The Passions of Dr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  Anoop waited with bathing implements and a hot meal at the ready. After five years, the two had fallen into a comfortable routine, with Anoop nearly indispensable. He was an outstanding cook, that skill the one above all others that George appreciated. Additionally, he was a masterful steward and housekeeper, whatever dwelling place they inhabited instantly organized and kept clean. George had made it very clear that he could take care of himself, was essentially a private man, and finicky about his property. It hadn’t taken long for Anoop to figure out what was safe to touch and what was not!

  For three years, George had argued with Anoop over their personal relationship, begging him not to refer to him as, “My haakim, the exalted Vaidya Darcy,” or some such similar rot. Anoop listened, smiled, and nodded as George explained his reasoning, and then promptly ignored his orders. It drove George crazy, primarily because he respected Anoop and abhorred the idea of the younger man believing he was nothing but a servant under the boot of the autocratic Englishman. George encountered that attitude among his countrymen, and it sickened him. George paid Anoop a substantial wage, trusted him with great responsibility, and talked to him in an intelligent manner with dignity and friendly humor. The attitude went a long way toward narrowing the self-imposed gap, but for Anoop, there was forever an air of master/servant that he refused to relinquish.

  Gradually George came to realize that, for Anoop, it was a matter of honor to serve him, not because he was English but because he was a vaidya who served all of mankind. To Anoop, a Hindu through and through, he was lifted high and esteemed due to his faithful service, and would be rewarded in the afterlife. It was never a matter of seeing himself as beneath George but rather the proper position for him to inhabit to maintain the careful balance of life, what they call dharma. Once George grasped this—as well as he could, not being a Hindu—he no longer fought Anoop. Their friendship and cohabitation settled after that, their mutual accord established and comfortable.

  Therefore, as typical for them, George retreated to the tiny veranda at the back of the house while Anoop cleaned the kitchen area. Sitting on a swinging bench with his legs extended to the railing and gently propelling the swing into motion, George sipped a cup of tea and stared into the darkness. Moonlight and starlight bathed the small yard and faintly illuminated the trees and bushes that swayed in the mild breeze. A lit candle sat on the table, the glow needed to read the book laying on the cushion beside him—a copy of Ramayana written in Hindi that he was reading to perfect his command of the language and learn more of Indian history. The peace attained in the pond clung to him, and while tired, he was wide awake. Anoop was singing a ballad, his fine tenor drifting through the open windows, adding a pleasant ambience. Day after tomorrow, George would be traveling to the EIC base in Coorg for a week to two-week engagement with the medical corps, so was enjoying the solitude.

  Briefly, he considered walking to the Ullas house where he was never considered a visitor. However, he knew Kshitij was as exhausted as he and deserved to pass the evening sedately with his wife and children. His thoughts drifted to Vani. It had been five days since they last spent time together and that was a family gathering with the entire Ullas clan. It had been longer still since they had been alone together. The prospect was very tempting, although strangely it was not sex foremost on his mind. Vani was a tender and loving woman. Being with her was soothing more than passionate, her sweetly simple nature a great comfort whether they went to bed or not. On a night like tonight, the idea of lying in a woman’s arms merely to feel a necessary human connection was enticing, and the only reason he didn’t leave the swing was because he never imposed upon Vani in that way. She was an independent woman and not his merely for the taking. If she wanted him, she would ask.

  George sighed and reached for the book, but before he cracked it open, he detected movement in the shadows of the trees. It only took a second to recognize the shape outlined by the pale light from the sky, George chuckling under his breath as he rose from the swing and crossed the lawn.

  “I made a fresh batch of gulab jamun. Mine are better than Anoop’s and I thought you might want some.”

  “Thank you, Vani.” George took the covered bowl from her hands. “You do make it better than Anoop, but forgive me if I do not admit that. He cooks most of my other food and washes my clothes. I’d rather not be punished by biting into a bhut jolokia pepper hidden in my puri or have my paijamas starched.”

  “I understand. I am sorry to hear about the man with rabies, Sahib. Dessert is a small consolation.”

  “It is a better consolation than you might think, Vani. You know me well enough to trust it will do the trick.”

  Her merry eyes were detectable even in the darkness. “Then perhaps you would be interested in some rasmalai as well? After that I can open the jar of tailam oil and massage your muscles. If you wish to stay at my house past that, you are welcome, Sahib.”

  George honestly could not say which item sounded more appealing: food, an excellent massage, or loving. Taken all together, it was a package deal no red-blooded man would reject, so with a smile and gentlemanly offer of his arm, they turned and headed back up the path to her house.

  ***

  The volatile situation between the British East India Company and the ruler of Mysore, Tipu Sultan, promised to escalate into another war. Diplomatic missions were ongoing, but no one seriously thought the warrior king could be swayed from his prior intent to convert all Hindus to Islam and to drive the English permanently off India’s shores, especially after being soundly humiliated in 1792. That war ended with the Sultan forced to cede nearly half his realm and surrender two of his sons as hostage, pending payment for the cost of the campaign against him. That debt had been paid long ago, his sons returned as the EIC promised, and thus far the treaty held. Rumors of his renewed plotting with the French circulated, this a particular threat due to Napoleon’s personal vengeance against Britain and desire to rule the world. Largely speculation at this point, taken as a whole, it nonetheless meant the region was not overly favorable to foreigners unless sanctioned directly by the Tiger of Mysore, and naturally, EIC soldiers were not welcomed with open arms.

  For this reason, George and Kshitij wisely decided to leave any English members of their group in Dindigul before crossing the border into Mysore. It wasn’t the first time they had struck out on their own without military or official company escorts, nor was it likely to be their last. The association between the EIC and the numerous Indian states ran the gamut from absolute control to strong alliance to bare tolerance to frank hostility. Like it or not, George was forced to pay attention to politics and the winds of change far more than he ever intended.

  Early in their travels, while still crossing the friendly Deccan Plain of Maharashtra, Jharna suggested he dress in native fashion as a way to blend in, at least as much as possible for a man fairer and taller than most Indians. Additionally, it served to pacify his patients, many of whom, right or wrong, held a less than favorable opinion of Westerners. This suggestion George embraced wholeheartedly. The truth was he loved the loose, comfortable, cool, and colorful designs of Indian garments. Once used to the radical switch from restrictive, hot, layered suits in bland colors, George rarely donned one. He kept his wavy hair long, the Ullases rightfully suspecting it was not so much a sentimental observance of British style but because he liked to tie his ponytail with a flashy strip of fabric as just another way to stand out in a crowd. As if anyone could miss him. As time passed, George adapted to the culture he lived in, mastered the Hindi language and bits of the various dialects, and above all cultivated a true love for the Indian people. The latter, more than anything, was sensed instinctively by the natives he met, so much so that rarely was anyone dubious of him for more than a few minutes.

  Therefore, difficulties had been nonexistent. Caution had been applied, Kshitij insisting that his wife and sons dwell in larger cities where the races tende
d to reside in harmony and where the government, whether British or Indian or a combination, kept the peace. Trips he and George undertook to less-populated zones were done alone and nothing too frightening had occurred. Nor had they encountered problems since entering Mysore, those suspicious authorities dealt with along the way not able to argue Dr. Ullas’s right to be in the area nor displeased to permit trained physicians. In order to abide by the treaty, Tipu Sultan could not very well order the immediate arrest of every white man seen in Mysore as much as he might like to. George certainly wasn’t the only one wandering about, and once settled into Saliom near Mysore City, he became an oft-seen addition to the population and was forgotten by those in command. Or so he thought.

  Days after his return from Coorg, George was working with Dr. Ullas in the hospital when a commotion from the front of the building gained their attention. Leaving the bedside of the patient they were tending, the two men walked around the corner for a better view of the tumult, neither suspecting it had anything to do with them.

  A group of Mysore soldiers stood in the entryway, their red turbans and bayoneted muskets out of place in the sterile environment of a hospital. The leader was talking to one of the orderlies, who seconds later glanced in George and Kshitij’s direction and, with an expression of relief, pointed at them. The soldier’s eyes followed his indication, George’s brows lifting when the soldier gestured for them to join the cluster.

  “This does not bode well,” Kshitij murmured.

  “Might be exciting though,” George murmured back, earning a sour grimace from his partner.

  The leader inclined his head respectfully when they stopped before him, George hoping that was a positive sign. “Honored vaidyas, his most high exaltedness Sultan Fateh Ali Tippu requests most humbly your professional services in a matter of extreme delicacy. A carriage waits without to convey you in comfort and honor to Seringapatam.”

  Sweet words such as “honor” and “request” did not fool either of them. This was a demand, pure and simple, and one they could not ignore. They obtained little information from the commander other than the assurance that it was a medical issue and nothing more. He wasn’t exactly the most readable man George had ever met, stony face and iron eyes free of emotion, but the sense was that his words were truthful. Of course, whether because that was all he had been told or because it actually was a medical emergency was another story. A hastily scribbled note for Jharna was written while George gathered their traveling bags, and within thirty minutes, they were wheeling out of the city.

  George had never been north of Mysore City nor had he laid eyes on the cosmopolitan capitol of the Sultan’s powerful state. The nineteen miles of terrain separating Mysore City and Seringapatam was flat with gentle hills and sparse vegetation obstructing the view. Long before entering the gates, George and Kshitij could see the white walls spanning the breadth of the city with the towering pillars of Tipu’s palace, the square pinnacle of the Ranganathaswamy Temple among numerous other Muslim temples, and the twin minarets of the Jumma Masjid rising above. As fascinating as it was, sightseeing was not on the agenda. Their escort traveled at a fast clip and presumably expected the citizens to get out of their way, because they did not slow considerably once entering the gates. George and Kshitij were too busy holding on to the seats to avoid undue bouncing to talk. Shared glances sufficed, however. The haste spoke volumes as to the purpose of the summons.

  Therefore, they were not surprised to arrive at the residential palace and be ushered through a secondary entrance with no one greeting them other than servants and a refined gentleman in courtly attire who identified himself with a title in a language George did not know. A whispered translation from Kshitij as they rushed along in his wake revealed he was a sort of seneschal or steward and guessing by the genuflections automatically granted by every person they passed, he was indeed someone of importance to the Sultan’s household. Information was scant other than that their medical services were required for one of Tipu Sultan’s sons, a royal shahzada prince.

  There wasn’t time to linger on speculations, and upon reaching their final destination, they no longer cared.

  The chamber was an enormous bedroom crammed with dozens of people, perhaps more, although it was difficult to ascertain with the heavy drapes shut and the only illumination weak, smoking oil lamps. A boy of approximately seventeen lay on the bed, propped into a half-sitting position that did nothing to aid his labored respirations, each strangled gasp echoing around the tapestry-draped walls. He weakly writhed on the sheets, the dimness not hiding the twisted grimaces of agony etched deeply into his sweating face. Groans and whines of pain were interspersed with his ragged breathing. An untrained idiot could instantly recognize this was a situation of direst extremity.

  Immediately, the physicians snapped into their professional roles. Dr. Ullas spoke the Mysore dialect better than Dr. Darcy, so it was he who commanded the drapes be pulled and windows opened wide as the first order of business. The hesitation was negligible, the shine from the sun revealing seconds later what they suspected. The youngster was suffering from pneumonia and some sort of lung collapse with death an approaching certainty if treatment of a radical nature was not performed soon.

  George knelt by the boy’s side, Dr. Ullas naturally assuming the role of assistant. This was not only due to his ability to translate but because they both knew that when it came to ailments of the heart and lungs, Dr. Darcy was the expert. For reasons that probably related to how Alex died, George’s specific interest had lead to studying anatomy and physiology of the connected systems more than the other body organs combined. There wasn’t a treatment for a single disease involving the heart and lungs that Dr. Darcy did not know and hadn’t used. He fearlessly attempted innovative procedures and had mastered a number of them, gaining a reputation that had apparently migrated to the ear of someone associated with the Sultan.

  “He is burning with fever.” George laid the back of his hand over the boy’s forehead then peeled one eyelid. “Stuporous from diminished oxygen. Ashen and diaphoretic. Severe cyanosis.” He rattled off the symptoms so that Dr. Ullas could translate to the medical men observing. The blankets were flipped aside and shirt lifted, baring a broad, well-built chest destined to be that of a muscled warrior. Fine breeding and strength was definitely an asset in this case. George bent to press one ear against the defined chest that was laboriously straining to continue the fundamental act of breathing. Closing his eyes and sticking his index finger into the free ear canal so as to concentrate and block extraneous input, George listened. First to the upper left, then to the upper right, down to the axilla, then the peripheral base, and so on, until the entire chest area had been covered. He was nothing if not thorough, although within seconds he had known the diagnosis and treatment necessary if the prince was to survive.

  “They say he has been ill for nearly a week.” Dr. Ullas had been busy while George auscultated. Their medical cases were open at the foot of the bed and he was retrieving instruments and medications, servants and healers tending to his orders for boiling water and clean cloths. “Properly diagnosed as lung fever and treated appropriately from what I can gather. The Sultan employs well-trained healers. Three are Ayurvedic vaidyas and two Persian Yunanis from Nepal. There is also a French doctor about. It was he who heard of you and your skills. This is Abdul-Qahaar.” Kshitij nodded toward a tall man in blue robes standing on the far side of the bed, the man bowing respectfully when George glanced up. “He is Yunani and in charge of the patient. Any guesses on what will happen to him if the shahzada dies?”

  George met Kshitij’s expressionless face and bobbed his head once. No need to verbalize further. Two lives were at stake, perhaps more, adding to the pressure of the situation. Luckily, Dr. George Darcy had never been one to crumble under pressure.

  “Explain that the prince is suffering from acute hemopneumothorax secondary to the pneumonia. The collection of
blood and fluid in the pleural space has increased the thoracic pressure and it is now under tension, displacing the lungs and heart to the right. I must remove the fluid immediately or he will die. Does he understand?”

  Dr. Ullas repeated Dr. Darcy’s words in broken Persian, as it had been more than a decade since he’d used the language in his travels north. It was adequate to get the point across, Abdul-Qahaar nodding. Another Yunani healer standing nearby translated in Arabic, other bilingual speakers picking it up and translating for the Hindu speakers until there was a steady stream of languages spoken in soft tones around the room.

  Gestures went a long way too, the “come here and help me turn the prince onto his side” pantomime comprehended easily. Three men leaned onto the bed to assist, holding the shaking prince as still as possible while George ripped the shirt away and wiped the sweat-drenched skin with a cloth soaked in an herbal antiseptic solution. The latter was handed to him by Dr. Ullas, George not even looking up but simply holding out his hand in trusting anticipation.

  “Opium?”

  “Only a drop or maybe two,” George answered. “He is close to unconscious as it is, and I don’t want to suppress his respiratory drive any further. Keep it handy though. The tharra is in the far right bottle. Use it to clean the scalpel and reed, please. That stuff kills healthy stomach tissue so should effectively eradicate any invisible organisms.” He gestured for one assistant to remove the pillows so that the prince was flat and to hold his left arm over his head. Hastily, George wiped the wet cloth over the young man’s left torso all the way to the breastbone while assessing his pinched, blue face and shallowly rising chest.

  Lips pursed and jaw clenched, George palpated down the midaxillary line of the rib cage, counting until reaching the recessed space between the fourth and fifth ribs. Sliding his left index finger along the ridge posteriorly to the precise point sought for, George marked the spot with his fingertip and reached his right hand to grasp the handle of the scalpel Dr. Ullas held out for him. After a swift scan to make sure everyone was alert and prepared, George sliced cleanly through the prince’s skin and muscle underneath. A jerk and low moan was the only indication of awareness of what was being done to him.