“You’ll want a clean shirt, mate,” said one of our people to a Patlander from the frigate.
“Arrah! now didn’t I put a dry one in my pocket this blessed morning; so it will be all handy for me,” he exclaimed, diving into the recesses of his dripping peacoat.
The midshipman, who was still insensible, was, by Hanks’ advice, carried down into the gun-room. We were unwilling to run the risk of the delay which must have occurred had he been conveyed on board his own ship.
“Bring a glass of hot grog; and let it be pretty stiff, steward!” said Hanks, as we were engaged in stripping our patient and putting him into my berth between the blankets.
We then set to work to rub his body with a coarse worsted sock, the first suitable thing which came to hand. Having got some of the salt water he had swallowed out of his mouth, Hanks poured a little warm grog into it instead. This, with the rubbing, had the effect of speedily restoring animation. In a few minutes he opened his eyes, and tried to sit up and look about him.
“Hillo! where am I? I say, are the poor fellows all picked up?” he asked, in a weak tone.
I liked him at once for thinking of his men.
“All right, mate,” I answered; “no harm has come of the capsize, except a few wet jackets.”
Just then, on looking round, I saw a man, who by his uniform I knew to be a naval surgeon, standing near me. “So I see you’ve saved me my work, gentlemen,” he said, smiling. “You could not have acted better than you appear to have done; and, thanks to you, we shall soon have him all right again.”
“Thank’ee, Doctor, I’ve come round pretty well already,” sung out the midshipman. “But, I say, mate, I just want another glass of your stuff. It’s prime physic.”