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.