Draw Swords! Part 21

"Apply a tourniquet well on the femoral artery, and do what I could to check the bleeding."

"Humph! Suppose a fellow had a bullet through him anywhere?"

"Plug and bandage the wound."

"Sword-cut?"

"Depend on what and where it was. Most likely put in a few st.i.tches to draw it together, and then apply strapping."

"All right," said Wyatt; "we're often right away from a doctor, and some of us get into trouble, so just you stick by me, d.i.c.k, in case I go down."

d.i.c.k laughed.

"I suppose what you say is all right."

"Oh, yes," said the lad confidently. "That is what my father would have done."

"But your father was never in a battle."

"In the battle of life every day," said d.i.c.k.

"But he never treated a man who had had his leg taken off by a shot."

"No; but he has treated poor fellows who have had their legs taken off by machines."

"Well, no sword-cuts?"

"Worse ones--made by scythes."

"I've got you this time! No holes made by bullets?"

"No: but I went with him once to see a poor fellow who had had an iron rod driven through one arm."

"Bravo, old fellow--Well, has he quieted down?" This to Hulton, who was coming away from the cell door.

"I've sent for the doctor."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

WYATT'S OLD FATHER.

The prisoner's injury proved to be so slight, and his conduct so bad upon his being brought before his officers and those of the other regiments in barracks, that at last it was decided that a severe punishment must now follow the many breaches of discipline of which he had been guilty; and the sentence was no more than might have been expected, for in those days there was less hesitation over meting out punishment in the army than there is now.

d.i.c.k shuddered when he heard it, and Wyatt looked at him grimly.

"No use to make a face at it, my dear boy," he said. "He deserved it, and ought to have had it a twelvemonth ago."

"Oh, yes, I dare say; but we all deserve more than we get."

"Speak for yourself, d.i.c.ky, boy. I feel particularly good; nothing more on my conscience than a general feeling of laziness, and a stone too much weight."

"But to be flogged!" cried d.i.c.k.

"Well, yes, it does sound bad, and of course it hurts; but Master Hanson has been bidding for it month after month."

"But such a degrading punishment!"

"Ye-e-es," drawled Wyatt; "but then all punishments are degrading. They are meant to be--so it seems to me."

"It seems so hateful!"

"Of course: and the man flogged won't like it. Don't suppose in the good old times men liked to be cut short with the axe and block. The moral is, don't do things which entail punishment."

"Do you often flog men in this troop?"

"My dear boy--no! I've been with it seven years, and we never did such a thing before; and we shall none of us know how to go about it. Let's see; the drummers do it in the foot regiments. Seems a comical idea-- beating a tattoo on a man's back. Ought to do it with the drumsticks."

"Don't laugh at it, Wyatt," cried d.i.c.k angrily.

"Certainly not, old fellow. But, really, we shan't know what to do.

Who's to flog? The drummer can't, because we haven't got one. The trumpeter, I suppose."

"It is horrible and disgraceful."

"So it is, dear boy; but what are we to do? We don't want to lose the man, and we can't let him go on as he is going."

"It will make him worse, Wyatt, and he'll be nursing up a feeling of revenge."

"Not a nice baby, that, for a man to nurse. But I hope for better things. Do him good."

"No, no, no!"

"Don't jump to conclusions, dear boy, till the remedy has been tried.

But, really, I begin to feel a good deal like my father said he did-- dear old fellow!--though I never believed it before."

"What did he feel? Tell me."

"Oh, it's nothing--nothing much," said Wyatt, tugging at his big mustachios. "Your pater ever lick you?"

"Never," said d.i.c.k emphatically. "He was too fond of me."

"Of course. My father was too fond of me, you know, but he gave me a tremendous thras.h.i.+ng once."

"Stick?"

"Riding-whip. Hurts more."