“Yes, I see,” said Hornblower.
“And there are these as well,” went on Eisenbeiss, laying something else in front of Hornblower with the same sort of conscious pride as a conjuror at a fair bringing the rabbit out of the hat.
“Is this the wad?” asked Hornblower, puzzled, and making no attempt to pick up the horrid little object.
“No,” said Eisenbeiss, “that is how my forceps brought it out. But see —”
Eisenbeiss’s large fingers plucked the object into successive layers.
“I have looked at these through my lens. That is a piece of a blue coat. That is a piece of silk lining. That is a piece of linen shirt. And those are threads of a knitted undershirt.”
Eisenbeiss beamed with triumph.
“The bullet carried these in with it?” asked Hornblower.
“Exactly. Of course. Between the bullet and the bone these portions were cut off, as they might be between the blades of scissors, and the bullet carried them on with it I found them all. No wonder the wound was suppurating.”
“You address me as ‘sir’,” said Hornblower, realizing, now that the tension had eased, that Eisenbeiss had been omitting the honorific. “The operation was otherwise successful as well?”
“Yes — sir,” said Eisenbeiss. “The removal of these foreign bodies and the draining of the wound brought immediate relief to the patient.”
“He did not suffer too much?”
“Not too much. The men who were ready to hold him still had hardly anything to do. He submitted with good spirit, as he promised you he would. It was well that he lay still. I feared further injury to the lung from the broken ribs if he struggled.”
“You address me as ‘sir’,” said Hornblower. “That is the last time, doctor, that I shall overlook the omission.”
“Yes — sir.”
“And the patient is going on well?”
“I left him as well as I could hope — sir. I must return to him soon, of course.”
“Do you think he will live?”
Some of the triumph evaporated from Eisenbeiss’s expression as he concentrated on phrasing his reply.
“He is more likely to live now, sir,” he said. “But with wounds — one cannot be sure.”
There was always the likelihood, the unpredictable likelihood, of a wound taking a turn for the worse, festering and killing.
“You cannot say more than that?”
“No, sir. The wound must remain open to drain. When applying the sutures I inserted a bristle —”
“Very well,” said Hornblower, suddenly squeamish. “I understand. You had better return to him now. You have my thanks, doctor, for what you have done.”
Even with Eisenbeiss gone there was no chance of quietly reviewing the situation. A knock on the door heralded the appearance of Midshipman Smiley.
“Mr. Jones’ compliments, sir, and there are boats heading for us from the shore.”
“Thank you. I’ll come up. And if Mr. Turner’s not on deck tell him I want to see him there.”
Some of the gaily‑painted boats in the distance were under oars, but the nearest one was under a lateen sail, lying very close to the wind. As Hornblower watched her she took in her sail, went about, and reset it on the other tack. The lateen rig had its disadvantages. On the new tack the boat would fetch up alongside Atropos easily enough.
“Now listen to me, Mr. Turner,” said Hornblower, reaching the decision he had had at the back of his mind — overlain until now by a host of other considerations — for the last two days. “When you speak to them you are to tell them that we are looking for a French squadron.”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“We are looking for a French squadron. Two sail — that will do. A ship of the line and frigate, escaped from Corfu three weeks back. The first thing you ask is whether they have touched here.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Turner was not very clear on the point yet.
“Admiral — Admiral Harvey has sent us in for news. He’s cruising off Crete looking for them with four sail of the line. Four will do. Enough force to make them respect us.”
“I see, sir.”
“You’re quite sure you do?”