“Poor Macan!” said Mr Stormcock, bending over his prostrate form, and trying to lift him in vain. “Well, he’s done for at last, I’m afraid. We could have better spared a better man, perhaps!”
“He’s dead, sir, sure enough,” corroborated one of the marines who had been assisting to work the big bow gun, the carriage of which had been smashed, on one side by a heavy chain shot, which must, we all thought, have settled the corporal at the same time. “He’ll never eat plum duff again, poor chap. He was a good one over his vittles, too, was the corporal, and likewise at his drink!”
“Faix, ye lie, ye divil,” cried the seemingly lifeless man, reviving at this moment and struggling to his feet. “I’m not d’id at all, at all! D’ye think now I’m going to be kilt—by a Haythin Chaynee? Begorrah, whin I am kilt, may the saints in h’iven presairve me from it yit!—I hopes as how it’ll be by a Roosian, or a Proosian, or a dacint Christian man of some sort or t’other, an’ not, faix, by one of thim yaller-faced Johnnies over yander!”
We all laughed at this, it being quite a relief to find our old friend the corporal had not yet lost “the number of his mess,” as he was the life and soul of the ship on the lower deck, drunk or sober!
He had, however, a narrow squeak of it; for a splinter had jogged his leg from the ankle to the knee, while the bollard on which he had been standing had been shot away under his feet.
This caused that wonderful jump of his which had surprised me so much, himself all the more, too, the heavy fall he had on the deck afterwards having knocked him senseless for the time and, indeed, bruised him very considerably.
Macan, though, had all an Irishman’s pluck, and would not give in.
“Sure, sor, it’s ownly a thrifle,” he urged, when told by Mr Stormcock to go below to Mr McGilpin, who was busy in the after-cabin, attending to those of the wounded that the Chinese gunners, who aimed remarkably well, had not put altogether beyond the reach of surgical aid. “I wudn’t throuble the docthor wid it; an’ faix, I want to pay thim Chaynee images fur smashin’ me crockery! Bedad, an’ I will, too, for I’ve got my hands left all right an’ a straight oye, an’, I’ll have a slap at ’em ag’in, sure, by your leve, sor!”
“Carry on!” cried Mr Stormcock, who had been assisting to wedge up the gun so that it could be still fired, only the carriage having been injured by the shot. “Make as good practice as you did before, Macan; and, then you’ll soon be revenged on some of those beggars!”
“I will that, sor,” replied the corporal, bending down to the rear right of the sixty-four pounder, which had been slewed round in the direction of the battery abreast us, and taking careful aim. “A ha’porth more illivation, Number 2. Well—muzzle left! Well—fire!”