Part 13 (1/2)
”What! Singleton! G.o.d forbid! Bless me-is it George-poor little George?” exclaimed the surgeon, as he quickened his pace with evident concern, and hastened to the side of the bed. ”He is alive, though, and while there is life there is hope. This is the first serious case I have had to-day, where the patient was not already dead. Captain Lawton teaches his men to strike with so little discretion-poor George-bless me, it is a musket bullet.”
The youthful sufferer turned his eyes on the man of science, and with a faint smile endeavored to stretch forth his hand. There was an appeal in the look and action that touched the heart of the operator. The surgeon removed his spectacles to wipe an unusual moisture from his eyes, and proceeded carefully to the discharge of his duty. While the previous arrangements were, however, making, he gave vent in some measure to his feelings, by saying,-
”When it is only a bullet, I have always some hopes; there is a chance that it hits nothing vital. But, bless me, Captain Lawton's men cut so at random-generally sever the jugular or the carotid artery, or let out the brains, and all are so difficult to remedy-the patient mostly dying before one can get at him. I never had success but once in replacing a man's brains, although I have tried three this very day. It is easy to tell where Lawton's troops charge in a battle, they cut so at random.”
The group around the bed of Captain Singleton were too much accustomed to the manner of their surgeon to regard or to reply to his soliloquy; but they quietly awaited the moment when he was to commence his examination. This now took place, and Dunwoodie stood looking the operator in the face, with an expression that seemed to read his soul. The patient shrank from the application of the probe, and a smile stole over the features of the surgeon, as he muttered,-
”There has been nothing before it in that quarter.” He now applied himself in earnest to his work, took off his spectacles, and threw aside his wig. All this time Dunwoodie stood in feverish silence, holding one of the hands of the sufferer in both his own, watching the countenance of Doctor Sitgreaves. At length Singleton gave a slight groan, and the surgeon rose with alacrity, and said aloud,-
”Ah! there is some pleasure in following a bullet; it may be said to meander through the human body, injuring nothing vital; but as for Captain Lawton's men-”
”Speak,” interrupted Dunwoodie; ”is there hope?-can you find the ball?”
”It's no difficult matter to find that which one has in his hand, Major Dunwoodie,” replied the surgeon, coolly, preparing his dressings. ”It took what that literal fellow, Captain Lawton, calls a circ.u.mbendibus, a route never taken by the swords of his men, notwithstanding the multiplied pains I have been at to teach him how to cut scientifically. Now, I saw a horse this day with his head half severed from his body.”
”That,” said Dunwoodie, as the blood rushed to his cheeks again, and his dark eyes sparkled with the rays of hope, ”was some of my handiwork; I killed that horse myself.”
”You!” exclaimed the surgeon, dropping his dressings in surprise, ”you!
But you knew it was a horse!”
”I had such suspicions, I own,” said the major, smiling, and holding a beverage to the lips of his friend.
”Such blows alighting on the human frame are fatal,” continued the doctor, pursuing his business. ”They set at naught the benefits which flow from the lights of science; they are useless in a battle, for disabling your foe is all that is required. I have sat, Major Dunwoodie, many a cold hour, while Captain Lawton has been engaged, and after all my expectation, not a single case worth recording has occurred-all scratches or death wounds. Ah! the saber is a sad weapon in unskillful hands! Yes, Major Dunwoodie, many are the hours I have thrown away in endeavoring to impress this truth on Captain John Lawton.”
The impatient major pointed silently to his friend, and the surgeon quickened his movements.
”Ah! poor George, it is a narrow chance; but”-he was interrupted by a messenger requiring the presence of the commanding officer in the field. Dunwoodie pressed the hand of his friend, and beckoned the doctor to follow him, as he withdrew.
”What think you?” he whispered, on reaching the pa.s.sage. ”Will he live?”
”He will.”
”Thank G.o.d!” cried the youth, hastening below.
Dunwoodie for a moment joined the family, who were now collecting in the ordinary parlor. His face was no longer wanting in smiles, and his salutations, though hasty, were cordial. He took no notice of the escape and capture of Henry Wharton, but seemed to think the young man had continued where he had left him before the encounter. On the ground they had not met. The English officer withdrew in haughty silence to a window, leaving the major uninterrupted to make his communications.
The excitement produced by the events of the day in the youthful feelings of the sisters, had been succeeded by a languor that kept them both silent, and Dunwoodie held his discourse with Miss Peyton.
”Is there any hope, my cousin, that your friend can survive his wound?” said the lady, advancing towards her kinsman, with a smile of benevolent regard.
”Everything, my dear madam, everything,” answered the soldier cheerfully. ”Sitgreaves says he will live, and he has never deceived me.”
”Your pleasure is not much greater than my own at this intelligence. One so dear to Major Dunwoodie cannot fail to excite an interest in the bosom of his friends.”
”Say one so deservedly dear, madam,” returned the major, with warmth. ”He is the beneficent spirit of the corps, equally beloved by us all; so mild, so equal, so just, so generous, with the meekness of a lamb and the fondness of a dove-it is only in the hour of battle that Singleton is a lion.”
”You speak of him as if he were your mistress, Major Dunwoodie,” observed the smiling spinster, glancing her eye at her niece, who sat pale and listening, in a corner of the room.
”I love him as one,” cried the excited youth. ”But he requires care and nursing; all now depends on the attention he receives.”