“And got his deserts the next moment, eh?” said the doctor, quietly, as he tied his bandages tightly. “Well, Master Ninety-seven has got two terrible stabs, but we must save Ninety-seven’s life. Pickpocket, eh? Not he. The man’s a hero.”
I did not hear any more then, for everything swam round me mistily—faces, bayonets, officers, epaulets—and when I opened my eyes to see clearly, I was lying in a bed in Sydney Infirmary, and the first question, I asked of the hospital nurse, was,
“Is Ninety-seven dead?”
“No. There he lies across the ward. The doctor says he’ll get well.”
I’d had quite a touch of fever and been queer for days, but from that hour I rapidly got well, though for many months my voice was as good as gone.
It was in April, when I left the hospital without seeing Nick. He’d been taken away to the convict infirmary, and it was in December that I saw him again.
In the meantime, while I lay in hospital, I had heard from Fraser, my mate, all I didn’t know about the men getting out after knocking down and trampling on him and the other; but the sentries had fired, and at the alarm the guard turned out, and as the men refused to surrender, fired twice and drove them back.
I said that my voice was as good as gone, but it was strong enough for me to report all I knew, to those who took my evidence at my bedside; and I can tell you, I laid it on pretty thick over poor Nick, for I was mad with myself for doubting the poor fellow, who nearly lost his life in trying to save that of one, who had behaved to him like a brute.
The consequence was, that Ninety-seven was sent up the country, as what they used to call an assigned servant, those being well-behaved men, to whom a chance was given to redeem the past.
