indeed. Hot in head now. Keep talkee. Say silly pidgin nonsense. Wanted get up and go ’way while all fight. Heah pilate shout. Wanted go see. Wing tly to ’top him. Say knock Wing down not get out o’ way.—You been killee all pilate?”
“All? Nonsense,” said Stan wearily. “But we’ve driven them away.”
“Dlive allee ’way? Yes,” said Wing, nodding his head a good deal. “Shoot, killee, flighten. Fly ’way like clows when shoot. But soon fo’get. Come back again like clows.”
“Come back like the crows?” said Stan.
“Yes. Shoot gun, all fly ’way. Fo’get soon; come back again to get good t’ings.”
“Do you mean you think the pirates will come back and attack?”
“Yes. Wing suah. Some day.”
“Do you think he is right?” said Stan, turning to his lieutenant.
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” was the reply. “Not for some days, of course; but they have been disappointed of the plunder, and knowing it is here, they’ll come again to try and get it and to pay us out for the number we have killed and wounded. There! don’t talk about it now. Let’s see about a meal being got ready.—You, Wing, I think you could leave Mr Blunt as he is. He can’t do better than sleep.”
“No do betteh,” said the Chinaman. “You say, go get dinneh leady? Wing glad. Do evelybody muchee good.”
“See about it, then,” said Stan, “while we go and say a few words to the coolies—eh? Don’t you think they ought to be praised for what they have done?”
“Yes,” was the lieutenant’s reply; “come and say a few words to them—not many—and tell them you are pleased with the way they fought. But tell them, too, that you’ll have a good supper got ready for them by-and-by. That’ll please them better than any amount of words.”
Stan led the way to where the Chinamen were chatting together about the fight and the way in which the enemy had been driven off; but they were eager enough to turn and listen to the lad’s words. Their round faces brightened upon hearing the announcement about the feast they were to have, and they indulged in a hoarse cheer when their visitors left to join their companions. Then, after one of the doors had been opened, the little party stepped out into the bloodstained alley between the building and the impromptu wall, which, besides being splashed with molten pitch and charred here and there, was horribly blotched in places by the gore of some wretched pirate who had been wounded or met his end.
“After what has been said, then,” said Stan sadly, “it will not be safe to pull down these chests?”
“Well, I don’t know yet. I think I’d leave them up till Mr Blunt has had a word or two to say to-morrow. I hope he’ll be well enough to take a little interest in matters by then. There’s no hurry. We’ll have them put straight here and there to repair damages, but they may very well wait afterwards, as there’s not likely to be any rain. But I say, Mr Lynn, what do you think about that bit of treachery? I was of opinion that it was Wing.”
“So was I at first, but he seems so calm and innocent.”
“Ah, yes! But you mustn’t think a Chinaman innocent because he looks so. He’s a mystery, you know. But still I have my doubts, and it worries me lest it should be one of the coolies. It would be so much worse then.”
“Why?” said Stan, looking wonderingly at his companion.
“Because they all belong to the same gang—are all members of one club—and if one of them proves to be a traitor, the bad sheep corrupts the whole flock.”
“What is to be done?” said Stan after a short, thoughtful pause.
“Nothing now, sir. We know there is a traitor amongst our men, but there is nothing to fear from that until the enemy come again. On further thought, however, I don’t think it was Wing.”
“I’m very glad,” said Stan, “for I believed in him, and I’m sure my father and uncle did. It must be one of the coolies, then. How are we to find out?”
“By going on quietly and not appearing to suspect. As I say, there is no immediate danger, and we have other things to think about. What do you propose doing first?”
“Asking your advice about Mr Blunt. I want to send for a doctor at once.”
“Ah, yes! But you ask my advice. Well, it is that you wait till the morning.”
“Wait till the morning? I want to send a boat with a messenger down the river to the port to bring back a doctor.”
“He could only bring a native one, and he has one now.”
“What! Wing? He is not a surgeon.”
“No; but he knows a great deal of that sort of thing. He has helped Mr Blunt to doctor the men often enough here, and I’d as soon trust him if I were wounded as I would an ordinary native surgeon. You see how well he has treated the governor already.”
“Roughly bandaged him up,” said Stan impatiently; “but he may bleed to death in the night.”
“Not likely, sir. Wing plugged his wounds, and I looked to see that the bleeding had stopped.”
“But he may be bleeding internally.”
“No; I’m sure of that.”
“How can you tell without a proper examination?”
“By the state he is in.”
“Then you are a hit of a doctor?” said Stan rather dubiously.
“More of a surgeon, sir. We’re obliged to be in these out-of-the-way places,” said his lieutenant, smiling.
“I know nothing, but I’m horribly anxious. How can you tell?”
“Simply enough, sir,” said the other. “Where is his wound?”
“Right through the shoulder.”
“Very well; where would he bleed if it was not outside?”
“Why, inside, of course,” said Stan.
“Certainly; but where?”
“As I said—inside.”
“Inside is rather a vague term, sir. Well, look here; the wounds are quite high up?”
“Yes, very.”
“Then if he bled anywhere, it would be into the cavity of the chest.”
“I don’t know anything about cavities, but of course it must be into the chest.”
“Exactly. Well, we know his heart isn’t touched.”
“How?” said Stan.
“Because if it had been he would be a dead man.”
“I see.”
“Then no big arteries or veins are wounded. If they had been he would have been suffocated by the blood long enough ago.”
“Would he?”
“Of course. His lungs would have been choked with blood, so we know that they are not injured.”
“I see,” said Stan; “but it’s very horrible, isn’t it?”
“I think not. Any one who learns things like this may find them very useful in an emergency. I do; and it gives a man confidence. I don’t think Mr Blunt’s wound is dangerous at all.”
“I do,” said Stan shortly. “See how delirious he seems to have been.”
“That’s only natural, sir. Fever sets in generally after a wound.”
“Oh, but you make too light of it,” cried Stan. “He is shot right through the shoulder.”
“So much the better.”
“What!” cried Stan angrily. “How can that be so much the better?”
“There is no fear of dangerous inflammation caused by the presence of the bullet, for we know that it isn’t in him, and Nature has set to work before now to begin healing him up.”
“Without a doctor?”
“To be sure. She’s a splendid surgeon, sir.”
“I wish I could feel as confident as you do,” said Stan.
“Well, learn all you can; you soon will.”
“Then you think we might wait till the morning?”
“Certainly. You and I will take it in turns to watch him through the night, and in the morning we shall see.”
“Very well,” said Stan; “perhaps you are right, but I feel very anxious about Mr Blunt.”
“So do I, sir; but I feel sure that we are doing right.”
Right or wrong, a little thought taught the lad that he was helpless. Night was at hand, and it would have been impossible to despatch a message till morning, for the presence of the pirates and the sound of the firing had put every owner of a boat to flight.
Hence it was, then, that the inevitable was cheerfully accepted.
That night darkness soon hid the towering sails of the retreating pirates; and in the morning watch, when Stan left Blunt’s side to go to the roof and look out in the grey dawn, glad to breathe the fresh, cool air after some hours in the heated office where he had shared the watch by Blunt’s rough couch, there was no sign of danger, scan the distant windings of the river how he would, while sunrise endorsed the fact that the enemy had sailed on all through the night for their rendezvous, scores of miles away.