What could I do? How could I, in the first place, get that log entirely clear of him? That was the question. I looked round in despair; would no clever thought come to me? I think in those few seconds I lifted up my heart to God Almighty very earnestly.
Thanks be to Him, He did show me a way. The handspike, or lever, I had was a pole of considerable length. I found that by moving to the end farthest from the log I could with very little pressure keep it up. There were branches and sticks about; with one hand I put enough of them upon the end of the lever to keep it down, when I let go entirely, and wading into the creek beside my friend, who had fainted—he was insensible at any rate—I put out all my strength and pushed the log clear.
As it fell it splashed the water over Meade and brought him to. He looked at me despairing. "Come, come, dear friend!" I cried, "the log is off you; make an effort, let us get you out of this!"
He tried hard, groaning with pain; he really swooned more than once as he endeavoured to drag himself out, and somehow, I cannot remember how, he did get out, and I got him clear and on to a level place on the bank, and then I let him rest whilst I got him some whisky—for we had brought a little with us, "in case of accident," we said, and here was an accident indeed.
After a little while my chum revived. He said the agony in one leg was intense. He was quite unable to help himself or to discuss the situation.
First thing, I was sure, was to get him inside; then we must discover what was really wrong. He declared he knew that his thigh was fractured. The slightest movement made him scream with anguish. Yet moved he must be—but how was I alone to do it? I am a big fellow. I endeavoured to lift him bodily. I could not. His constant cry was, "Let me lie—and die!"
Suddenly an idea occurred to me. We had just been reading about Swiss mountaineering, and that to get wounded people or ladies unable to walk over the ice and snow they use hides, or, failing them, sacking—anything really which is strong enough.
Well, I remembered the bearskin we had—would that do?
I tore it from the tree, spread it out by Meade, the fur side up, then with all the tenderness I could exert I contrived to get it under him: he could help himself but little, and half the time he appeared to be unconscious.
As for my thoughts, I cannot recall them really. If, as he said, his thigh was broken, what could I do for him? I had no knowledge at all of surgery. I was almost despairing, and began to fear it would indeed be that he would die!