I found the second mate lying close to where he had fallen. He was now conscious, but it was easy to see that death was hovering close to his soul. He tried to smile as I took his hand, but the effort was a failure.
"We whipped 'em," he gasped. "I'm glad—of—it."
"You had better not talk, Brown," I returned. "You are too weak. Let me bind up your wounds and give you a drink of something."
"It aint no use, Raymond, I'm knocked out and I know it. But we whipped 'em," and he tried to smile again. A second later he fainted once more.
I bound up his wound and tried to force some liquor down his throat. I was in the midst of these labors when the small boat from the warship came alongside and the officer and several others hurried to the deck.
"Tom Dawson!" I cried joyfully, and caught the first mate by the hand.
"Poor Brown!" were his first words. "Is it serious?" and as I nodded in the affirmative he looked very sober.
It took some little time to explain the situation and hear what the officer from the Concord and Tom Dawson had to say, and in the meantime Watt Brown and Matt Gory were taken below and made as comfortable as circumstances permitted. There was hope for the Irish sailor,
