“There, don’t wriggle that way or I shall stick the needle in you. To go and have a big genuine fight like that and never let me know.”
“Here, Bob, quick!” cried the doctor, and my old school-fellow had to go and help bandage another’s wound.
“He will have his grumble,” I said to myself, smiling as well as I could for one in pain.
The daylight grew broader, and the blackened counting-house and cottages more desolate-looking, the whole place seeming to be suffering from the effects of some terrible storm, and as I lay there I saw the doctor go on busily bandaging the poor fellows’ wounds, every one suffering the pain he was caused without a murmur. The worst cases he temporarily bandaged, leaving the rest till the men were better able to bear it, and at last he came round to my father, who was wounded in two places.
“Die? No: there are some ugly chops and holes, but I’m not going to let any of the brave fellows die,” cried the doctor cheerily. “Now the first thing is to get the women back and a roof over that long shed in case it should rain. I’ll have a lot of ling cut for beds, but I must have some help. Perhaps I had better ride over to the village—no, I’ll send my boy. But I say, Duncan, I think you ought to have given better account of the Frenchmen.”
“Why, they had to get fifteen or sixteen wounded men away,” I cried, and then winced.
“And serve ’em right,” said the doctor. “Here, Bob!”
Bang, bang!
“What’s that?”
“Bigley’s signal; and by the way, doctor, the poor lad is wounded too. Come along and see.”