“We must have a surgeon at once for the lieutenant,” he said to the sergeant.
“I will inquire for one.”
The innkeeper here was a surly brute with a squint; he was ungracious about clearing his best sitting-room of its spindly furniture, and bringing beds for Hornblower and Brown, and producing the various articles they asked for to help make Bush comfortable. There were no wax candles nor lamps; only tallow dips which stank atrociously.
“How’s the leg feeling?” asked Hornblower, bending over Bush.
“All right, sir,” said Bush, stubbornly, but he was so obviously feverish and in such obvious pain that Hornblower was anxious about him.
When the sergeant escorted in the maid with the dinner he asked, sharply:
“Why has the surgeon not come?”
“There is no surgeon in this village.”
“No surgeon? The lieutenant is seriously ill. Is there no — no apothecary?”
Hornblower used the English word in default of French.
“The cow-doctor went across the hills this afternoon and will not be back to-night. There is no one to be found.”
The sergeant went out of the room, leaving Hornblower to explain the situation to Bush.
“All right,” said the latter, turning his head on the pillow with the feeble gesture which Hornblower dreaded. Hornblower nerved himself.
“I’d better dress that wound of yours myself,” he said. “We might try cold vinegar on it, as they do in our service.”
“Something cold,” said Bush, eagerly.
Hornblower pealed at the bell, and when it was eventually answered he asked for vinegar and obtained it. Not one of the three had a thought for their dinner cooling on the side table.
“Now,” said Hornblower.
He had a saucer of vinegar beside him, in which lay the soaking lint, and the clean bandages which the surgeon at Rosas had supplied were at hand. He turned back the bedclothes and revealed the bandaged stump. The leg twitched nervously as he removed the bandages; it was red and swollen and inflamed, hot to the touch for several inches above the point of amputation.
“It’s pretty swollen here, too, sir,” whispered Bush. The glands in his groin were huge.
“Yes,” said Hornblower.
He peered at the scarred end, examined the dressings he had removed, with Brown holding the light. There had been a slight oozing from the point where the ligature had been withdrawn yesterday; much of the rest of the scar was healed and obviously healthy. There was only the other ligature which could be causing this trouble; Hornblower knew that if it were ready to come out it was dangerous to leave it in. Cautiously he took hold of the silken thread. The first gentle touch of it conveyed to his sensitive fingers a suggestion that it was free. It moved distinctly for a quarter of an inch, and judging by Bush’s quiescence, it caused him no sudden spasm of pain. Hornblower set his teeth and pulled; the thread yielded very slowly, but it was obviously free, and no longer attached to the elastic artery. He pulled steadily against a yielding resistance. The ligature came slowly out of the wound, knot and all. Pus followed it in a steady trickle, only slightly tinged with blood. The thing was done.
The artery had not burst, and clearly the wound was in need of the free drainage open to it now with the withdrawal of the ligature.
“I think you’re going to start getting well now,” he said, aloud, making himself speak cheerfully. “How does it feel?”
“Better,” said Bush. “I think it’s better, sir.”
Hornblower applied the soaking lint to the scarred surface. He found his hands trembling, but he steadied them with an effort as he bandaged the stump — not an easy job, this last, but one which he managed to complete in adequate fashion. He put back the wicker shield, tucked in the bedclothes, and rose to his feet. The trembling was worse than ever now, and he was shaken and sick, which surprised him.
“Supper, sir?” asked Brown. “I’ll give Mr Bush his.”
Hornblower’s stomach resisted a protest at the suggestion of food. He would have liked to refuse, but that would have been too obvious a confession of weakness in front of a subordinate.