Chapter 7

At Herbert’s cry, Pencroft, letting his gun fall, rushed towards him.

“They have killed him!” he cried. “My boy! They have killed him!”

Cyrus Harding and Gideon Spilett ran to Herbert.

The reporter listened to ascertain if the poor lad’s heart was still

beating.

“He lives,” said he, “but he must be carried--”

“To Granite House? that is impossible!” replied the engineer.

“Into the corral, then!” said Pencroft.

“In a moment,” said Harding.

And he ran round the left corner of the palisade. There he found a

convict, who aiming at him, sent a ball through his hat. In a few

seconds, before he had even time to fire his second barrel, he fell,

struck to the heart by Harding’s dagger, more sure even than his gun.

During this time, Gideon Spilett and the sailor hoisted themselves over

the palisade, leaped into the enclosure, threw down the props which

supported the inner door, ran into the empty house, and soon, poor

Herbert was lying on Ayrton’s bed. In a few moments, Harding was by his

side.

On seeing Herbert senseless, the sailor’s grief was terrible.

He sobbed, he cried, he tried to beat his head against the wall.

Neither the engineer nor the reporter could calm him. They themselves

were choked with emotion. They could not speak.

However, they knew that it depended on them to rescue from death the

poor boy who was suffering beneath their eyes. Gideon Spilett had not

passed through the many incidents by which his life had been checkered

without acquiring some slight knowledge of medicine. He knew a little

of everything, and several times he had been obliged to attend to wounds

produced either by a sword-bayonet or shot. Assisted by Cyrus Harding,

he proceeded to render the aid Herbert required.

The reporter was immediately struck by the complete stupor in which

Herbert lay, a stupor owing either to the hemorrhage, or to the shock,

the ball having struck a bone with sufficient force to produce a violent

concussion.

Herbert was deadly pale, and his pulse so feeble that Spilett only felt

it beat at long intervals, as if it was on the point of stopping.

These symptoms were very serious.

Herbert’s chest was laid bare, and the blood having been stanched with

handkerchiefs, it was bathed with cold water.

The contusion, or rather the contused wound appeared,--an oval below the

chest between the third and fourth ribs. It was there that Herbert had

been hit by the bullet.

Cyrus Harding and Gideon Spilett then turned the poor boy over; as they

did so, he uttered a moan so feeble that they almost thought it was his

last sigh.

Herberts back was covered with blood from another contused wound, by

which the ball had immediately escaped.

“God be praised!” said the reporter, “the ball is not in the body, and

we shall not have to extract it.”

“But the heart?” asked Harding.

“The heart has not been touched; if it had been, Herbert would be dead!”

“Dead!” exclaimed Pencroft, with a groan.

The sailor had only heard the last words uttered by the reporter.

“No, Pencroft,” replied Cyrus Harding, “no! He is not dead. His pulse

still beats. He has even uttered a moan. But for your boy’s sake, calm

yourself. We have need of all our self-possession.”

“Do not make us lose it, my friend.”

Pencroft was silent, but a reaction set in, and great tears rolled down

his cheeks.

In the meanwhile, Gideon Spilett endeavored to collect his ideas, and

proceed methodically. After his examination he had no doubt that the

ball, entering in front, between the seventh and eighth ribs, had issued

behind between the third and fourth. But what mischief had the ball

committed in its passage? What important organs had been reached? A

professional surgeon would have had difficulty in determining this at

once, and still more so the reporter.

However, he knew one thing, this was that he would have to prevent the

inflammatory strangulation of the injured parts, then to contend with

the local inflammation and fever which would result from the wound,

perhaps mortal! Now, what styptics, what antiphlogistics ought to be

employed? By what means could inflammation be prevented?

At any rate, the most important thing was that the two wounds should

be dressed without delay. It did not appear necessary to Gideon Spilett

that a fresh flow of blood should be caused by bathing them in tepid

water, and compressing their lips. The hemorrhage had been very

abundant, and Herbert was already too much enfeebled by the loss of

blood.

The reporter, therefore, thought it best to simply bathe the two wounds

with cold water.

Herbert was placed on his left side, and was maintained in that

position.

“He must not be moved.” said Gideon Spilett. “He is in the most

favorable position for the wounds in his back and chest to suppurate

easily, and absolute rest is necessary.”

“What! can’t we carry him to Granite House?” asked Pencroft.

“No, Pencroft,” replied the reporter.

“I’ll pay the villains off!” cried the sailor, shaking his fist in a

menacing manner.

“Pencroft!” said Cyrus Harding.

Gideon Spilett had resumed his examination of the wounded boy. Herbert

was still so frightfully pale, that the reporter felt anxious.

“Cyrus,” said he, “I am not a surgeon. I am in terrible perplexity. You

must aid me with your advice, your experience!”

“Take courage, my friend,” answered the engineer, pressing the

reporter’s hand. “Judge coolly. Think only of this: Herbert must be

saved!”

These words restored to Gideon Spilett that self-possession which he had

lost in a moment of discouragement on feeling his great responsibility.

He seated himself close to the bed. Cyrus Harding stood near. Pencroft

had torn up his shirt, and was mechanically making lint.

Spilett then explained to Cyrus Harding that he thought he ought first

of all to stop the hemorrhage, but not close the two wounds, or cause

their immediate cicatrization, for there had been internal perforation,

and the suppuration must not be allowed to accumulate in the chest.

Harding approved entirely, and it was decided that the two wounds should

be dressed without attempting to close them by immediate coaptation.

And now did the colonists possess an efficacious agent to act against

the inflammation which might occur?

Yes. They had one, for nature had generously lavished it. They had cold

water, that is to say, the most powerful sedative that can be employed

against inflammation of wounds, the most efficacious therapeutic agent

in grave cases, and the one which is now adopted by all physicians.

Cold water has, moreover, the advantage of leaving the wound in absolute

rest, and preserving it from all premature dressing, a considerable

advantage, since it has been found by experience that contact with the

air is dangerous during the first days.

Gideon Spilett and Cyrus Harding reasoned thus with their simple good

sense, and they acted as the best surgeon would have done. Compresses

of linen were applied to poor Herbert’s two wounds, and were kept

constantly wet with cold water.

The sailor had at first lighted a fire in the hut, which was not wanting

in things necessary for life. Maple sugar, medicinal plants, the same

which the lad had gathered on the banks of Lake Grant, enabled them to

make some refreshing drinks, which they gave him without his taking any

notice of it. His fever was extremely high, and all that day and night

passed without his becoming conscious.

Herbert’s life hung on a thread, and this thread might break at any

moment. The next day, the 12th of November, the hopes of Harding and his

companions slightly revived. Herbert had come out of his long stupor.

He opened his eyes, he recognized Cyrus Harding, the reporter, and

Pencroft. He uttered two or three words. He did not know what had

happened. They told him, and Spilett begged him to remain perfectly

still, telling him that his life was not in danger, and that his wounds

would heal in a few days. However, Herbert scarcely suffered at all,

and the cold water with which they were constantly bathed, prevented any

inflammation of the wounds. The suppuration was established in a regular

way, the fever did not increase, and it might now be hoped that this

terrible wound would not involve any catastrophe. Pencroft felt the

swelling of his heart gradually subside. He was like a sister of mercy,

like a mother by the bed of her child.

Herbert dozed again, but his sleep appeared more natural.

“Tell me again that you hope, Mr. Spilett,” said Pencroft. “Tell me

again that you will save Herbert!”

“Yes, we will save him!” replied the reporter. “The wound is serious,

and, perhaps, even the ball has traversed the lungs, but the perforation

of this organ is not fatal.”

“God bless you!” answered Pencroft.

As may be believed, during the four-and-twenty hours they had been in

the corral, the colonists had no other thought than that of nursing

Herbert. They did not think either of the danger which threatened them

should the convicts return, or of the precautions to be taken for the

future.

But on this day, while Pencroft watched by the sick-bed, Cyrus Harding

and the reporter consulted as to what it would be best to do.

First of all they examined the corral. There was not a trace of Ayrton.

Had the unhappy man been dragged away by his former accomplices? Had he

resisted, and been overcome in the struggle? This last supposition was

only too probable. Gideon Spilett, at the moment he scaled the palisade,

had clearly seen some one of the convicts running along the southern

spur of Mount Franklin, towards whom Top had sprung. It was one of those

whose object had been so completely defeated by the rocks at the mouth

of the Mercy. Besides, the one killed by Harding, and whose body was

found outside the enclosure, of course belonged to Bob Harvey’s crew.

As to the corral, it had not suffered any damage. The gates were closed,

and the animals had not been able to disperse in the forest. Nor could

they see traces of any struggle, any devastation, either in the hut,

or in the palisade. The ammunition only, with which Ayrton had been

supplied, had disappeared with him.

“The unhappy man has been surprised,” said Harding, “and as he was a man

to defend himself, he must have been overpowered.”

“Yes, that is to be feared!” said the reporter. “Then, doubtless, the

convicts installed themselves in the corral where they found plenty of

everything, and only fled when they saw us coming. It is very evident,

too, that at this moment Ayrton, whether living or dead, is not here!”

“We shall have to beat the forest,” said the engineer, “and rid the

island of these wretches. Pencroft’s presentiments were not mistaken,

when he wished to hunt them as wild beasts. That would have spared us

all these misfortunes!”

“Yes,” answered the reporter, “but now we have the right to be

merciless!”

“At any rate,” said the engineer, “we are obliged to wait some time,

and to remain at the corral until we can carry Herbert without danger to

Granite House.”

“But Neb?” asked the reporter.

“Neb is in safety.”

“But if, uneasy at our absence, he would venture to come?”

“He must not come!” returned Cyrus Harding quickly. “He would be

murdered on the road!”

“It is very probable, however, that he will attempt to rejoin us!”

“Ah, if the telegraph still acted, he might be warned! But that is

impossible now! As to leaving Pencroft and Herbert here alone, we could

not do it! Well, I will go alone to Granite House.”

“No, no! Cyrus,” answered the reporter, “you must not expose yourself!

Your courage would be of no avail. The villains are evidently watching

the corral, they are hidden in the thick woods which surround it, and if

you go we shall soon have to regret two misfortunes instead of one!”

“But Neb?” repeated the engineer. “It is now four-and-twenty hours since

he has had any news of us! He will be sure to come!”

“And as he will be less on his guard than we should be ourselves,” added

Spilett, “he will be killed!”

“Is there really no way of warning him?”

While the engineer thought, his eyes fell on Top, who, going backwards

and forwards seemed to say,--

“Am not I here?”

“Top!” exclaimed Cyrus Harding.

The animal sprang at his master’s call.

“Yes, Top will go,” said the reporter, who had understood the engineer.

“Top can go where we cannot! He will carry to Granite House the news of

the corral, and he will bring back to us that from Granite House!”

“Quick!” said Harding. “Quick!”

Spilett rapidly tore a leaf from his note-book, and wrote these words:--

“Herbert wounded. We are at the corral. Be on your guard. Do not leave

Granite House. Have the convicts appeared in the neighborhood? Reply by

Top.”

This laconic note contained all that Neb ought to know, and at the same

time asked all that the colonists wished to know. It was folded and

fastened to Top’s collar in a conspicuous position.

“Top, my dog,” said the engineer, caressing the animal, “Neb, Top! Neb!

Go, go!”

Top bounded at these words. He understood, he knew what was expected of

him. The road to the corral was familiar to him. In less than an hour he

could clear it, and it might be hoped that where neither Cyrus Harding

nor the reporter could have ventured without danger, Top, running among

the grass or in the wood, would pass unperceived.

The engineer went to the gate of the corral and opened it.

“Neb, Top! Neb!” repeated the engineer, again pointing in the direction

of Granite House.

Top sprang forwards, then almost immediately disappeared.

“He will get there!” said the reporter.

“Yes, and he will come back, the faithful animal!”

“What o’clock is it?” asked Gideon Spilett.

“Ten.”

“In an hour he may be here. We will watch for his return.”

The gate of the corral was closed. The engineer and the reporter

re-entered the house. Herbert was still in a sleep. Pencroft kept the

compresses always wet. Spilett, seeing there was nothing he could do

at that moment, busied himself in preparing some nourishment, while

attentively watching that part of the enclosure against the hill, at

which an attack might be expected.

The settlers awaited Top’s return with much anxiety. A little before

eleven o’clock, Cyrus Harding and the reporter, rifle in hand, were

behind the gate, ready to open it at the first bark of their dog.

They did not doubt that if Top had arrived safely at Granite House, Neb

would have sent him back immediately.

They had both been there for about ten minutes, when a report was heard,

followed by repeated barks.

The engineer opened the gate, and seeing smoke a hundred feet off in the

wood, he fired in that direction.

Almost immediately Top bounded into the corral, and the gate was quickly

shut.

“Top, Top!” exclaimed the engineer, taking the dog’s great honest head

between his hands.

A note was fastened to his neck, and Cyrus Harding read these words,

traced in Neb’s large writing:--“No pirates in the neighborhood of

Granite House. I will not stir. Poor Mr. Herbert!”