An hour later the ladies were established for the night, several of the officers’ quarters having been given over to them. The American missionaries and civilians, like the sailors, were obliged to sleep in hammocks.
Just as Dave was seeking a mattress on the floor of the wardroom Surgeon Oliver hurried in. “Darrin,” began the medical man, “did you know that Pembroke was badly hurt?”
“By the blow I gave him on the head?” queried the young ensign, wheeling.
“No, though that was quite bad enough. A stray bullet hit the fellow in the side, and he bound it up as best he could. He tells me that the shot hit him before you struck him down—perhaps an hour earlier.”
“If I had known that,” murmured Darrin, “he would have had somewhat softer handling.”
“Pembroke is really in a bad way,” continued the surgeon. “I have had him removed from the brig to the sick-bay, and have put a hospital attendant on watch over him to-night.”
“Is he going to die?” asked Ensign Darrin.
“Can’t say; I think not. But what brought me here is the fact that Pembroke asked if he might see you.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”