THE REPORTER AND PENCROFF IN THE CORRAL—MOVING HERBERT—DESPAIR OF THE SAILOR—CONSULTATION OF THE ENGINEER AND THE REPORTER—MODE OF TREATMENT—A GLIMMER OF HOPE—HOW TO WARN NEB—A FAITHFUL MESSENGER—NEB’S REPLY.
At Herbert’s cry, Pencroff, dropping his gun, sprang towards him.
“They have killed him!” cried he. “My boy—they have killed him.”
Smith and Spilett rushed forward. The reporter put his ear to the boy’s heart to see if it were still beating.
“He’s alive,” said he, “but he must be taken—”
“To Granite House? Impossible!” said the engineer.
“To the corral, then,” cried Pencroff.
“One moment,” said Smith, and he rushed to the left around the fence. There he found himself face to face with a convict, who fired at him and sent a ball through his cap. An instant later, before he had time to fire again, he fell, struck to the heart by Smith’s poniard, a surer weapon even than his gun.
While this was going on, the reporter and Pencroff hoisted themselves up to the angle of the fence, strode over the top, jumped into the enclosure, made their way into the empty house, and laid Herbert gently down on Ayrton’s bed.
A few minutes afterwards Smith was at his side. At the sight of Herbert, pale and unconscious, the grief of the sailor was intense. He sobbed and cried bitterly; neither the engineer nor the reporter could calm him. Themselves over whelmed with emotion, they could hardly speak.
They did all in their power to save the poor boy’s life. Spilett, in his life of varied experience, had acquired some knowledge of medicine. He knew a little of everything; and had had several opportunities of learning the surgery of gunshot wounds. With Smith’s assistance, he hastened to apply the remedies which Herbert’s condition demanded.
The boy lay in a complete stupor, caused either by the hemorrhage or by concussion of the brain. He was very pale, and his pulse beat only at long intervals, as if every moment about to stop. This, taken in conjunction with his utter loss of consciousness, was a grave symptom. They stripped his chest, and, staunching the blood by means of handkerchiefs, kept bathing the wounds in cold water.
The ball had entered between the third and fourth rib, and there they found the wound. Smith and Spilett turned the poor boy over. At this he uttered a moan so faint that they feared it was his last breath. There was another wound on his back, for the bullet had gone clean through.
“Thank Heaven!” said the reporter, “the ball is not in his body; we shall not have to extract it.”
“But the heart?” asked Smith.
“The heart has not been touched, or he would be dead.”
“Dead!” cried Pencroff, with a groan. He had only heard the reporter’s last word.
“No, Pencroff,” answered Smith. “No he is not dead; his pulse still beats; he has even uttered a groan. For his sake, now, you must be calm. We have need of all our self-possession; you must not be the means of our losing it, my friend.”
Pencroff was silent, but large tears rolled down his cheeks.
Meanwhile, Spilett tried to recall to memory the proper treatment of the case before him. There seemed no doubt that the ball had entered in front and gone out by the back; but what injuries had it done by the way? Had it reached any vital spot? This was a question which even a professional surgeon could not have answered at once.
There was something, however, which Spilett knew must be done, and that was to keep down the inflammation, and to fight against the fever which ensues upon a wound. The wound must be dressed without delay. It was not necessary to bring on a fresh flow of blood by the use of tepid water and compresses, for Herbert was already too weak. The wounds, therefore, were bathed with cold water.
Herbert was placed upon his left side and held in that position.
“He must not be moved,” said Spilett; “he is in the position most favorable to an easy suppuration, and absolute repose is necessary.”
“Cannot we take him to Granite House?” asked Pencroff.
“No, Pencroff,” said the reporter.
Spilett was examining the boy’s wounds again with close attention. Herbert was so frightfully pale that he became alarmed.
“Cyrus,” said he, “I am no doctor. I am in a terrible strait; you must help me with your advice and assistance.”
“Calm yourself, my friend,” answered the engineer, pressing his hand. “Try to judge coolly. Think only of saving Herbert.”
Spilett’s self-possession, which in a moment of discouragement his keen sense of responsibility had caused him to lose, returned again at these words. He seated himself upon the bed; Smith remained standing, Pencroff had torn up his shirt and began mechanically to make lint.
Spilett explained that the first thing to do was to check the hemorrhage, but not to close the wounds or bring on immediate cicatrization—for there had been internal perforation, and they must not let the suppurated matter collect within. It was decided therefore to dress the two wounds, but not to press them together. The colonists possessed a most powerful agent for quelling inflamation, and one which nature supplies in the greatest abundance; to-wit, cold water, which is now used by all doctors. It has, moreover, the advantage of allowing the wound perfect rest, and dispensing with the frequent dressing, which by exposing the wound to the air in the early stages, is so often attended with lamentable results.
Thus did Smith and Spilett reason, with clear, native good sense, and acted as the best surgeon would have done. The wounds were bandaged with linen and constantly soaked with fresh water. The sailor had lighted a fire in the chimney, and the house fortunately contained all the necessaries of life. They had maple-sugar and the medicinal plants which the boy had gathered on the shores of Lake Grant. From these they made a refreshing drink for the sick boy. His fever was very high, and he lay all that day and night without a sign of consciousness. His life was hanging on a thread.
On the next day, November 12, they began to have some hopes of his recovery. His consciousness returned, he opened his eyes and recognized them all. He even said two or three words, and wanted to know what had happened. Spilett told him, and begged him to keep perfectly quiet; that his life was not in danger, and his wounds would heal in a few days. Herbert suffered very little, for the inflammation was successfully kept down by the plentiful use of cold water. A regular suppuration had set in, the fever did not increase, and they began to hope that this terrible accident would not end in a worse catastrophe.
Pencroff took heart again; he was the best of nurses, like a Sister of Charity, or a tender mother watching over her child. Herbert had fallen into another stupor, but this time the sleep appeared more natural.
“Tell me again that you have hope, Mr. Spilett,” said Pencroff; “tell me again that you will save my boy!”
“We shall save him,” said the reporter. “The wound is a serious one, and perhaps the ball has touched the lung; but a wound in that organ is not mortal.”
“May God grant it!” answered the sailor.
As may be imagined, the care of Herbert had occupied all their time and thoughts for the first twenty-four hours at the corral. They had not considered the urgent danger of a return of the convicts, nor taken any precautions for the future. But on this day while Pencroff was watching over the invalid, Smith and the reporter took counsel together as to their plans.
They first searched the corral. There was no trace of Ayrton, and it seemed probable that he had resisted his former companions, and fallen by their hands. The corral had not been pillaged, and as its gates had remained shut, the domestic animals had not been able to wander away into the woods. They could see no traces of the pirates either in the dwelling or the palisade. The only thing gone was the stock of ammunition.
“The poor fellow was taken by surprise,” said Smith, “and as he was a man to show fight, no doubt they made an end of him.”
“Yes,” replied the reporter, “and then, no doubt, they took possession here, where they found everything in great plenty, and took to flight only when they saw us coming.”
“We must beat the woods,” said the engineer, and rid the island of these wretches. But we will have to wait some time in the corral, till the day comes when we can safely carry Herbert to Granite House.”
“But Neb?” asked the reporter.
“Neb’s safe enough.”
“Suppose he becomes anxious and risks coming here?”
“He must not come,” said Smith sharply. “He would be murdered on the way!”
“It’s very likely he will try.”
“Ah! if the telegraph was only in working order, we could warn him! But now it’s impossible. We can’t leave Pencroff and Herbert here alone. Well, I’ll go by myself to Granite House!”
“No, no, Cyrus,” said the reporter, “you must not expose yourself. These wretches are watching the corral from their ambush, and there would be two mishaps instead of one!”
“But Neb has been without news of us for twenty-four hours,” repeated the engineer. “He will want to come.”
While he reflected, his gaze fell upon Top, who, by running to and fro, seemed to say, “Have you forgotten me?”
“Top!” cried Smith.
The dog sprang up at this master’s call.
“Yes, Top shall go!” cried the reporter, who understood in a flash. Top will make his way where we could not pass, will take our message and bring us back an answer.”
“Quick!” said Smith, “quick!”
Spilett tore out a page of his note-book and wrote these lines:—
“Herbert wounded. We are at the corral. Be on your guard. Do not leave Granite House. Have the convicts shown themselves near you? Answer by Top!”
This laconic note was folded and tied in a conspicuous way to Top’s collar.
“Top, my dog,” said the engineer, caressing the animal, “Neb, Top, Neb! Away! away!”
Top sprang high at the words. He understood what was wanted, and the road was familiar to him. The engineer went to the door of the corral and opened one of the leaves.
“Neb, Top, Neb!” he cried again, pointing towards Granite House.
Top rushed out and disappeared almost instantly.
“He’ll get there!” said the reporter.
“Yes, and come back, the faithful brute!”
“What time is it?” asked Spilett.
“Ten o’clock.”
“In an hour he may be here. We will watch for him.
The door of the corral was closed again. The engineer and the reporter re-entered the house. Herbert lay in a profound sleep. Pencroff kept his compresses constantly wet with cold water. Spilett, seeing that just then there was nothing else to do, set to work to prepare some food, all the time keeping his eye on that part of the inclosure which backed up against the spur, from which an attack might be made.
The colonists awaited Top’s return with much anxiety. A little before 11 o’clock Smith andSpilett stood with their carbines behind the door, ready to open it at the dog’s first bark. They knew that if Top got safely to Granite House, Neb would send him back at once.
They had waited about ten minutes, when they heard a loud report, followed instantly by continuous barking. The engineer opened the door, and, seeing smoke still curling up among the trees a hundred paces off, he fired in that direction. Just then Top bounded into the corral, whose door was quickly shut.
“Top, Top!” cried the engineer, caressing the dog’s large, noble head. A note was fastened to his collar, containing these words in Neb’s sprawling handwriting:——
“No pirates near Granite House. I will not stir. Poor Mr. Herbert!”
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