A ball had struck him in the thigh, and he could feel the blood
flowing down his limb. He grasped the rail of the bridge, and drew
himself up. There he stood like a statue, supporting himself with his
well arm, till the Bronx had passed out of musket-shot range.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed the first lieutenant, as he came out from his
shelter. "You are wounded again!"
"I must give up now, I fear," replied Christy feebly; and then he
fainted.
[Illustration: Christy Receives a Second Wound.--Page 358.]
He was carried to his stateroom by his officers, and the doctor examined
his last wound. He was restored to consciousness, but he looked like
death itself beneath the ruddy brown of his weather-beaten face.
"You will take the command now, Mr. Flint," said he when he saw the
executive officer watching him with the most intense interest. "What do
you think of it, Dr. Connelly?" he asked, turning to the surgeon.
"Severe, but not dangerous," answered the doctor. "The ball did not
touch the bone, but it ploughed deep through the flesh. You were
fortunate in having plenty of meat on your bones."
Dave was the most assiduous of nurses, and had no little skill in
attending to the wants of the sick. The young commander was made
comfortable in a few hours, and Mr.
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