Hunting the Skipper: The Cruise of the «Seafowl» Sloop. Fenn George Manville

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      “Any one hurt?” asked the lieutenant, in a low, eager tone.

      “I got a spear a-sticking in me, sir,” said one of the men, in the same subdued tone of voice, “but I can’t say as it hurts.”

      “Let me see,” said Murray excitedly, and he stepped to where the man was standing tugging at himself instead of following his comrades’ example and reloading.

      “Don’t think you can see, sir! it’s so smoky. Would you mind ketching hold here and giving a good pull?”

      As the man spoke, the midshipman did as he was requested, so far as to take hold of the shaft of a spear. But there he stopped short, his imagination suggesting consequences to which he gave voice in a strangely unnatural tone.

      “I daren’t draw it out,” he said. “It may be wrong to do so.”

      “But I can’t march with a thing like that all wibble wobble at every step, sir.”

      “Then you must be helped, my lad,” said Murray hastily. “If I draw it out the wound may burst out bleeding.”

      “Think so, sir?”

      “Yes. You must be helped back till the doctor has seen to you.”

      “Here, what is it?” said a familiar voice out of the gloom.

      “Titely has a spear through his shoulder, sir.”

      “Tut, tut, tut! Here, let me look.”

      “Oh, never mind me, sir,” said the injured man; “it don’t hurt much, on’y feels like a scratch; but it’s orfly in the way.”

      “Who’s this?” asked the lieutenant.

      “Murray, sir.”

      “Let me see. Yes: right through, evidently.”

      “He wants it drawn out, sir,” said the midshipman, and he was holding up the spear-shaft where he stood facing the injured man; “but it would be dangerous to meddle with it, wouldn’t it, sir?”

      “Yes, certainly,” said the lieutenant. “He must be helped back. What’s that?”

      “More spears, sir,” growled Tom May, as there was the whizz and thud of the missiles once more.

      “Present! Fire!” said the lieutenant sharply; and a fresh volley was fired, with the result of a rush of feet being plainly heard from the enemy, now in full retreat.

      “Keep silence, my lads,” said the lieutenant, who had been waiting till the thudding of the ramrods came to an end and denoted that the little party was once more ready to deliver fire.

      Silence ensued, save where Murray stood half supporting the wounded man.

      “Here, give it a good pull, Mr Murray, sir,” whispered the man. “I’ll hold a couple o’ plugs ready for you to stop the bleeding.”

      “No, no, my man; you must be patient,” whispered Murray sympathetically.

      “But I can’t be patient, sir. You don’t know what it means.”

      “Does it pain you so much?”

      “No, sir; not so werry much. I can bear it well enough, but it makes me feel as if I’d got a skewer through me.”

      “Silence there,” said the lieutenant.

      “It’s all very fine,” muttered the man; and then, leaning towards Murray, “Say, sir, these here niggers on the coast are cannibals, aren’t they?”

      “Yes, some of them, I believe,” whispered back the midshipman.

      “Don’t leave me behind, then,” said the man softly, and he uttered a low chuckling laugh. “I don’t want ’em to come upon me and find a fellow skewered and trussed ready for cooking.”

      “Can’t you keep that man quiet, Mr Murray?” said the lieutenant angrily, and he came up to where the pair stood together. “It’s like telling the enemy where to throw again, for they are wonderfully quick of hearing.”

      “I am trying, sir,” whispered the midshipman, “but I wish you would place your hand here.”

      “Place your hand there, Mr Murray!” said the officer, in a voice full of vexation. “I have no time to feel the poor fellow’s wound.”

      “But it isn’t quite that, sir,” said the lad. “I can’t help thinking – ”

      “Think, then, sir, but don’t bother me.”

      “I can’t help it, sir,” whispered the lad excitedly.

      “What do you mean, Mr Murray?” said the officer, alarmed by the lad’s excitement. “Don’t say you are wounded too?”

      “No, sir, and I don’t think that Titely has got anything worse than a scratch.”

      “Eh?”

      “Feel here, sir. The spear has gone right through the bandolier and his shirt from the front and gone out through the shirt and bandolier at the back, running all up a bit.”

      “Well, but what about the poor fellow’s flesh and bone?” said the officer excitedly.

      “I think it’s only gone through the skin, sir.”

      “Yes, that’s right,” said the man. “I telled Mr Murray, sir, as I didn’t think I should bleed much if he pulled the skewer out.”

      “We must wait for daylight, my lad – till the smoke lifts. Ah, what are you doing?”

      “On’y wiggling the spear a little, sir,” replied the man gruffly. “Just give a tug at it. Does hurt a bit. I seem to have teared some’at. There, I knowed it! You try, Mr Murray, sir; you can lift it like now, and – yes, that’s it. I’m a-shoving it back’ards and for’ards, and it moves the cross-belt and my shirt, and nothing else.”

      “But, my good fellow – ” began the officer.

      “It’s all right, sir. I’ve shoved my hand right under my shirt and over my shoulder. It’s just bleeding a little, but – well, it’s about the humbuggin’est humbug of a wound I ever knowed a chap to have. Here, Mr Murray sir, you ketch hold of my cross-belt fore and aft, and if his honour wouldn’t mind giving the spear a haul through the belt I shall be as right as can be.”

      The two officers obeyed the man’s request and stood holding spear and belt, but hesitated to proceed farther.

      “That hurt, my lad?” said the lieutenant.

      “Hurt, sir? Not a bit. On’y feels preciously in the way.”

      “Got hold tightly, Mr Murray?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Then, now then.”

      It took more than one good tug, but after the first tentative trial, which seemed to cause the man no suffering, the first lieutenant pulled hard, and at last drew the spear right through the two pierced portions of the tough buff leather.

      “That’s your sort, gentlemen,” said the man. “Here, who’s got my musket?”

      “Steady, my lad,” said the lieutenant. “Now, then, do you feel faint?”

      “Orfle, sir, inside,” said the man, “but I want a drink o’ water worst.”

      “But are you in pain?” asked Murray.

      “Smarts a bit, but it don’t hardly bleed at all. I’m all right, sir, only tickles enough to make a chap a bit savage. Here, don’t you worry about me, sir. I’m as fit as a fiddle, gentlemen, and I on’y want now to play the niggers such a toon as’ll make them jump again.”

      “Hah!” ejaculated the lieutenant. “Only a bit of a false alarm, Mr Murray.”

      “Thankye, sir. Yes, that’s right. Does me good to grip my musket again.”

      “Then try and use it, Titely,” said the midshipman,