So that was the decision. He had only to reach it for the emotion to die down within him, to leave him thinking feverishly but clearly. He must of course do everything possible to ensure success, omit nothing that could help. McCullum had indented for “leather fuse-hose”; that was some indication of how the salvage problem was to be approached. And McCullum was not yet dead, as far as he knew. He might — no, it was hardly possible. No one ever survived a bullet through the lungs. And yet —
“Mr. Nash!”
“Sir!” said the master’s mate of the watch, coming at the run.
“My gig. I’m going over to the hospital.”
There was still just a little light in the sky, but overside the water was black as ink, reflecting in long, irregular lines the lights that showed in Valetta. The oars ground rhythmically in the rowlocks. Hornblower restrained himself from urging the men to pull harder. They could never have rowed fast enough to satisfy the pressing need for instant action that seethed inside him.
The garrison officers were still at mess, sitting over their wine, and the mess sergeant, at Hornblower’s request, went in and fetched out the surgeon. He was a youngish man, and fortunately still sober. He stood with the candle-light on his face and listened attentively to Hornblower’s questions.
“The bullet hit him in the right armpit,” said the surgeon. “One would expect that, as he would be standing with his shoulder turned to his opponent and his arm raised. The actual wound was on the posterior margin of the armpit, towards the back, in other words, and on the level of the fifth rib.”
The heart was on the level of the fifth rib, as Hornblower knew, and the expression had an ominous sound.
“I suppose the bullet did not go right through?” he asked.
“No,” replied the surgeon. “It is very rare for a pistol bullet, if it touches bone, to go through the body, even at twelve paces. The powder charge is only one drachm. Naturally the bullet is still there, presumably within the chest cavity.”
“So he is unlikely to live?”
“Very unlikely, sir. It is a surprise he has lived so long. The haemoptysis — the spitting of blood, you understand, sir — has been extremely slight. Most chest wounds die of internal bleeding within an hour or two, but in this case the lung can hardly have been touched. There is considerable contusion under the right scapula — that is the shoulder blade — indicating that the bullet terminated its course there.”
“Close to the heart?”
“Close to the heart, sir. But it can have touched none of the great vessels there, most surprisingly, or he would have been dead within a few seconds.”
“Then why do you think he will not live?”
The doctor shook his head.
“Once an opening has been made in the chest cavity, sir, there is little chance, and with the bullet still inside the chance is negligible. It will certainly have carried fragments of clothing in with it. We may expect internal mortification, in general gathering of malignant humours, and eventual death within a few days.”
“You could not probe for the bullet?”
“Within the chest wall? My dear sir!”
“What action have you taken, then?”
“I have bound up the wound of entry to put an end to the bleeding there. I have strapped up the chest to ensure that the jagged ends of the broken ribs do no more damage to the lungs. I took two ounces of blood from the left basilar vein, and I administered an opiate.”
“An opiate? So he is not conscious now?”
“Certainly not.”
Hornblower felt hardly wiser than he had done when Jones first told him the news.
“You say he may live a few days? How many?”
“I know nothing about the patient’s constitution, sir. But he is a powerful man in the prime of life. It might be as much as a week. It might even be more. But on the other hand if events take a bad turn he might be dead tomorrow.”
“But if it is several days? Will he retain his senses during that time?”
“Likely enough. When he ceases to, it is a sign of the approaching end. Then we can expect fever, restlessness, delirium, and death.”
Several days of consciousness were possible, therefore. And the faintest, remotest chance that McCullum would live after all.
“Supposing I took him to sea with me? Would that help? Or hinder?”
“You would have to ensure his immobility on account of the fractured ribs. But at sea he might even live longer. There are the usual Mediterranean agues in this island. And in addition there is an endemic low fever. My hospital is full of such cases.”
Now this was a piece of information that really helped in coming to a decision.
“Thank your doctor,” said Hornblower, and he took his decision. Then it was only a matter of minutes to make the arrangements with the surgeon and to take his leave. The gig took him back through the darkness, over the black water, to where Atropos‘ riding light showed faintly.
“Pass the word for the doctor to come to my cabin at once,” was Hornblower’s reply to the salute of the officer of the watch.
Eisenbeiss came slowly in. There was something of apprehension and something of bravado in his manner. He was prepared to defend himself against the storm he was curtain was about to descend on him. What he did not expect was the reception he actually experienced. He approached the table behind which Hornblower was seated and stood sullen, meeting Hornblower’s eyes with the guilty defiance of a man who has just taken another human’s life.
“Mr. McCullum,” began Hornblower, and the doctor’s thick lips showed a trace of a sneer, “is being sent on board here tonight. He is still alive.”
“On board here?” repeated the doctor, surprised into a change of attitude.
“You address me as ‘sir’. Yes, I am having him sent over from the hospital. My orders to you are to make every preparation for his reception.”
The doctor’s response was unintelligible German, but there could be no doubt it was an ejaculation of astonishment.
“Your answer to me is ‘aye aye, sir’,” snapped Hornblower, his pent-up emotion and strain almost making him tremble as he sat at the table. He could not prevent his fist from clenching, but he just managed to refrain from allowing it to pound the table. The intensity of his feelings must have had their effect telepathically.
“Aye aye, sir,” said the doctor grudgingly.
“Mr. McCullum’s life is extremely valuable, doctor. Much more valuable than yours.”
The doctor could only mumble in reply to that.
“It is your duty to keep him alive.”
Hornblower’s fist unclenched now, and he could make his points slowly, one by one, accentuating each with the slow tap of the tip of a lean forefinger on the table.
“You are to do all you can for him. If there is anything special that you require for the purpose you are to inform me and I shall endeavour to obtain it for you. His life is to be saved, or if not, it is to be prolonged as far as possible. I would recommend you to establish a hospital for him abaft No. 6 carronade on the starboard side, where the motion of the ship will be least felt, and where it will be possible to rig a shelter for him from the weather. You will apply to Mr. Jones for that. The ship’s pigs can be taken forward where they will not discommode him.”
Hornblower’s pause and glance called forth an “aye aye, sir” from the doctor’s lips like a cork from out of a bottle, so that Hornblower could proceed.
“We sail at dawn tomorrow,” he went on. “Mr. McCullum is to live until we reach our destination, and until long after, long enough for him to execute the duty which has brought him from India. That is quite clear to you?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the doctor, although his puzzled expression proved that there was something about the orders which he could not explain to himself.