“It’s just cut a little by a stone,” I said; “but I don’t believe you’ve got any bones broken, Charlie, or you wouldn’t be able to sit up like that.”
At this moment one of our surgeons who had accompanied the force came running up at full speed, carrying a case of instruments in one hand.
“I’ve only just caught sight of you fellows,” he exclaimed, as he arrived breathless on the scene. “What did you stow yourselves away in this ditch for, I should like to know?”
I hurriedly explained the position of affairs.
“Well, I must just overhaul you, Balfour,” said the surgeon, laying his case of instruments upon the ground, and turning to examine him. “I trust, however, that it’s only a case of cuts and bruises, which boys are pretty well accustomed to.”
“Have a look at that poor fellow first,” said Charlie, pointing to the body of the poor seaman which lay near him; “I’m afraid he’s much worse off than I am.”
The surgeon bent down and felt the pulse and heart of the poor fellow, more as a matter of form than anything else. The bullet-wound in his forehead told its own tale only too legibly, and that tale was: “Died for Queen and country.”
The surgeon now again turned his attention to Charlie, and soon announced, much to my joy, that there was no serious damage done.
“We’ll have you carried on board as soon as possible,” he said, “and you’ll be as right as a trivet in a few days, if you keep perfectly quiet in a cot.”
“Do you know if the scrimmage is over?” I asked the doctor.