Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Completely ignoring the newcomer, Jeremy proceeded with his seeming lunacy throughout the night: exercising, sleeping, massaging, sleeping, exercising, despite expert warning, pitting his will against — what was it, the exterminating hand of Death or the extirpating hand of a Surgeon? When at dawn a nurse brought tea for both prisoner and guard, the latter looked as if he had lived through a nightmare, and the former through a dream.

  Young Dr Solomon looked in quite early with nurse and sister, very friendly in his manner. He told Jeremy that he had been to see his physician father, who sent word to say he remembered the Delacy family well and would like to meet Jeremy again, and more here was a dosage of a special Gas Gangrene Antitoxin not available to the hospital. Jeremy got a shot of the antitoxin then and there. Then young Solomon rather spoilt things by saying, ‘You’ll have to get rid of the necrosed tissue, you know. The antitoxin can only prevent the spread of it. What about it?’

  ‘No,’ whispered Jeremy. ‘No.’

  As the doctor was turning away shaking his head, Jeremy grabbed his sleeve. ‘Your father . . . he would remember . . . what your grandfather . . . did . . . with honey.’

  The young man stared at him. The hoarse whisper went on: ‘A case . . . third-degree burn . . . blacksmith . . . surgeon wanted amputate leg . . . declared gangrenous . . . old Doc cleaned it up . . . in a week . . . with . . . honey . . . and . . . raw wool-fat.’

  Young Solomon had a go at creasing his cheeks.

  Getting back the breath for it, Jeremy hoarsed, ‘Let me try . . . inunction . . . honey in hydrous Adeps Lanae . . . honey . . . truly wonderful stuff . . .’

  The doctor chewed his lips, then said, ‘You’ll have to talk to Dr Paton about it.’ He departed.

  As soon as he and his nurses were gone, Jeremy got out of bed and started again on his rounds with the locker. He was still at it, when the door opened, to reveal, with the nurses, an all-too-familiar face, which tightened with annoyance at the sight, then snapped open, demanding, ‘What’s this?’

  The face was that of Inspector Ballywick. Jeremy halted, to stare, panting, sweating. The Inspector turned on the guard. ‘What’s the prisoner doing out of restraint?’

  Glancing at the sister for corroboration, the guard replied, ‘Doctor’s permission to exercise, Sir.’

  Ballywick snapped, ‘Well, he hasn’t mine. Put him back to bed . . . and handcuff him to it.’

  Jeremy’s whisper came stronger than it ever had, ‘How dare you call me . . . prisoner!’

  ‘You are my prisoner.’

  ‘I’m not charged.’

  ‘You’ve been charged by Naval Authorities with being in a prohibited area.’

  ‘Mad . . . I was thrown . . . in sea . . . washed up . . . hardly remember . . . want lawyer . . .’

  The Inspector cut in: ‘You are also charged by me, under National Security Regulations, with being party to an act of subversion.’

  Jeremy goggled at him. ‘You must be . . . mad . . . I was attacked . . . by Communists . . .’

  ‘The evidence is that you were attacked by loyal citizens while disrupting a recruiting rally. Investigation revealed that you were associated with one, Aelfrieda Candlemas, in preparation of a document advocating sabotage of the war effort.’

  Jeremy gaped.

  The Inspector went on: ‘I warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence at your trial. However, a voluntary statement of facts will serve in your favour. Have you anything to say?’

  Jeremy found his voice, the hoarse harsh whisper: ‘Only . . . you . . . same Gestapo dog . . .’

  Ballywick snapped, ‘I’ve warned you before that such insults are actionable. I promise you now that I’ll prosecute you for them to the limit of the law . . .’

  ‘You call it law . . . that you . . . represent?’

  Ballywick looked at his subordinate. ‘Handcuff him.’

  The sister protested, ‘Doctor’s orders . . .’

  Already the officer had his handcuffs out, and in a moment had one cuff snapped on Jeremy’s right wrist. As Ballywick himself closed in on Jeremy and grabbed him quite urgently by the plastered arm, the sister cried to the nurse, ‘Get Doctor!’ Jeremy was propelled towards the bed.

  The sister hovered, panting, ‘Don’t be rough with him . . . he’s a very sick man.’

  ‘Then what’s he doing out of bed?’ growled Ballywick.

  Jeremy was made to lie down. The officer locked the free end of the handcuff to the bedstead.

  Ballywick growled again at the sister, ‘I warned you that this man’s got a reputation for violence.’

  ‘We haven’t found him so.’

  ‘You don’t know him.’

  The hoarse whisper cut in: ‘You don’t know him . . . either . . . you Gestapo dog . . .’

  Dr Solomon burst in, demanding, ‘What’s going on here?’

  Ballywick said, ‘I warned you about this man, Doctor.’

  ‘Take that handcuff off him.’

  ‘He’s my prisoner, Sir.’

  ‘He’s my patient. I’ve found no tendency to violence in him. I think you lied to us. I think you’re persecuting him for something . . .’

  ‘How dare you, Sir! I’ll report you to the Hospital Superintendent.’

  The black eyes were wide and hot, the smooth cheeks flaming. ‘Take that thing off him, before I report you. This’s outrageous. This man’s dangerously ill . . .’

  ‘I found him . . .’

  ‘I don’t care how you found him. You have no authority here but to have patients you bring here kept under guard. You’ve no right to interfere with them in any way not countenanced by the hospital staff . . .’

  ‘I’ll remind you, Sir, that there’s a war on, that under National Security Regulations we have extraordinary powers . . .’

  ‘There’s no power on earth going to let you chain a patient of mine to a bed without my permission. I don’t have to even refer the matter to the Superintendent. Take that thing off . . . or I’ll send for the hospital engineer to cut it off with a hack-saw.’

  Ballywick stood for a moment bristling. Then, between his teeth he said, ‘Very well, Doctor . . . but the responsibility is yours . . .’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been telling you all the time.’

  Ballywick signed to his man. Then he looked at staring Jeremy. ‘I’ll be dealing with you later.’ He turned towards the door, looking back as he reached it, to fling, ‘If you’re still alive!’

  ‘Phew! Certainly got the knife into you,’ said Dr Solomon. Then he waved the policeman outside, and nodded to the nurses to dismiss them. He sat on the bed. When Jeremy thanked him, he said, ‘Least I could do . . . especially for an old friend of the family.’ He smiled. Then, stroking his cheeks he said, ‘I spoke to the Super about that inunction idea of yours.’ He paused, looked away, to go on: ‘Naturally he’s against anything empirical . . .’

  ‘Everything’s empirical . . . start with . . . I’ve . . . studied, honey . . . under microscope . . . bacteriostatic action . . . don’t know why . . . and tissue feeding . . . blacks use for . . . bad burns . . . bad ulcers . . . your grandfather got idea . . . from blacks . . . anti-inflammatory . . . nutrient . . . Nature’s own cure . . . damaged tissue . . .’ Jeremy ran out of breath.

  The doctor was looking at him again. He said, ‘Dr Paton said he’ll make a bargain with you. He’ll permit the inunction, provided that if there’s no sign of improvement after forty-eight hours, you have the testes out.’

  Jeremy swallowed, answered with a strangled, ‘No.’

  Solomon shook his head. ‘That’s silly, you know. You can give your treatment a go . . .’

  ‘It’ll work . . . I know.’

  ‘Then why not make the bargain?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll bring you a book on Gangrene.’

  ‘No . . . please bring me . . . the ointment . . . twenty-five per cent honey . . . in absorbent . . . lanolin . . . base . . . cholestero
l in lanolin . . . stimulation . . . tissue . . .’

  The doctor regarded his panting patient for a moment, then said, ‘Right . . . I’ll see what I can do.’ He reached and touched the thick brown hand beating betrayal of desperation on the encased breast, then rose. ‘Twenty-five per cent you said, eh?’ Jeremy nodded. The doctor went out.

  Half an hour later the nurse came with a pot of the ointment. The moment she was gone, Jeremy set to work. A blob of the creamy stuff worked in ever so gently but with grimaces of pain, until it vanished — another — another — until the skin would take no more. A little sleep. Some more exercise, following the locker about, or sitting on the bed-edge tapping his feet. Then more inunction. By mid-afternoon the one hundred grams or so of ointment was down to a mere lick. He asked for five hundred. But so much on the mend was he that he asked for buttered toast with his gruel.

  Dr Solomon came in late afternoon, took a look, a probe. The blowfish was distinctly deflated. His black eyes grew wide. ‘By God!’ he muttered. Then he asked, ‘What about pain?’

  Hoarser and stronger the whisper now: ‘Gone.’

  The smooth fingers stroked the smooth cheeks. The eyes looked wary now. ‘Could all be auto-suggestion, you know.’

  Jeremy nodded, husked, ‘Auto-suggestion’s . . . good medicine.’

  ‘If it can be maintained . . . and there’re no lesions to cancel it out.’ The black eyes blinked. Then somewhat hurriedly the doctor said, ‘Well, keep on with the good work . . . and good luck.’ He departed.

  Jeremy kept on with it, between spells of sleep and exercise, all night, to the fascination of his several guards, who still might not have existed for all the notice he took of them.

  At the appropriate time next morning, there was Dr Paton, the Superintendent, with his retinue, including Dr Solomon. The long yellowish eyes had only a glance for the owner of the testicles before the long fingers sought them. ‘Hmm, hmm, hmm!’ he droned. When at last he looked up he seemed at a loss to know whom to address, the way he looked round, so addressed himself ultimately to the now-even-shrunken organs themselves: ‘Certainly improvement . . . hmm, hmm! But could be due to manipulation . . . and some auto-suggestion . . . not forgetting the antitoxin. Hmm! But I still can’t see how we can avoid debridement.’ Then he looked squarely at the owner. ‘Another twenty-four hours, eh? That’s our bargain, isn’t it?’

  Jeremy rolled his eyes to Solomon, who winked quickly. Jeremy said nothing.

  Dr Paton then gave his attention to the throat, this time using a laryngoscope for an inside view. He chuckled with satisfaction: ‘No auto-suggestion about that. Feed him up, Sister. He ought to be able to take pretty well anything now.’ Then to Jeremy: ‘How’s the voice?’

  ‘Don’t get much practice . . . Doctor.’ Still the hoarse whisper, but stronger. It added, ‘Don’t like . . . the company.’ Jeremy rolled his eyes towards the staring policeman.

  The doctor followed the glance, slid the thin lips into a wide grin. ‘Just as well . . . not too much talk yet. Right. Twenty-four hours then.’ He and his crew withdrew. Jeremy got out his pot and worked with vigour.

  Late that afternoon young Solomon came alone. ‘How’s things now?’ he asked, and took a look for himself. He made the Master’s comment, Hmm, hmm! but also frowned.

  Jeremy asked, ‘Wha’s matter?’

  ‘Seems as if you’ve done the trick.’

  ‘Don’t seem so pleased.’

  ‘Because it is a trick.’

  ‘Don’t see it.’

  Solomon sat on the edge of the bed. ‘We don’t know for certain what did it.’

  ‘I’m certain.’

  ‘You’re an empiricist . . . if you don’t mind my saying so.’

  ‘But . . . everything has to be . . . experimented with.’

  ‘We can hardly call this an experiment . . . when we weren’t even certain of gangrene.’

  ‘Superintendent was.’

  The young man shrugged slightly. ‘Busy surgeon. He didn’t really commit himself, you know. Said, Looks Like It.’

  ‘But . . . he’d have . . . had . . . my balls out.’

  ‘He did say, remember, that it’d be different if you were a young man.’ But this young man avoided the old man’s eyes. Stroking his cheeks again in his Master’s style, he said, ‘There’s always a struggle between the physician and surgeon . . . in the doctor, I mean. It’s all right with you vets. If you’re uncertain, you can shoot ’em. Medicine is largely empiricism. In case of urgency, surgery is the simple and often the safest way out.’

  ‘But a man’s testes . . .’

  ‘We’ve got drug-replacement therapy these days . . .’

  ‘A eunuch’s a eunuch . . . for a’ that.’

  Solomon laughed lightly. ‘You take those old balls of yours dead seriously, don’t you!’

  ‘Don’t . . . don’t you take yours . . . seriously?’ When the young man only laughed again, Jeremy asked, ‘You made . . . that bargain . . . with him?’

  Solomon flushed, but grinned. ‘I had to . . . to get you what you wanted.’

  ‘Thanks . . . but . . . what if it hadn’t . . . worked?’

  A shrug. Then a chuckle. ‘I suppose you’d’ve died with your balls still on.’ The doctor rose. ‘You’re not out of the wood yet, you know. If there’s necrosis, complications could set in. That’s what the Super’s going to say tomorrow. You’re not going to get him to believe in the magic properties of honey.’

  ‘Does . . . does that mean . . . you believe?’

  Another shrug and smile. ‘I’m the grandson of old Doc Solomon.’

  He departed. Jeremy returned to his routine.

  Next morning it was as Dr Solomon had predicted. Dr Paton, while obviously impressed by the difference he found in what had looked like decaying blowfish, nevertheless turned from probing and palpating to fix the grey eyes watching with those yellow ones, saying, ‘They’re not going to be much use to you, you know, old chap.’

  The hoarse whisper replied, ‘Useful . . . as ornaments.’

  The wide mouth grinned, then pursed: ‘Could be dangerous ornaments. Any necrosed tissue, and the slightest injury could bring on a fatal sepsis. I’d have ’em out if I were you.’

  The grey eyes held the yellow. ‘If you . . . were me . . . Doctor?’

  A moment. Then Dr Paton straightened up, drew a deep breath. ‘Well . . . a bargain’s a bargain.’ But as he turned towards the door he flung back, ‘Put not your faith in miracles, old man . . . they’re commoner than cures. I’ll always be ready when you are.’ Again the retinue went out.

  Dr Solomon dropped in again in late afternoon. He said that he had been talking to his father about the alleged honey cure and that his father was deeply interested. He said, ‘The old herbalist dies hard in us, I’m afraid. My father’s an empiricist if ever there was one. That’s why I took to surgery. The old man does seeming miracles. But it’s only faith-healing. Most sickness is psychosomatic. As a surgeon, at least you know what’s going on, however it might have started, and have a real chance of stopping it. Anyway, my dad would like to see you . . . when you come out.’ The young man flushed slightly, dropped his eyes. ‘He can’t come here. He doesn’t get on so well with the profession.’ He looked up, grinned. ‘They still regard us as Syrian herbalists . . . unto the third generation. I’d never have had a chance myself . . . only for Paton. He’s a big-hearted man, Paton.’ He chuckled, adding, ‘Even if he did want to de-ball you!’

  Jeremy said, ‘I’ll be glad to meet your father . . . but . . . more than a medical case . . . what need most . . . just now’s . . . good lawyer. Got any lawyers . . . in family?’

  ‘No. But I can put you onto a good one. Syrian descent. We all stick together, you know. They make us. I’ll speak to him. What exactly happened to get you in here?’

  Jeremy was telling what he knew, and had got to Alfie and her book, when the doctor interrupted: ‘Candlemas. There’s a young woman patient in here of that na
me . . .’

  ‘To have a baby?’

  ‘This one had a rather bad abortion.’

  ‘Oh!’

  Staring at the wide grey eyes, Solomon asked, ‘Would that be the one?’

  Jeremy too a deep breath: ‘W-what happened . . . to her . . . I mean . . . was she . . . hurt?’

  ‘Yes . . . rather badly. I understand that she was mixed up in a brawl . . . why, it would be that recruiting rally you were talking about! She was with you?’

  ‘Yes. Tell me . . . what happened . . . to her.’

  ‘Some fiend jumped on her . . . a heavy-weight of a woman, by the marks. She was pretty close to term. Haemorrhage killed the baby. Nearly killed her, too. Only just off transfusions.’

  Jeremy’s voice had faded to the whisper: ‘God almighty!’

  Solomon said, ‘You were telling me about a book she was writing.’

  Jeremy shook his head, inferring that he could talk no more about it. The doctor prepared to go. Jeremy asked, ‘Could you . . . give message?’

  ‘Surely.’

  ‘Tell her . . . how sorry I am. That Commonwealth . . . Inspector . . . must’ve charged her . . . is . . . is she . . . under restraint?’

  ‘Yes, come to think of it . . . yes got some sort of policewoman guarding her.’

  Jeremy’s restrained breast heaved: ‘That . . . bastard!’

  ‘Now, you take it easy. I’ll see her for you. You’ll probably see her for yourself when she’s well enough to be moved. She’s sure to be brought up here to Refractory. There are male and female sections . . . but only wire in between.’