“Come in,” said Hornblower.
It was His Serene Highness the Prince of SeitzBunau, 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 mainchains.
“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.
“They’re only green at this time of year, sir,” explained Turner. “The rest of the year they’re brown.”
“Yes.”
Hornblower had read all he could about the Eastern Mediterranean, and he knew something of the climatic conditions.
“Not many people live there now, sir,” went on Turner. “Farmers, a few. Shepherds. Little fishing villages in some of the coves. A little coasting trade in caiques from Rhodes—not so much of that now, sir. There’s piracy in all these waters, on account of the feuds between the Greeks and the Turks. There’s a bit of trade in honey an’ timber, but precious little.”
“Yes.”
It was fortunate the wind had backed southerly, even by so little. It eased one of the myriad complications in his complicated life.
“Ruins aplenty along that coast, though, sir,” droned on Turner. “Cities—temples—you’d be surprised.”
Ancient Greek civilization had flourished here. Over there had stood Artemisia and a score of other Greek cities, pulsating with life and beauty.
“Yes,” said Hornblower.
“The villages mostly stand where the old cities were,” persisted Turner. “Ruins all round ‘em. Half the cottages are built of marble from the temples.”
“Yes.”
In other circumstances Hornblower could have been deeply interested, but as it was Turner was merely distraction. There was not merely the immediate business in hand of taking Atropos up into Marmorice harbour; there was the business of how to deal with the Turkish authorities; of how to set about the problems of salvage; there was the question—the urgent, anxious question—as to whether McCullum would live. There was the routine of the ship; when Hornblower looked round him he could see the hands and the officers clustered along the ship’s sides gazing out eagerly at the shores. There were Greeks dwelling among the Mohammedans of the mainland—that would be important when it came to a question of keeping liquor from the men. And he would like to fill his water barrels; and there was the matter of obtaining fresh vegetables.