Of what took place on board during the rest of that night I had only
the vaguest of knowledge. Once I had an indistinct impression of
consciousness, such as one may have through the film of opiates. Dr.
Olson was explaining to some one that it was a pretty close call,
considering that it wasn’t going to amount to anything. Brack’s bullet
had struck me under the angle of the left jaw, had ranged upward
through the muscles of the neck and gone out squarely above the
occiput.
“Those cuts in his leg will give him more trouble,” the doctor was
saying.
My next impression was of hearing the same sharp report as had ushered
me into unconsciousness. I smiled. My senses had cleared now and I was
sure that what I fancied I heard was simply the echo of Brack’s shot
in my disordered mind.
I sank gratefully back toward the slumber that invited me, and then—
_Crack! Crack-crack!_ _Crack-crack-crack!_ Up on the after deck a
perfect splatter of shots which seemed echoed from a distance, drove
the sleepiness from my head.
I opened my eyes and sat up. I was in bed in my own stateroom, and the
gray light of dawn was coming through the port-hole. From a distance
far off came two more reports, and on the steel plates of the
_Wanderer’s_ after cabin resounded two heavy, dull blows.
I was out of bed and on my feet ere the two shots from our stern spat
out their reply. I understood the significance of those sounds now.
Brack and his gang were attacking at the first light of dawn, and they
had not caught our men napping.
My legs bent weakly under me as I stood up, the thigh which Barry had
cut seemed numb and helpless, and my head whirled till I nearly fell.
With my hands hugging the wall for support I made my way to the door.
I wished to step out on deck, and so, naturally, in my tumbled mental
condition it was the door leading into the cabin saloon that I found.
I opened the door but slightly and stopped. Betty was sitting before
the door. Her back was toward me, there was a book in her lap and her
hair was hanging down her back in the disordered condition of a woman
who has kept ceaseless vigil, regardless of appearances, through the
night.
Softly as I closed the door she heard and was up in a flash.
“Gardy! Mr. Pitt! Are you up?” she called, her hand on the knob. I had
slipped the catch as I closed the door so she could not come in. “Do
you want anything? I’ll get it for you. You mustn’t move, you know.
Are you—are you feeling stronger—Mr. Pitt?”
“I am all right,” I said.
“Oh! Are you really? Are you able to get up?”
“Certainly.” I was flinging a dressing gown about me. “What is
happening aft?”
Another volley of shots from the shore was answered from the yacht.
“Brack and his men shot Mr. Wilson, and now they’re trying to shoot
the rest of us.”
“Badly? Is Wilson hurt badly?”
“I don’t know. I—I’ve been sitting here. You—you have been so terribly
quiet for such a long time, Mr. Pitt.”
“And who’s back there? Who’s doing the shooting on our side?”
“All of them. Pierce, and the negro, and Dr. Olson, and George.”