Gil the Gunner by George Manville Fenn (rainbow fish read aloud TXT) 📕

shades the waggons, elephants, and wounded men were placed. And now a feeling of trouble and worry came over me, for I recollected that I had been so busy that I had not been to see Serjeant Craig.

It looked hard, for he had done so much for us, but I hoped that Brace had been to him, and that he would not think it unkind of me, knowing as he would that I had been heavily on duty. But, all the same, it was hard for the poor fellow lying wounded.

I paused there, and then repeated the words in a strange, puzzled way—“Poor fellow lying wounded—poor fellow lying wounded.”

And then, with the intention of sitting up, I moved my arm.

No; I only tried to move it, and felt a horrible twinge of pain. Then I tried to raise my head, but it felt like so much lead, and the effort made me feel sick.

But my mind was active now, and as I said in a whisper, “Why, I must be wounded,” the scene of our last gallop came back to my mind with vivid force, and I saw it all, and even, as it were, felt the sensation of the mad gallop, and the shock of our collision with the sowars, even to the curious sensation of galloping along with our men firing at us, and then awakening to the fact that I had fierce-looking troopers on either side, and then of one cutting at me, and another interposing to save my life.

Yes; I could recollect that clearly, and I recalled, too, the poor fellow falling headlong from his horse.

Was that I?

It seemed as if it must have been; but in a confused way I argued that, if it had, I could not have sat on horseback and seen him fall.

I was still puzzling about it with a feeling upon me that my brain would not work properly, when a purdah was thrust on one side, and a tall, grave, grey-bearded man in white and gold came slowly in. His voluminous turban was of white muslin, and his long snowy garment descended almost to his feet.

I felt, as he gravely fixed his eyes upon me, and advanced to where I lay, that this must be a kind of dream, and that possibly the sun had beat so hotly upon my helmet that it had had some effect upon my brain. Consequently, all I had to do was to be still, and then all would come clear.

But the dream became to me wonderfully real as the tall grave Mussulman went down on one knee and laid his hand upon my head, the touch feeling cool and pleasant, while, as he saw my eyes fixed upon his inquiringly, he said in very good English—

“The young sahib is better?”

“Better?” I replied in a curiously faint voice—“better? Have I been ill?”

“Don’t try to talk. Not ill, sahib—wounded.”

“Oh!” I ejaculated. “Then I was hurt in that charge. Where is Captain Brace?”

“Don’t talk; you are weak. Let me look at your wound.”

As he spoke he laid his hand upon my left arm, but changed his mind, and his hands were busy about my head, which I found now was confined by a bandage.

This being removed, he gave me a little pain by touching one spot just above my temple, which was extremely tender, and then, taking out a pair of scissors, he snipped away a little hair closely; after this he drew a piece of fine white cloth from his pocket, he poured some brown strongly scented fluid from a little flask to moisten it, and laid the little wet patch on my head, with the result that it tingled sharply.

“Hurt?” he said quietly.

“Yes; a little.”

“It will soon go off.”

As he spoke he very carefully bound the linen bandage he had removed back in its place.

“Is it a sword-cut?” I asked.

“No, sahib; a bullet struck your helmet, and made a bad place within. It is not very serious, and if you are quiet, it will soon be well.”

“But where is Dr Danby? Why does he not come?” I asked; then, in a startled way, “He is not killed?”

The grey-bearded old fellow merely shook his head and repeated his injunction that I should not talk, and now began examining my left arm, which was firmly bandaged, and began to pain me severely at his touch.

“Is that a bullet wound?” I said in a whisper, for I felt that I must resign myself to my position, and, after the first shock, I began to feel rather proud that I had been wounded, for I felt not the slightest inclination to stir.

“No,” he said, as he removed bandage after bandage, “a cut from a tulwar just below the shoulder. You will be brave, and bear what I do without being faint? Yes,” he added, with a grave smile, “you English sahibs are brave. Hurt?”

“Hurt? Yes,” I said, with a wince. “Is it a big cut?”

“Yes,” he said softly; “a big cut—a bad cut, but it is beautiful, and will soon grow up again.”

“Are you going to put any of that smarting stuff on?” I asked.

“Oh no. It wants nothing but to be left to grow well with bandages round it. These fresh bandages. Young healthy flesh soon heals.”

“Are you a surgeon?” I asked.

“Yes; and learned to be one in London,” he continued, with a smile. “But now you must be still and not talk.”

I was not sorry to be forbidden to speak, for it was an effort, and I lay watching him, feeling very sick and faint, while he dressed my wound; and then I felt nothing till I found myself staring at the grave face of the eastern surgeon, as he lightly passed a moistened finger beneath my nostrils, and then touched the neck of a bottle which he turned upside down, and proceeded to moisten my temples, while a peculiar cool pungent odour filled the tent.

“Better?” he said.

“Yes,” I said dreamily; and then as I realised what had passed—“Did I faint?”

He bowed gravely.

“It was natural, sahib. I hurt you very greatly; but the wound looks well. Ah, your colour is coming back to your lips.”

“Thank you,” I said feebly. “I am sorry I was so cowardly. Now ask Captain Brace to come.”

He shook his head.

“Well, then, Mr Haynes.”

He shook his head again.

“They are far away,” he said.

“Then what place is this? a hospital?”

He shook his head again.

“I am only the doctor,” he said, with a smile. “My duty is to dress your wounds, and it is done.”

“But tell me this—the fight yesterday?”

“I cannot,” he replied. “There was no fight yesterday.”

“Nonsense! There was; and I remember now coming off my horse. I thought it was some one else; but I recall it now.”

“The sahib talks too much,” said the grave, patient-looking doctor.

“I will hold my tongue directly,” I cried; “but tell me this—were you at the fight?”

“Oh no; I was far away, and the rajah summoned me here to attend on you.”

“Rajah? What rajah?”

“His highness, my master.”

“What!” I cried excitedly. “Then I am a prisoner?”

“Yes, sahib. You were cut down in the battle a week ago.”

A low expiration of the breath, which sounded like a sigh, was the only sound I uttered as I lay back, weak, faint, utterly astounded by the news. A prisoner—cut down a week ago. Then the troop; where was the troop? If I was made a prisoner, had the guns been taken?

A cold chill of despair ran through me as those crushing thoughts occurred, and in imagination I saw our men surrounded and slaughtered, perhaps mutilated, the guns taken, and the fight of that day a tremendous victory for the enemy.

But after a time a better way of thinking came over me when I was alone; for, after a grave smile, the doctor had bowed and left the tent.

It was a daring, desperate charge I felt, but the only thing Brace could do under the circumstances; and he must have cut his way through. He could not turn and retreat, for it would have looked like being afraid of the sowars; and surely, I thought, it was not in them to overcome our brave little troop even if they were ten times the number.

Then, as I lay there, confused and troubled, a fresh thought struck me—the firing? Yes, of course there was sharp firing; and I remembered now pretty clearly I was galloping away with troopers on each side. I must have been separated from my men in the desperate shock, and borne off by the foe as they retreated. Yes, of course, I thought, with growing excitement; they must have been retreating; and it was the colonel’s regiment that was firing upon us as we fled.

With these thoughts hope came back, and I could think no more, but dropped off into a deep sleep that was greatly like a swoon.

My next recollection is of lying in that heated tent, feverish and thirsty, and the tall, grey-bearded doctor coming in to busy himself about me, and at every touch of his hand seeming to give me ease.

Then I slept again, and slept—ah, how I must have slept, and dreamed of Brace being safe, and coming sooner or later to rescue me from that silent tent where I saw no one but the doctor and a couple of Hindu servants, who never answered any questions, only salaamed and left the tent if I spoke!

Neither could I get any information from the doctor. All I knew grew from my own calculations, and these taught me that I was the prisoner of some great chief who seemed to be reserving me to exchange for some other prisoner, perhaps to act as a hostage in case he should happen to be captured. I could come to no other conclusion; for so far the custom had been for the revolted people to murder and mutilate every one who fell into their hands.

I was lying there one afternoon, wondering where the tent could be, and why it was that everything was so silent about me. It was puzzling now that I was not quite so weak and feverish; for this could hardly be a camp in which I was a prisoner. If it had been, I should have heard the trampling of horses and the coming and going of armed men. Then I seldom heard voices, save those of the servants who came to attend upon me by the doctor’s orders. But I knew one thing—the tent in which I was sheltered had been pitched under a great tree; for at certain times, when the sun was low, I saw the shadows of leaves and boughs upon the canvas; and when the wind blew sometimes at night, I had heard the rushing sound through the branches.

Feeling a little better as I did that afternoon, I had quite made up my mind to attack the doctor when he came, as I knew he would later on, and try hard to get some particulars about where we were, and what had happened after the fight; for it seemed strange and I shrank at times from the thought that Brace and the colonel had not followed up their success. But had it been a success?

The question was terrible; for their long silence suggested that it might equally have been a failure; and this was the more likely from the odds they had to engage.

I lay there very patiently, for I was not in much pain now; but that afternoon the doctor did not come, and my patience was rapidly fading away; for it was growing late, and it appeared hard, now that I had come to such a determination, for my attendant to stay away. That he must come from a distance, I knew; and more than once I had detected little things which showed me that he had been attending wounded men—a fact which of course told me that there was trouble going on somewhere near at hand.

Perhaps there was trouble