I thank God that I am not lying under the muddy water rolling round the Hector Group, with Withers and those other poor fellows of ours.
It was to Marshall and his marines that I owe my life, and I wish that it was in my power to repay them. In attempting to rescue young Ford that night he was captured, I had been shot clean through the body, below the left ribs, and two of the marines—I do not know which two, and they have never come forward to tell me—carried me back to the walls of that battery, whilst Marshall kept the Chinese at bay. It was Barclay who told them to carry me as gently and smoothly as possible, as this was my only chance, and they carried me as if I had been a baby asleep, although the Chinese were closing all around them. They got me down the mud shore, and into the barge, only just in time, and it was whilst I was being lifted in that Marshall received the blow on the head which knocked him over. There was a most desperate fight to save him, and then poor young Withers managed to drive them off with his gun.
When they got me aboard the Vigilant, Mayhew would not give me any opinion as to what my chances were. "Look here, Mayhew!" I told him, "I'm not a baby; tell me;" but he only said, "Wait for three days, and eat nothing till then. I cannot tell you before."
I had to be content with that, and to lie in my bunk, with the pictures of my wife and my two boys smiling at me out of their frames, and watch the hands of the little clock she had given me crawling round its face, and wondering, whenever I had a twinge of pain inside me, whether the trouble which Mayhew feared had commenced, and whether the end was near.
Mayhew used to come to my cabin half a dozen times a day, feel my pulse, and take my temperature. "Hungry still, Commander?" he would say, and smile and go away, and each time I would watch his face to see if the smile was only there to cover his real feelings. No one who has not been through a time like this can imagine how awful is the suspense.
On the morning after the Skipper had come back with the landing parties, bringing Sally, her father, young Ford, and our missing men with him, Mayhew found my temperature and pulse normal. He gave a whoop. "You'll live to enjoy your pension all right, Truscott," and told me that I was practically out of danger. Barclay came in and confirmed his opinion. I lay back, too filled with emotion to speak. Those photographs seemed to smile even more at me—they represented all I had to live for—and life seemed very good.
Neither of the doctors had had any sleep during the night, as they had been busy with the wounded, and Barclay looked pretty ghastly. He had had a blow on the head during the fight in that square, but fortunately the sword edge had been turned by his cap.
The Captain came in almost immediately afterwards, growling very fiercely to hide his feelings. "Umph! I've kept back the Ringdove till I heard about you from Mayhew this morning. Going to send her up to Shanghai at once. I'll be off and write a letter to your missus. Umph! You want shaving—badly;" and he gripped my hand and went out again.
I finished my letter home—as you can imagine I finished it—the sentry outside was waiting for it, I heard the boat shove off to take it to the Ringdove, and I thanked God once more and felt inexpressibly at peace.
At the same time that she heard the news of my wound, my wife would hear that I was out of danger, and this, too, caused me to be very thankful.