Suiting the action to the word the surgeon sniffed at the dressings and at the raw stump.
“Smell, monsieur,” he said, holding the dressings to Hornblower’s face. Hornblower was conscious of the faintest whiff of corruption.
“Beautiful, is it not?” said the surgeon. “A fine healthy wound and yet every evidence that the ligatures will soon free themselves.”
Hornblower realized that the two threads hanging out of the scars were attached to the ends of the two main arteries. When corruption inside was complete the threads could be drawn out and the wounds allowed to heal; it was a race between the rotting of the arteries and the onset of gangrene.
“I will see if the ligatures are free now. Warn your friend that I shall hurt him a little.”
Hornblower looked towards Bush to convey the message, and was shocked to see that Bush’s face was distorted with apprehension.
“I know,” said Bush. “I know what he’s going to do — sir.”
Only as an afterthought did he say that ‘sir’; which was the clearest proof of his mental preoccupation. He grasped the bedclothes in his two fists, his jaw set and his eyes shut.
“I’m ready,” he said through his clenched teeth.
The surgeon drew firmly on one of the threads and Bush writhed a little. He drew on the other.
“A-ah,” gasped Bush, with sweat on his face.
“Nearly free,” commented the surgeon. “I could tell by the feeling of the threads. Your friend will soon be well. Now let us replace the dressings. So. And so.” His dexterous plump fingers rebandaged the stump, replaced the wicker basket, and drew down the bed coverings.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” said the surgeon, rising to his feet and brushing his hands one against the other. “I will return in the morning.”
“Hadn’t you better sit down, sir,” came Brown’s voice to Hornblower’s ears as though from a million miles away, after the surgeon had withdrawn. The room was veiled in grey mist which gradually cleared away as he sat, to reveal Bush lying back on his pillow and trying to smile, and Brown’s homely honest face wearing an expression of acute concern.
“Rare bad you looked for a minute, sir. You must be hungry, I expect, sir, not having eaten nothing since breakfast, like.”
It was tactful of Brown to attribute this faintness to hunger, to which all flesh might be subject without shame, and not merely to weakness in face of wounds and suffering.
“That sounds like supper coming now,” croaked Bush from the stretcher, as though one of a conspiracy to ignore their captain’s feebleness.
The sergeant of gendarmerie came clanking in, two women behind him bearing trays. The women set the table deftly and quickly, their eyes downcast, and withdrew without looking up, although one of them smiled at the corner of her mouth in response to a meaning cough from Brown which drew a gesture of irritation from the sergeant. The latter cast one searching glance round the room before shutting and locking the door with a clashing of keys.
“Soup,” said Hornblower, peering into the tureen which steamed deliciously. “And I fancy this is stewed veal.”
The discovery confirmed him in his notion that Frenchmen lived exclusively on soup and stewed veal — he put no faith in the more vulgar notions regarding frogs and snails.
“You will have some of this broth, I suppose, Bush?” he continued. He was talking desperately hard now to conceal the feeling of depression and unhappiness which was overwhelming him. “And a glass of this wine? It has no label — let’s hope for the best.”
“Some of their rotgut claret, I suppose,” grunted Bush. Eighteen years of war with France had given most Englishmen the notion that the only wines fit for men to drink were port and sherry and Madeira, and that Frenchmen only drank thin claret which gave the unaccustomed drinker the bellyache.
“We’ll see,” said Hornblower as cheerfully as he could. “Let’s get you propped up first.”
With his hand behind Bush’s shoulders he heaved him up a little; as he looked round helplessly, Brown came to his rescue with pillows taken from the bed, and between them they settled Bush with his head raised and his arms free and a napkin under his chin. Hornblower brought him a plate of soup and a piece of bread.