Chapter 3: To Kill a Pig or Save a Man?

  Is there anything else you'd like to collect?

  "Tartars! Tartars……Do you think Robert can still be saved?" A soft feminine voice broke into Zhu Jishi's thoughts, he looked at the pretty foreign girl with tears on her face, then glanced at the fat man who was constantly calling out, and nodded.

  "Then please save him, hurry up and save him."

  "What can't be saved, it's easy to cut open the belly, but how to stop the bleeding?" The man who claimed to be "England's best doctor for gunshot wounds" asked while shaking his head.

  "Use a hemostat." Zhusi thought that hemostats should have been invented by now.

  "There is still a high probability of massive bleeding, and Mr. Churchill will likely die on the operating table." The doctor shook his head again. Surgical operations in this era were not without doctors who dared to try, but the success rate was too low, with a failure rate of nearly 70-80% for major surgeries that involved opening up the abdomen! The main reason for patients dying on the operating table was excessive bleeding.

  "Can I have a blood transfusion?"

  "Blood transfusion! How to transfuse?"

  "It's just taking blood from someone else's body and injecting it into the patient's blood vessels." Zhu Jisheng paused for a moment, adding: "You have to transfuse blood that matches the type, otherwise hemolysis will occur."

  "Is the blood type compatible? Hemolysis?" The old man shook his head, he didn't understand what Zhu Jishi was saying at all. He hesitated and said: "How to solve the problem of wound infection? You know, wound infection is the main cause of death from gunshot wounds!"

  Zhu didn't know that the old doctor actually had a wealth of experience in treating gunshot wounds, as he was a military doctor. 18th and 19th century Europe can be said to have been plagued by war year after year, and the main way infantry fought was by lining up and shooting each other. Those soldiers who died in battle often didn't die immediately, but would struggle with infected wounds for a long time before dying painfully.

  "Do a good job of surgical disinfection."

  "Disinfect? What does it mean?"

  "It's just..."

  "Hmm!" The fat man lying on the ground suddenly hummed, interrupting the conversation between two doctors from different time and space. He looked at Zhu Jishi with a pitiful expression: "Tartar, do you really have a way to save me?"

  "I can try, but I'm only 50% sure." Zhu Jishi knew that the Opium War might have just ended, and considering there was no telegraph for advanced communication, it's likely that Britain still didn't know that the Qing Dynasty had surrendered. So he decided to pretend to be a Tartar for now, in case the British thought he was an underground member of the Qing Dynasty and arrested him - actually, even if he said he was Chinese, nobody would probably believe him. Who has ever seen a Qing Dynasty person like Zhu Jishi who didn't have a queue, was tall and strong (he's about 175cm, which is considered tall in Europe during this era), and could speak fluent English? This clearly looked like a completely Westernized Tartar under Russian rule!

  Zhu Jishi glanced at the chubby Churchill, who was still groaning and wailing, thinking that this half-dead guy might be his meal ticket for the next few months. This fat and short guy had a goddess-level girl crying for him, the only explanation being that he must have a lot of money! If I can cure him, I'll charge at least ￡1,000! Hmm, if I become a famous doctor in Europe in the future, this fee cannot be cheap, I must represent the Chinese people to get back all the silver lost by the Qing Dynasty in the Opium War!

  But to cure this guy, there's really no guarantee. If Ye Yiren that dead girl could travel with me, she would be a great help, she studied surgery, although her dream was just to be a plastic surgeon, but at least she's better than me, an internal medicine doctor.

  When he heard that there was still a 50% chance of survival, the half-dead fat man forced out a smile: "Is there a 50% guarantee? Great!" He turned to the old doctor and said: "Mr. Blumstein, let this Tartar try it."

  "Yes, sir." It seems that this Churchill fellow is not an ordinary person. The old doctor nodded respectfully and turned to Zhu Jishi, saying: "Tartar, where do you plan to operate on Mr. Churchill?"

  "Take that house," said Zhū Jìshì, pointing to a nearby two-story small building. "I think the owner there will be willing to lend us the house for use."

  "That's my villa," said Isabel, the foreign girl, standing up to answer. She wiped her tears again and turned back to the young man who had hit Fatty: "Will, what are you still doing there? Come help move Robert over."

  ……

  Robert Charles Spencer Churchill, the youngest son of the 5th Duke of Marlborough, was the unfortunate fatso who had a red-hot lead bullet open up his belly. He was now stripped naked and placed on a long wooden table in the kitchen. His hands and feet were tightly bound to the four legs of the table with hemp ropes - this was not Zhu's idea, but that of old Dr. Karl Bluntschli, because at that time Britain did not have very effective painkillers, although the doctor had opium and morphine in his medicine box, these things were not very effective for severe pain, so they could only tie up the fatso like a pig to be slaughtered. The one who tied him up was the fatso's sweetheart Isabelle, whose full name was Isabelle de Neuve, a French countess living in Britain.

  "Lucy, go shave all the hair off Mr. Churchill's belly." After Isabelle finished tying up Chujitsubo, Zhū Jìshì ordered a young maid named Lucy to give a certain plump and hairless pig a shave - it looked a bit like slaughtering a pig.

  In fact, the opium-soaked Qiu Pangzi also felt that he was a big fat pig waiting to be slaughtered. He now really regrets it, if there is a regret medicine sold in this world, he would be willing to take out all his inheritance from his old father, the fifth generation of Marlborough Dukes, to exchange for a pill of regret medicine. As the son of the illustrious Marlborough Duke, how many brilliant futures are waiting for him, how many beautiful women will sleep with him? How could he have agreed to duel with Willie Heming, the son of an Irish broken landlord, in a moment of impulsiveness? The other party is just a commoner.

  Wasn't it all for a French tart? The title of countess was inherited from the ex-husband of a Bonapartist, and the Orleans dynasty in France doesn't even recognize it! Such a family background is just an ordinary commoner in the eyes of the orthodox nobility, and can't match up to the young master of Marlborough at all, so marriage is impossible, at most she's just a mistress. Is it worth fighting a duel with Will Heming for her? Alas, I must have been drunk on whiskey to agree to the duel!

  But now what makes Churchill feel most regretful is that he should not have been afraid of death and allowed the Tartar doctor to operate on him. As a result, he was stripped naked and tied to the operating table like a big fat pig waiting to be slaughtered, and his hair was shaved off! Oh God! Is this Tartar person not a butcher who kills pigs? Even if he is not a pig killer, he must be a veterinarian! How can a doctor treat a patient so tightly bound and shave their hair? Alas, the son of the Duke of Marlborough, the great military leader John Churchill's descendant, would have no shame in dying from bullets, but to be treated like a pig and die such an ugly death... what is to be done?

  Thinking of this, Chubby again let out two loud hums - his mouth had already been gagged by Isabelle with a handkerchief, allegedly to avoid hearing his miserable cries! So now our chubby Mr. Churchill can no longer die with dignity, and can only wait for Zhu Zhi Shi, this second-rate Mongolian doctor (aren't Tartars just Mongolians?) to come and disembowel him.