Chapter Forty Two.
A Fight at Sea.
We descended slowly and painfully, to get down in time to receive a severe scolding from the doctor, while my father confirmed the news, as Bigley was half-lifted off for Bob to mount the pony and go off for help.
The British ships had had news brought them of the attack, and had started at daybreak in full chase, and an hour afterwards all who could climbed to where we could catch sight of the sea, to find out the meaning of the firing that was going on.
It was plain enough. A large three-masted lugger was in full flight with the frigate after her, and sending shot after shot without effect, till one of them went home, cutting the lugger’s principal mast in two, and her largest sail fell down like a broken wing, leaving the lugger helpless on the surface. Then a boat was lowered, and we saw her going at full speed, pulled as she was by a dashing man-o’-war crew, and we watched anxiously to see if there was going to be a fresh fight. But no; the man-o’-war long-boat pulled alongside and the men leaped aboard to send up the English colours directly, while the frigate went on in full chase of the French sloop, and we soon after saw that the lugger was being steered towards the mouth of the Gap.
But meantime the doctor had been busy with poor Bigley, who had been laid upon a soft bed of heather to form his couch while his wound was examined.
“Why, you cowardly young scoundrel!” he cried cheerfully, “the bullet is embedded in the muscles of the calf of your leg, and it came in behind. You dog: you were running away.”
“So would you have run away, doctor,” I said warmly, “if half a dozen Frenchmen were after you and firing.”