Half an hour brought the searchers of the Royal Picts to where young
Anastasius Wilders lay. McKay was the first to find him, and he raised
a shout of recognition as he ran forward to the wounded officer.
Unslinging his water-bottle, he put it to his cousin's lips; but young
Wilders waved the precious liquid aside, saying, although in a feeble
voice--
"Thank you; but I can wait. Give it to that poor chap over there; he
is far worse hit than I am."
It was a private of the regiment, whose breast a bullet had pierced,
and whose tortures seemed terrible.
But now the rest of the party came up. General Wilders dismounted,
flask in hand, and the wounded lad was rewarded for his self-denial.
A surgeon, too, had arrived, and he was anxiously questioned as to the
nature of young Wilders's wound.
The right leg had been shattered below the knee by a round shot; the
wound had bled profusely, but the poor lad managed to stanch it with
his shirt.
"Can you save it?" whispered the general.
"Impossible!" replied the surgeon, in the same tone.
"We must amputate above the knee at once," and he turned up his
sleeves and gave instructions to an assistant to get ready the
instruments.
The operation, performed without chloroform, and borne with heroic
fortitude, was over when Hugo Wilders rode up to the spot.
Pages:
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121