“Bad enough,” said Higgs. “Tell you what, Gerry. Go down into Charlestown and see if you can find a surgeon. Tell him we got need of him here.”
“Put—me—on the ground,” whispered Captain Blakeslee. He lay slumped against the side of the wagon and tried to lift his head, but he was not strong enough.
Together Gerry and Sergeant Higgs got him out of the cart and stretched the limp body on the young grass under a locust tree.
“I’ll go quickly,” Gerry promised. “I’ll come back with the surgeon. I hope ’twill be in time.”
“Good luck to you, lad,” said the sergeant. He was still bending over the wounded man when Gerry hastened off.
The journey proved not to be a long one, but over all too soon. Ten minutes hard running across the fields, a brief encounter, and he came pounding back. Jack Higgs stood leaning against the wagon. He had lighted a little fire of dead boughs, and in its light his usually pleasant face looked somber, his eyes a little sick. He was in his shirt sleeves now.
“They told me I was a fool,” panted Gerry. “Told me no surgeon would come out this far to save one man, or three, or four, when so many lies bleeding there in the town. How is the Captain? Jack—where is your coat?”
Sergeant Higgs motioned toward a dark heap under the locust tree. For a moment he stood silent, then he spoke.
“Surgeons couldn’t ha’ saved him, Gerry—not a whole regiment of ’em marched out here two and two. When I put my hand to him, his flesh was already cold. He was about gone. I knew they wouldn’t come. I only sent you to get you away. You never been in battle, never seen men die before.”
“Your coat—?” faltered Gerry. Not that the coat mattered, but he felt he could not talk of anything that did.