“I am only wounded in the shoulder, though I am faint from loss of blood,” he said, in a feeble voice. He spoke so that Kitty might hear him. “We should have got the prize with more help.”
Kitty ran to his side to assist him along the deck, not caring what Mrs Podgers or anybody else might say to her. The exertion, however, was too much for him; and if Dick and another man had not held him up, he would have fallen, for Kitty’s slight frame could scarcely have supported him. He was taken to his cabin, and after the doctor had attended to the other men he allowed him to examine his wound.
I have not before mentioned our doctor. The men used to say he was only fit for making bread pills, and they, poor fellows, had better means of forming an opinion of his skill than I had. After his visit, Mr Falconer would not let him dress his wound, though he did manage to get out the bullet. It was dressed, however, and Kitty used to say that I was the doctor. I know that I went every day into the cabin with her and Dick, and that we used to put lotions and plaster on his poor shoulder. Mrs Podgers declared that it was very indelicate in her to do so, but Kitty replied that if women were on board ship, it was their duty to attend to the wounded.
We visited the other men who were hurt, especially poor Jonas Webb; but Kitty confessed that his injuries were beyond her skill—indeed, it seemed wonderful that, mangled as he was, he should continue to live on.
The miscarriage of the expedition was owing also to him. Mr Falconer had gallantly carried the prize, got the Spaniards under hatches, and taken her in tow, when, on passing the batteries, Webb’s pistol went off. This drew the attention of the garrison to the boat, and they immediately opened a hot fire. Webb was the first struck, and soon afterwards several of the other men were hit. Mr Falconer, who had remained on deck, on this let himself down into the boat to assist in pulling, and, in spite of the hot fire, would have continued doing so, had not the Spaniards broken loose, and, getting hold of some muskets on board, began firing at the boat. Mr Falconer, on being himself wounded, cut the painter, and the boat escaped without further injury.
Dick was very angry with the other officers, and did not mind expressing his opinion of them. I never saw him so put out. He felt much for poor Webb, and I heard him declare that he was very doubtful about Mr Falconer’s recovery. If he died, what would become of poor Miss Kitty?