“I believe it may not be in there at all, sir,” said Eisenbeiss, clearly taking a plunge.
“Indeed?” This might be exceedingly important news if it were true. “Then why is he so ill?”
Now that Eisenbeiss had committed himself he became voluble again. Explanations poured out of him, accompanied by jerky gestures. But the explanations were hard to follow. In this highly technical matter Eisenbeiss had been thinking in his native language even more than usual, and now he was having to translate into technical terms unfamiliar to him and still more unfamiliar to Hornblower, who grasped despairingly at one contorted sentence.
“You think that the bullet, after breaking those ribs, may have bounced off again?” he asked. At the last moment he substituted the word “bounce” for “ricochet” in the hope of retaining clarity.
“Yes, sir. Bullets often do that.”
“And where do you say you think it went then?”
Eisenbeiss tried to stretch his left hand far under his right armpit; his body was too bulky to permit it to go far enough to make his demonstration quite complete.
“Under the scapula, sir — the — the shoulder-blade.”
“Land ho! Land on the port bow?”
Hornblower heard the cry come down through the skylight from above. That must be Rhodes they had sighted. Here they were heading into Rhodes Channel, and he was down below talking about ribs and scapulas. And yet the one was as important as the other.
“I can’t stay down here much longer, doctor. Tell me why you think this is the case?”
Eisenbeiss fell into explanation again. He talked about the patient’s fever, and about his comparative wellbeing the morning after he had been wounded, and about the small amount of blood he had spat up. He was in the full flood of his talk when a knock at the door interrupted him.
“Come in,” said Hornblower.
It was His Serene Highness the Prince of Seitz-Bunau, with a speech that he had obviously prepared carefully on his way down.
“Mr. Still’s respects, sir,” he said. “Land in sight on the port bow.”
“Very well, Mr. Prince. Thank you.”
It was a pity there was not time to compliment the boy on his rapid acquirement of English. Hornblower turned back to Eisenbeiss.
“So I think the bullet went round the back, sir. The skin is — is tough, sir, and the ribs are — are elastic.”
“Yes?” Hornblower had heard of bullets going round the body before this.
“And the patient has much muscle. Much.”
“And you think the bullet has lodged in the muscles of the back?”
“Yes. Deep against the ribs. Under the lower point of the scapula, sir.”
“And the fever? The illness?”
They could be accounted for, according to Eisenbeiss’s torrential explanation, by the presence of the foreign body deep inside the tissues, especially if, as was probable, it had carried fragments of clothing in along with it. It all seemed plausible enough.
“And you are trying to say that if the bullet is there and not inside the chest you might be able to extract it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Eisenbeiss showed by his manner that he knew that those words had finally committed him.
“You think that you can do that? It means using the knife?”
As soon as Hornblower finished asking the second question he was aware that it was impolitic to ask two questions at once of a man who had enough trouble answering one. Eisenbeiss had to think a long time over the phrasing of his answers.
“It means using the knife,” he said at length. “It means a difficult operation. I do not know if I can do it.”
“But you hope you can?”
“I hope so.”
“And do you think you will be successful?”
“I do not think. I hope.”
“And if you are not successful?”
“He will die.”
“But you think he will die in any case if you do not attempt the operation?”
That was the point. Eisenbeiss twice opened his mouth and shut it again before he answered.
“Yes.”
Down through the skylight, as Hornblower sat studying Eisenbeiss’s expression, came a new cry, faintly borne from the weather main-chains.
“No bottom! No bottom with this line!”
Turner and Still had very properly decided to take a cast of the lead; they were still out of soundings, as was to be expected. Hornblower brought his mind back from the situation of the ship to the decision regarding McCullum. The latter might have some claim to be consulted on the matter, but the claim was specious. His life was his country’s. A seaman was not consulted first when he was carried into the ordeal of battle.
“So that is your opinion, doctor. If you operate and fail you will only have shortened the patient’s life by a few hours?”
“A few hours. A few days.”
A few days might suffice for the salvage operation; but with McCullum as sick as he was he would be no use during those few days. On the other hand there was no knowing at present whether or not he might possibly recover after those few days, without being operated on.
“What are the difficulties of the operation?” asked Hornblower.
“There are several layers of muscle there,” explained Eisenbeiss. “Infraspinatus. Subscapularis, many of them. In each case the — the threads run in a different direction. That makes it difficult to work quickly and yet without doing great damage. And there is the big artery, the subscapular. The patient is weak already and unable to withstand much shock.”
“Have you everything you need for this operation if you carry it out?”
Eisenbeiss hunched his thick shoulders.
“The two attendants — loblolly boys, you call them, sir — are experienced. They have both served in ships in action. I have my instruments. But I should like —”
Eisenbeiss clearly wanted something he believed to be difficult to grant.
“What?”
“I should like the ship to be still. At anchor. And a good light.”
That turned the scale of the decision.
“Before nightfall,” said Hornblower, “this ship will be at anchor in a landlocked harbour. You can make your preparations for the operation.”
“Yes, sir.” Again a pause before Eisenbeiss asked an important question. “And your promise, sir?”
Hornblower did not have to think very long about the question as to whether Eisenbeiss would work more efficiently or not if he were faced with the certainty of flogging and hanging if he failed. The man would do all he could out of sheer professional pride. And the thought that his life was at stake might possibly make him nervous.
“I’ll take my promise back,” said Hornblower. “You’ll suffer no harm, whatever happens.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“No bottom!” called the leadsman in the chains.
“Very well, then. You have until this evening to make what preparations you can.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
With Eisenbeiss out of the cabin Hornblower sat for hardly a moment retracing the grounds of his decision. His ship was entering Rhodes Channel and he must be on deck.
“Wind’s come southerly a point, sir,” said Still, touching his hat.
The first thing, of course, that Hornblower had noticed as he came up the companion was that Atropos was still braced up as close to the wind as she would lie. Still and Turner had acted correctly without troubling him about it.
“Very well, Mr. Still.”
Hornblower put his glass to his eye and swept the horizon. A bold, wildly rugged coast on the one hand; on the other a low sandy shore. He bent to study the chart.
“Cape Angistro to starboard, sir,” said Turner at his side. “Cape Kum abaft the port beam.”
“Thank you.”
Everything was as it should be. Hornblower straightened up and turned his glass upon the Turkish coast. It was steep, with bold cliffs, behind which rose a chain of steeply undulating hills.