CHAPTER XXIII
WHAT BEFELL THE MAN IN THE BRIG
The "brig" is a place aboard a warship, as aboard some merchant vessels, that is set apart for prison purposes.
Here drunken or mutinous members of the crew are confined. Here, too, on board a vessel of war, any enlisted man is likely to be stowed away when under severe discipline for any reason.
It is a room fitted up like a prison cell, and having a barred door of iron.
On a war vessel a marine sentry, with bayonet fixed to his gun, is usually stationed before the door, both to watch the prisoners and to prevent men of the crew from talking with those under arrest.
It was in the brig, between decks on the "Hudson," that Sam Truax was spending his time, the only prisoner then in confinement.
Truax, since his arrest in the submarine's engine room, had had plenty of time to think matters over.
He had been doing a good deal of thinking, too, yet thought had by no means improved the fellow's temper.
On a stool in the corner sat Truax, his scowling, sullen face turned towards the barred door when the marine outside, taking a turn, peered in.
"Good heavens, man! What ails you?" demanded the marine.
"I'm all right," growled the prisoner.
"I'll be hanged if you look it!" was the marine's emphatic answer.
"What are you talking about?" demanded the prisoner, angrily.
"Man alive, I wish you could see your face!"
"I could if this place were fitted with a mirror," sneered Sam Truax.
The marine, after looking at the prisoner, and shaking his head, continued his pacing to and fro past the door.
Two or three minutes later a sailor, halting at the door, looked at
Sam, then wheeled about to the marine.
"Say, what ails that man? What's the matter with his face?" demanded the seaman in a low tone, yet one loud enough to be overheard by the prisoner within.
"I don't know," said the marine. "Looks fearful, doesn't he?"
"He ought to have the doctor—that's what," muttered the seaman, then passed on.
"Now, what are those idiots jabbering about?" Sam gruffly asked himself.
He shifted uneasily, feeling his face flush.
Five minutes later a sailor wearing on one sleeve the Red Cross of the hospital squad, passed by.
"Say," said the marine, "I wish you'd look at the feller in the brig."
"What ails him?" demanded the man of the hospital squad.
"Blessed if I know. But just look at his face—his eyes!"
The hospital man showed his face at the grating, looking at Sam Truax keenly for a moment.
"Wow!" he ejaculated.
"Looks fearful bad, don't he?" demanded the marine, also peering in.
"What do you think it is?"
"I ain't quite sure," answered the hospital man. "But one thing I do know. The sawbones officer has got to have a look at this chap."
Sam Truax sprang to his feet, pacing up and down within the confines of the brig.
"What are they all talking about?" he asked himself, in a buzz of excitement. "Five minutes ago I felt well enough. Now—well, I certainly do feel queerish."
Barely three minutes more passed when Doctor McCrea hurried below, bustling along to the door of the brig. He, in turn, shot a keen look at Truax through the bars, then commanded:
"Sentry, unlock the door! Let me in there!"
In another moment Doctor McCrea was feeling the prisoner's pulse.
"How long have you been feeling out of sorts?" asked the medical man, briefly.
"N-n-not long," answered Truax, quite truthfully.
"Take this thermometer under your tongue!"
Sam Truax meekly submitted, then sat, perfectly still, while Doctor McCrea paced the brig for two full minutes. Then the "sawbones" took the thermometer from between Truax's lips and inspected it keenly.
"Hospital man!" rapped out Doctor McCrea, sharply.
"Aye, aye, sir!" reported the man with the Red Cross on his sleeve, reappearing before the door.
"Have the stretcher brought here at once!"
"Aye, aye, sir!"
Still holding the clinical thermometer in one hand, Doctor McCrea stood keenly regarding the prisoner.
"What on earth is the matter with me?" demanded Truax, speaking somewhat nervously.
"Oh, you'll be all right—soon," replied Doctor McCrea, in what was too plainly a voice of false hope.
The stretcher was brought.
"Get on to this, Truax. Don't think of attempting to walk," ordered the surgeon. "Sentry, I am taking your prisoner to the sick bay. I'll make proper report of my action to the lieutenant commander."
The "sick bay" is the hospital part of a warship. It is a place provided with wide, comfortable berths and all the appliances for taking good care of ill men. Sam Truax was carefully placed in one of the berths. He was the only patient there at the time.
Doctor McCrea frequently felt the fellow's pulse, then ran a hand lightly over Sam's face, forehead and temples.
"You might tell me what's the matter with me, Doc," protested Truax.
"Oh, you'll be all right," replied the doctor, evasively.
"When?"
"Oh, in a few days, anyway."
"What have I got? A fever?"
"Now, don't ask questions, my man. Just lie quietly, and let us get you on your feet as soon as possible."
Just then the hospital man returned with a glass of something for which
Doctor McCrea had sent him.
"Drink this," ordered the surgeon.
Truax obeyed.
"Now, in a few minutes, you ought to feel better," urged the surgeon, after the man in the berth had swallowed a sweetish drink.
Did he? Feel better? Truax soon began to turn decidedly white about the gills.
"I—I feel—awful," he groaned.
Doctor McCrea, in silence, again felt the fellow's pulse.
But, in a minute, something happened. A man may feel as well as ever, at one moment. Twenty minutes later, however, if he vomits, it is impossible to convince himself that he feels anything like well.
More of the same draught was brought, and the sick man made to swallow it. Even a third and a fourth dose were administered. Sam Truax became so much worse, in fact, that he did not even hear when the bow cable chains of the gunboat grated as the anchors were let go opposite Blair's Cove just before dark.
Certainly no man of medicine could have been more attentive than was Doctor McCrea. Even when one of the ward-room stewards appeared and announced that dinner was served, the naval surgeon replied:
"I don't know that I shall have any time for dinner to-night."
Then Doctor McCrea turned and again thrust his thermometer between Truax's lips. The reading of that thermometer, two minutes later, seemed to give him a good deal of concern.
"I wish there were a capable physician on shore that I could call in consultation," he remarked in a low tone, but Truax heard and stirred nervously under his blankets.
"I—I wish you could perspire some," said Doctor McCrea, anxiously, as he leaned over the sufferer.
"I—I'm icy c-c-c-cold," chattered Truax.
"Too bad, too bad," declared the naval surgeon, shaking his head.
There was a short interval, during which Truax tossed restlessly.
"Doc," he begged, at last, "I wish you'd tell me what ails me."
"What's the use?" demanded the surgeon, shaking his head.
"Am I—am I—oh, good heavens! There comes that fearful nausea again!"
"No, no! Fight it off! Don't let it get the better of you," urged the surgeon, anxiously.
But the nausea was not to be denied. Presently Truax settled back on his pillows.
"Is there anything on your mind, my man?" asked Doctor McCrea, bending over the sufferer. "Is there anything you'd like to set right, before—before—"
Doctor Mccrea's speech ended in an odd little click in his throat.
"Doctor, am I—am I—"
"Is there any little confession you would like to make? And wrong you may have done that you'd like to set straight, my man? If so, we can take down a statement, you know."
Truax groaned, but there was a look of great fright in his eyes.
"Doc, I—I wonder—if—"
"Well, Truax?"
"Are we at anchor—now?"
"Yes; in the little bay for the night."
"Is—is the 'Farnum' here, too?"
"Yes."
"I—I wonder if Jack Benson would come to see me for a little while?"
"Why, I'll see, of course," volunteered Doctor McCrea, rising and leaving the sick boy.