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22. How My Sea Adventure Began

THERE was no return of the mutineers--not so much as
another shot out of the woods. They had “got their rations
for that day,” as the captain put it, and we had the place to
ourselves and a quiet time to overhaul the wounded and get
dinner. Squire and I cooked outside in spite of the danger, and
even outside we could hardly tell what we were at, for horror of
the loud groans that reached us from the doctor’s patients.

Out of the eight men who had fallen in the action, only three
still breathed--that one of the pirates who had been shot at the
loophole, Hunter, and Captain Smollett; and of these, the first two
were as good as dead; the mutineer indeed died under the doctor’s
knife, and Hunter, do what we could, never recovered
consciousness in this world. He lingered all day, breathing loudly
like the old buccaneer at home in his apoplectic fit, but the bones
of his chest had been crushed by the blow and his skull fractured
in falling, and some time in the following night, without sign or
sound, he went to his Maker.

As for the captain, his wounds were grievous indeed, but not
dangerous. No organ was fatally injured. Anderson’s ball--for it
was Job that shot him first-- had broken his shoulder-blade and
touched the lung, not badly; the second had only torn and
displaced some muscles in the calf. He was sure to recover, the
doctor said, but in the meantime, and for weeks to come, he must
not walk nor move his arm, nor so much as speak when he could
help it.

My own accidental cut across the knuckles was a flea-bite.

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