‘Yes, and is still alive, thanks to you. He is being attended to by the doctors; but whether he’ll live or not I can’t say. But we’d best get you along to the doctor and have your cut properly bandaged.’
Putting up his hand, Jack found his head was tied up in a pocket-handkerchief.
‘Your cap saved you,’ said the sergeant, ‘else that slice above the ear would have been serious.’
Jack had also received a prick from a lance on his thigh, which, though bleeding profusely, was not very painful. He, however, insisted on remaining at his duty, and with Barrymore’s help went on to their camping-ground.
Will was loud in his praises of Jack’s gallantry. ‘You ought to get your commission,’ he said. ‘If some blessed officer had done what you’ve done he’d have got a step in the regiment, half-a-dozen letters after his name, and I don’t know what all.’
‘Never mind, Will, old boy; get me a drink of coffee from somewhere, and any one can have the letters and the promotion.’
Pearson and Brandon had just succeeded in roasting some green coffee-beans, and soon Jack had a pannikin of the hot beverage, to which a little drop of rum had been added. The drink did Jack much good and he soon felt better. In the evening he went up to the hospital-tent with Will and inquired about Tom Gallon.
The gray-headed, kind-eyed Scot who was regimental surgeon shook his head. ‘He may live,’ he said; ‘but his soldiering days are over. His left arm ‘s smashed and must come off above the elbow, and he’s got a nasty dig in his back. Providing we can keep off fever, he may pull round; but I’m afraid’——-
‘Poor Tommy!’ said Jack. ‘I should like to see him once, doctor, before it’s too late.’
‘Impossible; any excitement would be fatal. By the way, are you the trumpeter who saved him?’