In the morning, we both felt better, though I put a flask of cold nettle and plantain infusion in both our satchels.
‘More bitter weeds, Jem?’ said Will gloomily. ‘I’d rather have a cup of coffee.’
‘There’s coffee on board the Blood,’ I said. ‘But this infusion of “weeds” as you call them, will help the lung tissue to heal. You must sip it throughout the day.’
We walked together down to the hospital ship. Will was looking pale, but there was work to be done, he said, and he would have to go back to Deadman’s Basin whether he wanted to or not.
‘Will you go straight away?’ I asked.
‘I will stall and dawdle for as long as I can.’ He grinned. ‘I have sent a message to my master telling him that since the place burned down I need another day before the men come to start the demolition work. I thought I might help you a little before I go up to the place. And, of course, I must sip my nettle infusion.’
The carter had brought up the plants I had gathered at the apothecary. A group of orderlies helped Will and me to carry them up from the dockside to the Blood’s poop deck – a small platform atop the apothecary that was one of the few spaces on the old ship that had not been turned into a room of some kind. It had been used to store barrels filled with rainwater, and as a place for the drying of clothes. But the barrels were empty, and I had the orderlies move them to the stern where they were just as likely to be replenished, and there were plenty of other places where the bedding might be hung to catch the stinking breeze that blew off the water. Now, as a result of our efforts, the poop deck was home to a tiny physic garden made up of some two dozen or so herbs potted in large earthen planters. Most of them were well established, for I had always propagated my favourite plants and had a number of them growing in pots already. To these I had added a few new ones – goldenrod, roseroot and angelica – and brought them up to the ship. Will sat on a stool he had brought out from the apothecary. He looked out at the deck as the morning grew bright, his sketch pad and pencil in his hands.
‘Imagine the place in the dark,’ he said. ‘Wreathed in fog, its lanterns dim orbs of light, the groans and sighs from the wards echoing across the silent water—’
I shivered. ‘Well you’d better make the most of it while the sun is shining,’ I said. ‘For I fear it won’t last.’ I sipped my coffee. ‘I can’t help but think the old girl is looking her best at the moment, with the autumn haze blurring her crooked lines.’
‘Hm,’ said Will. I knew he wasn’t really listening. His pencil moved rapidly across the page, his gaze sweeping the deck, sizing up its proportions. I had always admired his speed and skill as an artist. I had one of his drawings of old St Saviour’s Infirmary framed and hanging on the wall of the apothecary.
‘You know,’ he said suddenly. ‘I think there are a number of ways that this place might be improved as a hospital. The deck has been added to in a piecemeal way that does not make use of the space at all well. If the majority of the existing extraneous structures were removed we might build something far more well-considered, orderly and useful. I could make it spacious and airy too, surely something the men would love after lives spent at sea, or outside at the docks.’ He added to his drawing, glancing up and down, and sketching once more. ‘I wonder whether the executive committee, or the medical men, would be interested in my ideas. I would need at least one of them to support me. Naturally I would charge a small fee for my design, and the cost of the building work would have to be found.’
‘Dr Rennie might be interested,’ I said. I pointed to a small figure passing from the snakes’ quarters to the consultants’ sitting room. ‘There he is.’
Will stood up amongst the greenery. ‘Ahoy there, Dr Rennie, sir!’ he cried, his voice echoing out. He stood like an admiral, his hands clasped behind his back, his legs akimbo. His figure, illuminated by the rising sun, must have looked commanding, for Dr Rennie sprang round and snapped to attention. ‘If I might speak with you, sir,’ cried Will. ‘I shall join you later, Jem,’ he said. ‘Ward rounds at four bells?’
I nodded. ‘If you mean at ten o’clock, then yes.’
‘Four bells by the forenoon watch,’ said Will. He gathered up his sketches and his pencils, saluted smartly, and vanished down the steps to the weather deck.
I stayed amongst the plants, tamping down their soil and watering those that needed it. I had kept one water butt for the purpose, though it contained little. I wondered how long the potted garden would survive if it was fed by the Thames. I would be sure to let the stuff stand for a while before I used it, so that the brown residue might sink to the bottom of the pail. I ran my hands through the tough fronds of the rosemary, crushing the hard needle-like leaves between my fingers so that they released their astringent aroma. It was late in the season for lavender, but the leaves of the young plants I had brought up were scented enough for me, and I bruised those too, until the air was filled with the familiar sweet and woody scent. The sun was now bright against the eastern sky, silhouetting the rigging and masts that crowded the riverside in a black web of spars and ropes. I plucked some mint leaves and went down to the apothecary.
Will reappeared at ten minutes before ten o’clock. ‘He’s fascinating,’ he said, when I asked him about Dr Rennie. ‘Told me everything about the ship. He’s full of stories.’
‘Such as?’
‘The time she was caught in a storm in the Bay of Biscay and was almost lost. The time he met Nelson himself. The time the ship was pursued by the French for three days! As for the Battle of the Nile – I have had a blow-by-blow account. The next best thing to being there! Gabriel would love him—’
‘No wonder you’ve been gone for so long.’
Will went to sit at Aberlady’s desk, pushing aside the papers and books that littered its surface. ‘I have some drawings here,’ he said. ‘And some new ideas from Dr Rennie. He says he would like a top ward, with more hammocks for those who are convalescing and who would value the open air.’
‘And Deadman’s Basin?’
‘Yes, yes, I will be going there soon enough. I can amend my plans while I am here and add to them when I go down later.’
‘And the prescriptions?’ I said. I had enjoyed a busy few hours. ‘I thought you were helping.’
‘I’ll help you with those,’ said a voice. In the door stood Dr Proudlove. ‘Is there much to do?’
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘I’m all but ready, though some help to take them down would be appreciated.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Will.
Dr Proudlove seemed excited, as if something thrilled him. ‘I wanted to speak to you about the patient Rintoul,’ he said.
Rintoul had arrived three days earlier, so I had been told. He had been working nearby at St Catherine’s Dock when a rope snapped, and he had been catapulted from the winding gear, upon which he had been working, down into the yard below. His fall had, fortunately, been broken by a cart filled with horse manure that had been scraped from the yard and was awaiting collection. The man had broken his leg, and his collar bone, and had rope burn badly on both hands, so that his palms were red raw. He had been brought up to the Blood on a cart, carried up the steps and winched down into the top ward. Dr Antrobus had set his broken bones; Dr Cole had treated the rope burn on his hands. The leg I had been unable to see as it had been splinted and bound, but I understood that break had been a clean one. The hands, however, had been a mess, the skin on the palms torn away as the rope whipped though his fingers like a wire through butter. They had been bandaged, and padded with iodine. The mischief, however, lay far deeper than that.
‘Rintoul?’ I said now. ‘The fellow downstairs with incipient tetanus?’
‘You saw it?’ said Dr Proudlove.
‘I did.’
‘I was thinking,’ he sounded hesitant. ‘You have heard of bhang?’
‘I have,’ I said. ‘Though it is more commonly referred to as tincture of cannabis.’
‘As
a treatment for tetanus?’
I held up a bottle of brownish tincture. ‘I brought some up from my apothecary on Fishbait Lane, as I did not see any on the shelves here.’
‘You would advise it?’
‘I believe there is no better treatment.’
‘May I?’ He held out his hand.
I handed him the bottle in silence, watching him as he held it up to the lamplight. His eyes glittered.
‘I think this is not a common treatment?’ he said.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I would be surprised if it was at all well known. Especially due to its Indian origins, and the applications it commonly has in that country.’
‘Indeed.’ Dr Proudlove smiled, and slipped the bottle into his pocket. For a moment he looked as though he wanted to say something more, but he didn’t. ‘Shall I help you with the prescriptions?’ he said instead.
I could see he did not really want to do this, that, in fact, he had now got what he came for and no longer wanted to be in the apothecary at all, and certainly not associated with the lowly task of carrying medicines. ‘Mr Quartermain will help me, sir,’ I said. ‘We are just about ready.’
Down in the middle ward the air was thick with the smell of stale tobacco, sweat and carbolic. There was a gangrenous tang to the atmosphere too from an amputee I had seen the previous morning. I had sedated the fellow with opiates, for there was little else that might be done for him now. At the back of the ward, the doctors were gathered – Dr Sackville, tall and thin, his grey cheeks colourless in the lamplight; Dr Antrobus, serious and pensive; Dr Cole, smiling and rosy cheeked; Dr Rennie, the stuff of night mares, with his enamel eye and ghastly smile. Beside them, but standing a little to one side, was Dr Proudlove. The students were not present that morning, which was just as well as there was little enough space down there, especially once Will and I had arrived. Mrs Speedicut was there too, her face set in a mask of tight-lipped resentment – something had gone wrong, I could tell by her face, and she was about to be blamed for it.
‘Weren’t me, sirs!’ she said, falling back on her standard response, which was to deny everything. ‘I only just got here! This fellow’s been not right since yesterday morning. Dr Cole prescribed opium last night, but I can’t say as it’s done much good.’
‘Good day, gentlemen,’ I said.
‘Look at the state of the fellow, gentlemen,’ cried Dr Rennie. ‘Look at his face, look at how he lies, look at his hands and tell me what you see – and what we might do!’
The fellow Rintoul was lying upon his bed, bathed in sweat. His hands were balled into fists – even within his bandages – his face tight and strained. And then, as we watched a great spasm overtook him. His back arched violently, his shoulder blades and heels the only parts of his body to touch the thin, stained mattress upon which he lay. Worst of all was the expression on his face, the familiar grinning rictus of lockjaw – the sinews on his neck standing out like rigging beneath the skin. His eyes rolled in his head, white spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth. The man would die, there was little doubt, if something was not done soon.
‘The fellow didn’t seem too bad last night,’ said Dr Cole briskly. ‘He was to be discharged today, so perhaps we might send him home.’
‘But look at him!’ said Will.
‘We cannot have another one die on board,’ said Dr Cole, his voice low, but insistent. ‘Not if we can avoid it.’
‘You cannot send him away to die!’ said Will.
‘What on earth does it have to do with you?’ said Dr Antrobus.
‘He’s helping me in the apothecary,’ I said. ‘Since Pestle Jenny refuses to return here.’
‘Refuses?’ said Dr Sackville. ‘You mean you’ve seen her, Flockhart? She’s told you what happened that night?’
It seemed to me that the ward fell silent, everyone listening to what my answer might be. ‘No,’ I said.
‘And where is she?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, quite truthfully, for at that moment I had no idea where Pestle Jenny might be.
The sick man before us let out a mighty groan.
‘If he dies on board that’s six this month,’ whispered Dr Cole. ‘It does not reflect well on us.’
‘It does not reflect well on you to send a man home who is in this condition,’ said Will.
‘We all have to die,’ hissed Dr Cole. ‘But would you like to die down here?’
‘No, no, Dr Cole,’ said Dr Sackville. ‘Mr Quartermain is quite correct. It behoves us to do all we can. He’s had opium, you say?’ He sighed. ‘Perhaps I should send for Dr Birdwhistle and the poor fellow can be eased by the scriptures – if he likes that sort of thing.’
Before us, the man’s flesh glistened, beads of sweat standing out on his brow like globules of fat. I had seen a man’s bones break with the contraction of the muscles, and even as we watched, Rintoul’s damaged collar bone twisted grotesquely. He slipped out of consciousness with the pain, his cries terrible to hear, those in the beds nearby falling silent and fearful. I looked at Dr Proudlove, who was standing stiffly, leaning forward as if his insides were wound as tightly as clock-springs. Was he going to speak up or not?
‘The infection comes from the hands,’ said Dr Cole suddenly. ‘And yet I washed them myself when he came in. I have no idea what these bandages are.’
‘The bandages must be changed every morning,’ I said. ‘Mrs Speedicut will have changed them this morning as per my instructions.’
‘And I misted the palms with carbolic solution,’ said Mrs Speedicut, her tone defensive. ‘As I were told to do.’
‘Clean bandages,’ I said. ‘Every day.’ My old friend Dr Bain from St Saviour’s Infirmary had taught me much about the importance of cleanliness when treating open wounds. He had been murdered before his ideas became common currency – certainly I saw little evidence that they had ever reached the Blood. ‘Dead skin trimmed away with scissors that have first been boiled and left to soak in carbolic—’
‘It seems rather excessive,’ muttered Dr Cole.
‘We must keep the area clean,’ I said.
‘It is clean,’ Dr Cole replied. ‘I washed it myself.’
‘With a bowl of Thames water?’ said Dr Proudlove.
‘I have no idea where it came from,’ he replied. ‘From the water tank, I presume.’
The water tank was replenished by the rain, which fell through the brown city air, gathering soot as it came. It was certainly better than the stuff in the river, but not by much. The wash cloth he used would have wiped other wounds, other sores, other hands.
‘Of course,’ I said, realising how angry he was getting. ‘My apologies, Dr Cole. I was merely reiterating your own good practice when I suggested cleanliness was necessary.’
‘And yet there is much more to dirt than meets the eye,’ said Dr Proudlove. ‘When viewed under the microscope what appears to be clear water is, in fact, nothing of the kind.’
‘The matter settles if the water is left to stand,’ said Dr Antrobus.
‘The larger particles, yes,’ said Dr Proudlove. ‘But what of those which remain suspended? I fear there is dirt everywhere – and we often cannot see it.’
‘The wounds upon the hands were quite clean,’ cried Dr Cole. ‘I saw to them myself—’
‘It is not the hands that we should be thinking about now, gentlemen,’ cried Dr Rennie. ‘The hands will heal, anyone can see that, but perhaps not before the man has died.’
‘What do you suggest, gentlemen?’ said Dr Sackville. ‘Dr Antrobus?’
‘Perhaps,’ Dr Antrobus stammered, quailing under the gaze of the great Sackville, ‘perhaps another dose?’
‘Of?’
‘Of opium, sir.’
‘And do you concur, Dr Cole?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What about you, Mr Flockhart?’ said Dr Rennie, suddenly. ‘Or you, Dr Proudlove? Do you have any ideas?’
‘Opium is the standard treatment,’ I said. �
��Though goodness knows why, as I’ve never seen anyone recover by it – apart from by happenstance. On those grounds the suggestion makes perfect sense—’
‘And yet I think perhaps there is an alternative,’ Dr Proudlove’s voice sounded loud in the crowded space of the top ward. ‘Perhaps one that is not well known, but I think its efficacy is beyond doubt.’ His face, moist and anxious, glimmered in the lamplight. Before us, Rintoul’s breathing had become laboured. Saliva issued from his rigid jaws, and a damp circle at his crotch betrayed the seep of urine onto the tumbled bed sheets.
Dr Rennie nodded. His tin eye caught the light of my lantern, so that for a moment I thought it had actually winked at me. ‘Pray continue,’ he said.
‘Last night, when only the man’s jaw had been affected, Dr Cole had dosed him with laudanum. This would no doubt have been more than adequate, had he not fallen into the horse dung.’
‘And yet he did, Dr Proudlove,’ said Dr Sackville. ‘What might have occurred had he not is immaterial.’
‘I believe that the dirt he fell into has caused the problem we see here, the infection entering the blood through the damaged skin on his hands.’
‘You supply no answers, sir,’ replied Dr Sackville. ‘You may well be correct, but the question I am asking is how might we treat the fellow?’
‘Bhang,’ cried Dr Proudlove, stepping forward. ‘Bhang is the remedy I would suggest for tetanus.’
Beside me, Dr Rennie laughed. ‘Bhang! Why, I’ve not heard that name these thirty year or more.’
‘What is it?’ said Dr Antrobus and Dr Cole together.
The Blood: What secrets lie aboard? (Jem Flockhart Book 3) Page 17
