As he
examined the wound, Charlie was astounded to hear him mutter to
himself:
"It is a mighty nate clip you have got, my boy; and, if your skull
had not been a thick one, it is lying out there on the turf you
would be."
Charlie burst into a fit of laughter.
"So you are English, too," he exclaimed, as he looked up into the
surgeon's face.
"At laste Irish, my boy," the doctor said, as surprised as Charlie
had been. "To think we should have been talking Swedish to each
other, instead of our native tongue. And what is your name? And
what is it you are doing here, as a Swede, at all?"
"My name is Charles Carstairs. I come from Lancashire, just on the
borders of Westmoreland. My father is a Jacobite, and so had to
leave the country. He went over to Sweden, and I, with some friends
of his, got commissions."
"Then our cases are pretty much alike," the doctor said. "I had
gone through Dublin University, and had just passed as a surgeon,
when King James landed. It didn't much matter to me who was king,
but I thought it was a fine opportunity to study gunshot wounds, so
I joined the royal army, and was at the battle of the Boyne. I had
plenty of work with wounds, early in the day, but when, after the
Irish had fairly beat the Dutchman back all day, they made up their
minds to march away at night, I had to lave my patients and be off
too.
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