The sergeant charged with conducting Henry Wharton to a place where he
might procure surgical aid, set about performing his duty with alacrity,
in order to return as soon as possible to the scene of strife. They had
not reached the middle of the plain, before the captain noticed a man
whose appearance and occupation forcibly arrested his attention. His
head was bald and bare, but a well-powdered wig was to be seen,
half-concealed, in the pocket of his breeches. His coat was off, and his
arms were naked to the elbow; blood had disfigured much of his dress,
and his hands, and even face, bore this mark of his profession; in his
mouth was a cigar; in his right hand some instruments of strange
formation, and in his left the remnants of an apple, with which he
occasionally relieved the duty of the before-mentioned cigar. He was
standing, lost in the contemplation of a Hessian, who lay breathless
before him. At a little distance were three or four of the guides,
leaning on their muskets, and straining their eyes in the direction of
the combatants, and at his elbow stood a man who, from the implements in
his hand, seemed an assistant.
"There, sir, is the doctor," said the attendant of Henry very coolly.
"He will patch up your arm in the twinkling of an eye"; and beckoning to
the guides to approach, he whispered and pointed to his prisoner, and
then galloped furiously towards his comrades.
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