Sail Ho! Part 83

"Explain yourself, man."

"Explain myself, sir? How?"

"Tell me what you mean."

"I mean, I want you to tell me what you mean, sir."

"To dress your wound."

"Ay, but you're a-doing of something with that 'ere other hand."

"No, my man, no."

"Arn't got a knife in't then?"

"Certainly not. Why?"

"Dumlow thinks you were going to cut his leg off, sir," I said, feeling amused in spite of our terrible position.

"Course I did," growled the man. "I've been telled as there's nothing a doctor likes better than to have a chance o' chopping off a man's legs or wings, and I don't mean to go hoppin' about on one leg and a timber toe, and so I tells yer flat."

"I'm not going to cut your leg off, Dumlow."

"Honour, sir?"

"Honour, my man."

"Honour bright, sir?"

"On my word as a gentleman."

"Thankye, sir, but if it's all the same to you, I'd rather as you said honour bright."

"Well then, honour bright. There, I am not going to do any more to you now; I must dress the wound by daylight."

"Won't bleed any more, sir, will it?"

"Not now."

"That'll 'bout do then, sir, thank ye kindly."

"You are welcome, my man," said the doctor, and then, "What is it?" for I had grasped his arm.

"I want you to tell me about Walters," I whispered. "Feel his pulse first."

He turned from me and bent down over my messmate, who lay in the bottom of the boat perfectly motionless.

I could not see what he did, but listened attentively, not for the sake of hearing his movements, but so as to hear a sigh or moan from that unhappy lad.

"Well?" I said excitedly.

"I can tell you nothing yet," said Mr Frewen, as I thought, evasively.

"He--he is not dead?" I gasped; and I fell a-trembling with horror at the idea of one whom I had known vigorous and strong so short a time before, lying there at my feet, robbed of the power of making any reparation for the crime he had so weakly committed, and with no chance for repentance.

"I--I say, he is not dead, is he?"

I spoke fiercely, for Mr Frewen had not replied; and now I caught and held on by his hand.

He quite started, and turned upon me.

"I--I beg your pardon, Dale," he cried. "I was thinking of something else--of those on board that unfortunate s.h.i.+p. It seems so cowardly to leave them to their fate."

"How could we help it, Mr Frewen? What could we do? But tell me about Walters."

"Yes," he said, drawing a long breath, as if he were making an effort to keep his mind fixed upon the present--"yes, I'll tell you."

"Then he is dead?" I whispered, with a shudder; and as I looked down into the bottom of the boat, where all was perfectly black, I seemed to see the white face of the lad quite plainly, with his fixed eyes gazing straight at me, full of appeal, and as if asking forgiveness for the past.

"No, not dead, Dale," said Mr Frewen in a low voice. "Be quiet. Don't talk about it. We have quite enough to depress us without that. I can say nothing for certain in this black darkness, and he may recover."

"Is the wound so very bad?" I asked.

"Dangerous enough, as far as I can tell; but he has everything against him, my lad."

"But if he dies?" I exclaimed in horror.

"Well?" said Mr Frewen bitterly. "If he were a man, I should say it were the best thing that could happen. He has as a young officer hopelessly dishonoured himself. He can only be looked upon as a criminal."

I could not argue with him, and relapsed into silence, thinking the while of the horror of my messmate's condition, and asking myself whether it would not have been possible for him to redeem the past, and grow up into a straightforward, honourable man.

It was a hard matter to mentally discuss, but as I sat in the darkness that night, with hardly a word spoken by my companions, I forgot all Walters' bitterness and dislike, and only thought of his being young and strong like myself; and that he had those at home who would be heart-broken if they heard of his death, and would feel his disgrace as bitterly as he must have felt it himself, when all came to be known.

"I won't think it was his nature," I said to myself. "It was a piece of mad folly. He was won over by that brute of a Frenchman, who, now that he has obtained all he wants, throws over the tool he used, and ends by shooting him. Poor fellow! how could he be such a fool?"

I sat on, thinking how bitterly he would have repented his folly, and how his last days must have been spent in the keenest of regret. And it was in this spirit that I bent down over him, to thrust my hand in his breast to feel for the beating of his heart.

"Mr Frewen," I whispered as I rose, "tell me how you think he is now."

The doctor bent down, and after a little examination, rose again.

"There is no difference which I can detect," he said gravely.

"But you will--you will--"

"Will what, Dale?" he said, for I had paused.

"You will not treat him as if--as if he were a criminal?"