“Corporal Bray,” says some one.
“Here, Emson, Smith, both of you lend a hand here. We’ll make Bantem’s quarters hospital.—Now then, look alive, ambulance party!”
We were about lifting the poor fellow, who had sunk down behind the breastwork, all doubled up like, hands and knees, and head hanging; but as we touched him, he straightened himself out, and looked up at Captain Dyer.
“Don’t touch me yet,” he says in a whisper. “My stripes for some one, captain. Do for Isaac Smith there. Hooray!” he says faintly, and he took off his cap with one hand, gave it a bit of a wave, “God save the Quee—”
“Bear him carefully to the empty ground-floor, south side,” says Captain Dyer sternly; “and make haste back, my lads: moments are precious.”
“I’ll do that with private Manning’s wife,” says a voice; and, turning as we were going to lift our dead comrade, there was big strapping Mrs Bantem, and another soldier’s wife; and she then said a few words to the captain.
“Gone?” says Captain Dyer.
“Quarter of an hour ago, sir,” says Mrs Bantem; and then to me: “Poor trooper, Isaac!”
“Another man here,” says Captain Dyer.—“No, not you, Smith.—Fill up here, Bantem.”
Joe Bantem waved his hand to his wife, and took the dead corporal’s place; but not easily, for Measles, who was next man, was stepping into it, when Captain Dyer ordered him back.