Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 562 Have you washed your hands?
Lionel had already sensed the assassin drawing his gun; and the moment the gunshot rang out, his body had already fallen forward.

At the same time, he raised his arms to protect his head, face, chest, and abdomen from being shot in vital areas. Then, everything in his vision suddenly slowed down—

The first bullet grazed my scalp, a burning sensation running across my forehead; the second bullet struck the arm of a policeman next to me, who screamed in agony as blood splattered.

The third shot—Lionel felt as if his left leg had been hit by a heavy hammer, and his whole body slammed onto the stone steps like a tree that had been sawed off.

The pain didn't strike immediately; he knew it was because adrenaline had temporarily suppressed all other sensations. But he also knew where the injury was and that the situation was serious.

Chaos erupted. Gunfire ripped the clamor of the crowd to shreds. Screams exploded from all directions, as if the end of the world was nigh.

People began to push, shove, run, and fall. Those in the front tried to back away, while those in the back continued to push forward, leaving those in the middle unable to move.

"There's a gun!"

"Killing!"

"Run!"

The police shouted and waved their batons wildly, trying to control the situation. But the crowd was out of control, surging in all directions like a burst dam.

Someone was pushed to the ground and immediately trampled underfoot. The cries of children, the screams of women, and the curses of men blended into a deafening cacophony.

The reporters were like a flock of startled birds; some lay on the ground, others huddled in the corners. Cameras and tripods were scattered all over the floor, and the expensive equipment was reduced to pieces.

The magnesium powder box in the camera was overturned on the ground, and white powder mixed with dust flew everywhere, making the situation even more chaotic.

The man who fired the shot had been tackled by four or five police officers. They pressed him face down on the cobblestones, their knees pressing against his back. The pistol lay to the side, kicked away by one of the officers.

"Hold him down! Hold him down!"

"Don't let him move!"

The man was still struggling, shouting something in French, but his voice was drowned out by the chaos.

Several policemen rushed to Lionel's side and dragged him into the foyer. A dark red trail of blood was left on the stone steps.

Once inside the courthouse lobby, the police quickly surrounded Lionel, holding batons, as if afraid another thug might suddenly appear.

It was only then that Lionel felt a sharp pain in his left leg.

He looked down and saw that his trouser leg was soaked in blood, the deep red color spreading rapidly. Blood dripped down the trouser leg and pooled on the gray stone floor.

Lionel, recalling what he had learned in biology class, gritted his teeth and said, "Hold the pressure on my wound! Find some clean cloth and bandage it for me."

A young policeman was the first to react. Although his face was pale, he hurriedly took off his coat and then tore his shirt off.

"Mr. Sorel, this is a new shirt I just bought, and today is the first day I'm wearing it. Is it okay to wear it?"

There was no other choice at the moment, so Lionel could only nod and then have him fold the shirt into a thick fold, press it against the wound on his thigh, and then tightly wrap the sleeves around the base of his thigh.

Blood immediately seeped out, staining the white cloth red.

"Push harder!" Lionel said.

The young policeman increased the pressure, and the two sleeves became tightly intertwined.

Only then did the pain surge through his body like an electric current. Lionel gasped and felt his vision go black.

The chaos outside the lobby continued, but the police had gradually brought the situation under control. More officers rushed out of the courthouse and formed a human wall to push the crowd out.

The horses in the carriage were startled, and the driver held the reins tightly, causing the horses to rear up and neigh.

A few minutes later, a tall man rushed out of the courthouse; it was Sir Charles Warren, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.

He glanced at Lionel, then at the blood on the ground, and immediately ordered, "Send Mr. Sorel to St. Thomas Hospital right now!"

"Sir, the crowd outside hasn't dispersed yet—" Sir Charles Warren practically gritted his teeth: "Clear a path! Use batons to clear the way! Anyone who tries to block the way can be arrested immediately!"

The police sprang into action. Charles Warren crouched down and examined Lionel's wound. The cloth covering the wound was completely red, but the bleeding seemed to be slowing down.

He patted Lionel's face to keep him conscious: "Hang in there. You won't die here."

Lionel tried to say something, but a wave of dizziness washed over him. The blood loss was taking effect, and he began to feel cold.

The carriage was brought to the door. Four policemen lifted Lionel and carefully placed him inside. Warren followed and sat opposite him.

"Go!" Charles Warren yelled at the driver. "Go as fast as you can! Don't stop even if you crash into something!"

The carriage suddenly lurched forward, and the carriage began to shake violently, each time causing a tearing pain in the wound on my leg.

Lionel gritted his teeth, trying not to cry out. He could feel the blood still flowing, the warm liquid gradually soaking the fabric, the trousers, and the carriage seats.

Charles Warren kept an eye on him, and if he noticed any signs of Lionel losing consciousness, he would immediately wake him up.

The carriages swerved wildly through the streets of London, the drivers cracking their whips and yelling, "Make way! Make way!" Pedestrians scrambled to get out of the way, and newsboys on street corners dropped their newspapers in fright.

Through the car window, Lionel watched the London streetscape rush past—the gas lampposts, shop signs, church spires… but gradually blurring into patches of grayish-yellow.

He forced himself to stay awake, counting the rhythm of the carriage wheels rolling over the stone pavement. One, two, three… He knew he couldn't fall asleep; if he did, he might never wake up again.

His biggest worry now is whether the shot has damaged his femoral artery—there is no technology for suturing blood vessels in this era; doctors can only clamp the ruptured blood vessel, stop the bleeding, and then ligate it.

Even if you don't die from blood loss or wound infection, your left leg will start to die from lack of blood supply, and you may eventually have to have it amputated or become disabled.

As for who the murderer was and why he was killed... he didn't have the extra energy to think about those things for the time being.

After an unknown amount of time—perhaps only a few minutes, perhaps a century—the carriage came to a sudden stop.

“We’ve arrived,” Charles Warren said.

The doors of St. Thomas' Hospital were wide open. Police carried Lionel inside and quickly took him to the surgical ward, leaving the other waiting injured patients outside.

Charles Warren shouted, "Gunshot wound! Left thigh! Heavy blood loss!"

A doctor in his fifties with gray hair ran out. When he saw it was him, he didn't say anything but immediately began to examine the wound.

He cut open Lionel's trouser leg, revealing the bloody bullet hole. Blood was still seeping out, but it wasn't spurting out.

"Immediate surgery is needed. The bullet is still inside, it's too deep."

Lionel was carried through the hospital corridor, with nurses and other patients making way for him as the blood-covered man hurried past them.

"He's not that..."

"What happened?"

But Lionel was gradually losing track of the conversation. He was carried into an operating room, where several assistants were already preparing instruments. On a metal tray lay scalpels, forceps, scissors, a saw, an axe…

Lionel's face was ashen, and he was breathing rapidly. The doctor leaned down to look at him—

"We'll perform surgery to remove the bullet. But you'll need anesthesia first."

The assistant brought a glass bottle and a piece of cotton cloth. The doctor poured the liquid from the glass bottle onto the cotton cloth, and a sweet, pungent smell filled the air.

Lionel knew what it was—chloroform. In 1882, it, along with ether, was the most commonly used anesthetic.

A cotton cloth was quickly placed over his mouth and nose. Lionel felt his consciousness begin to slip through his fingers like sand. The world blurred, and sounds became distant.

Before losing consciousness completely, he used his last bit of strength to ask, "Doctor... have you... washed your hands?"

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(End of this chapter)