She inclined her head. “It is a valid point.” She pursed her lips, apparently lost in thought. “We do so glorify the warriors of this world, often forgetting that bravery takes many forms, and you need not set foot on a battlefield to prove it,” she said seriously.
“They also serve who only stand and wait.”
The frown vanished from her forehead, and she smiled broadly at me. “Milton. Exactly! You know both your history and your literature, sir. Tell me, what else do you enjoy reading?”
“Recently I have appreciated the works of Collins, Poe, and Gaboriau.”
“Ah, said she, a hint of disdain in her voice. “I don’t take much stock of them. They were smartly written, I suppose, and have some small talent, I grant you, but nothing worthy of significant attention. Perhaps someday an author will emerge who will shake the very foundation of modern fiction, but I have yet to read him.” She paused and stared intently into my eyes. Then she seemed to make a decision. “Will you walk with me, sir?” she said, as she offered me her arm.
I suddenly realized the precariousness of my position. “Ah, Madame Dubois, I am not certain that…”
She laughed at my obvious discomfort. “Do not fear, sir. I won’t bite. And please call me Lucy.”
“I assure you, Madame Dubois, that I am not worried about myself. Your husband…” I trailed off, the implications clear.
She smiled. “Hector? Do not worry about Hector. I promise you that he will not be the slightest bit concerned if I spend a few moments with a respectable gentleman in a highly public locale.” She looked down on her outstretched arm. “You are a gentleman, are you not? Would you forsake me?”
I drew in a deep breath as I realized that I had little choice. I took her arm, careful to not make any more contact with her slender body than absolutely necessary. As I did so, I absently noted a small black ink stain on the inner aspect of her right glove. Once she had secured my arm, she led me back along one of the gravel paths towards the larger part of the garden. At her touch, it seemed as if all of her senses were heightened. The sun was shining very brightly, and yet there was an exhilarating crispness in the air, which set an edge to a man's energy.
“Tell me about yourself, sir,” said Madame Dubois, as we sauntered through the garden.
“It’s a simple story, really,” I said awkwardly, not overly comfortable discussing my life with someone I had just met, no matter how entrancing she may be. “I was born twenty-eight years ago in Edinburgh, Scotland. But I have few memories of my ancestral home, as my father moved our family to the Australia Colonies when I was less than a year of age, and my brother Henry but a boy of three.”
“Why?” she inquired softly.
“You are likely too young to recall what happened in Australia in 1851. John Dunlop discovered gold there, and by November a cataract of that precious metal was pouring from the hills. Wherever gold is found, you will soon find a swarm of men seeking their fortune, and my father was no different. Within a few months, more than fifty thousand people, gathered from every nation on the globe, were on the diggings.”
“I know a little of this phenomenon, Doctor,” smiled the lady, faintly. “My father was about to become a young man in Philadelphia, when gold was found at Sutter’s Mill. Within a few years, like so many others, he rushed to California. There he met my mother, and eventually I was born in San Francisco.”
“Ah, it is amazing that a little metal can so greatly shape the course of our lives.”
“Indeed,” she agreed. “But I interrupted your tale. Please continue.”
“Well, I am told that we traveled on a boat of the Adelaide-Southampton line, but my dear mother did not survive the voyage. My father was not an overly-affectionate man, so my brother Henry and I raised each other. Whether my father was too late, too unlucky, or too scrupulous, he failed to acquire any significant fortune. There was no ‘Welcome Nugget’ for him. But he was modestly prosperous, and once my brother was thirteen, my father realized that the two of us were becoming rather wild in the freer, less conventional atmosphere of South Australia. He determined that we lads could not obtain a sufficient education in the colonies, so Henry was sent back to England to board at Winchester College at the old English capital, while I followed two years later. I will never forget how he put his hand on my shoulder as we parted; giving me his blessing before I went out into what he knew to be a cold, cruel world. It was the last time I would ever see him. I had always meant to make the passage back, but it always seemed like something arose that made it impossible, such as my medical training. And now, of course, I have little reason to go back to Australia.”
“That is a sad story, Doctor. Do you have no fond memories of your childhood?”
I contemplated this question for a moment. “My school days were mighty fine. I spent my days learning everything I could, and my nights making every mischief we could devise. Those were good years for old number thirty-one.” I smiled fondly at the reminiscence.
“Thirty-one?”
“My school number, used by the tutors to identify me amongst the other boys.”
“Ah, I thought perhaps those were the number of hearts you broke. Surely not all of your time was spent in boy-hood pranks? There must have been more than a few girls who fell for your handsome visage?”
“Ah,” stammered I, staring at her in stupid surprise. “I…. do not know what you mean.” I was completely at a loss of how to respond to her provocative words.
But she merely laughed gaily. “So why did you become a doctor?” she asked lightly.
I reflected upon this most personal question. In many circumstances, such a probe would have been considered rude, but I knew that Americans were frequently not as constrained by social circumstances as those of us who consider England home. “I suppose it was the loss of my mother. I had a great anger that I had no clear memories of her, and I vowed to try my best to prevent such a loss for others.”
Now it was Lucy’s turn to grow serious. “And do you think that anyone can really affect the fates in such a fashion, Doctor?”
“Perhaps not, perhaps it is hubris. But such were my thoughts when I left Winchester in order to attend the University of London. During that time, I served as a surgeon at St. Bart’s Hospital. With my dresser Stamford, we dealt with many gruesome wounds…”
“Dresser?” Lucy interrupted me to inquire.
“Ah, a term we use for a surgeon’s assistant,” I explained.
“Of course, please continue.”
“Well, after I obtained my M.D. I realized that it was not easy for a man without kith and kin to set up practice for himself. And so I decided to follow in my brother’s footsteps by joining the Army. I did a residency at the Royal Military Hospital at Netley, near Southampton, where I saw men arriving on the incoming hospital ships from all parts of the Empire. And then I myself was shipped out to India. Upon landing in Bombay, I was attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as an Assistant Surgeon and saw service in India and eventually Afghanistan. I was eventually transferred to the Berkshires Regiment, where I encountered some action around Candahar.”
“Oh my, I am so sorry, Doctor.”
“For what?” I inquired.
“For my earlier words about warriors and bravery. I did not know that you had been in the Army. I certainly did not intend to disparage your service.”
“I never thought you did, Madame Dubois,” I smiled reassuringly at her. “Well, it was a rough-and-tumble work. And then few months later, and several ounces of lead heavier, I found myself here.”
She smiled. “I suspect that it was not quite so simple as all that. Your modesty becomes you, Doctor.”
“Not at all,” said I, shaking my head.
By this time, we had exhausted the paths of the garden and had climbed up a set of sloping steps that led to the rear gate. From there, we turned to the left and followed a small alley back to the street that led up to the unfinished church. Not wanting to repeat m
y failure from this morning, especially while escorting Madame Dubois, I steered us back down towards the main square and the harbor. Lucy herself was silent for a few moments, before she inquired. “And what do you think of war, Doctor?”
“War?” I responded, a bit surprised by this change in subject. “In what sense?”
“Do you think it serves a purpose?” she asked seriously.
I thought about this question for a moment. “I suppose that I have never really considered this. Certainly, it is hard for someone like me, unconnected with the corridors of power, to fully understand why countries must occasionally exert force to settle international questions.”
She shook her head angrily. “Well, I think that war is a preposterous way of settling a dispute.”
I was taken aback by her presumptive opinion. “What makes you think that, Madame Dubois?”
“The waste,” she said strongly, her lips set and eyes sparkling. “The useless waste of so many innocent lives lost. Young men, who know no better, blindly following fools, far removed from the killing grounds, their lives unscathed, and their uniforms pristine.” Her hands were clenched with deep emotion.
“But think of the great gallantry so often found in the midst of a violent struggle.”
“Gallantry is a man’s preoccupation. For those left behind, parents, spouses, children, it is a cold comfort from the horror of being left alone.”
I was stunned. I had never considered it from that point of view. It was if she had turned my whole world upside down, and I struggled to make sense of my feelings. “You speak as if you had firsthand experience of this, Madame Dubois.”
By this time, we had reached the King’s Square, and she paused to look out into the distance over the calm waters. Finally, she nodded her head sadly. “My father was a patriotic man. When our great country dissolved into its Civil War, he did not care that the action was taking place far from our home in California. He joined a regimen that headed east to fight against the Southern Secessionists. He was a brave soldier – gallant, if you will – and survived many actions, including the bloody Battle of Antietam. But he eventually died defending a stone wall on the field of Gettysburg from the charge of General Pickett.”
“You have my most sincere condolences, Madame,” said I, with a quiet voice. “I did not mean to bring up painful memories.”
She took out a lacy handkerchief from her handbag and dabbed at her eyes. She then smiled tightly at me, her upset features perhaps even more alluring, if such a thing was possible. “Do not worry, Doctor. I was the one who raised the subject. And please call me Lucy.”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid that I cannot do that, Madame Dubois.”
She sighed, and I thought I detected a hint of sadness in her eyes. “So tell me, what is your philosophy of life, Doctor?”
“My philosophy of life?” said I, perplexed.
“Yes, how do you see the world? What is its meaning?”
I shook my head in undisguised wonder. “No one has ever asked me such a thing before.”
“And is that a bad thing?” said she, imperturbably.
“Of course not! But to date my path has mainly led me along the rougher side of life. From the cries of pain echoing in the hallways of a London hospital, to the equally miserable agonies of a dusty battlefield. Such philosophy has not come within my horizon at all.”
She shook her head skeptically. “Come now, Doctor, that is an absolute fabrication if I have ever heard one. You may have been born a man of action, but that does not mean that the pursuits of the mind and the heart are not equally within your métier.”
I shrugged my shoulder. “I simply have never had to put this into words. I suppose that I find life to be formidable yet eminently worthwhile. And in one man’s story you can often find a microcosm of the whole. We are constantly reaching for answers, and often times our grasp falls short and closes on nothing but empty air, but that does not mean that we should ever stop striving to know our purpose on this great ball of matter.”
She smiled demurely. “Ah, Doctor, if you had not told me otherwise, I would have thought you a poet.”
I found myself again growing warm and flustered. “It is just that I do not wish for my existence to ever become either comfortless or meaningless, so I keep seeking.”
She stopped and looked into my eyes. I found myself falling into them. “And where do you think that a man can find both comfort and meaning?”
“Ah,” I stammered again, trying to break free from her entrancing gaze, “I suppose that many find it in their work, especially when such work brings succor or happiness to another.”
Again she shook her head, but this time with a hint of sadness. “And here I thought that you might say that you could find it in love.”
Her words took my breath away for an instant. I was uncertain how to respond. A wondrous subtle thing is love, but why would it strike me here of all places in the world, and why would it be this woman, who was forever unattainable, bound to another? But any further words that I might have spoken were lost, as my attention was suddenly drawn to another commotion occurring in a spot very close to the prior day’s ambergris-induced excitement. However, something felt different about today’s crowd, which seemed more agitated than animated.
Abruptly, a voice called out in great anxiety. “A doctor! Someone fetch a doctor!”
Without a further thought for my companion, I leapt into action as fast as my leg would carry me. I hobbled across the square and used my walking stick to try to part the crowd before me. Despite my best efforts, I still ended up knocking my injured shoulder against another man and the sudden intense pain almost knocked the wind of out me. I finally managed to croak of words as loudly as I could. “Make way! I am a doctor!”
A path through the crowd separated and I was finally able to see the source of the problem. A small boy, no more than ten years of age, was lying still upon the cobbles, his face swollen and slate-colored, his lips a purplish-blue. His hair and clothes were soaking wet, immediately suggesting to me that he had been submerged for a considerable time. I bent over the lad and examined him. His pulse was feeble and intermittent, and no breaths appeared to emanate from him. I quickly turned him over and cradled his chest in the crook of my right arm, as well as I could with the stiffness of my wound still troubling me. With my left hand, I proceeded to strike the boy’s back with not inconsiderable force. The first blow failed to produce an effect, and a woman nearby gasped at my actions, which must have seemed outlandish, but I pressed on. The second blow accomplished my goal, as the boy proceeded to cough and expel a great deal of seawater from his lungs and stomach. It made quite a mess upon the cobbles, but I could tell that it was having an effect by the little shivering of his eyelids which showed a thin white slit of ball beneath. After one more blow and another purging of his lungs, I turned him back over and laid him down. I placed my finger back upon his neck’s thready pulse, where the stream of life trickled thin and small. But soon I could tell that both his pulse and breathing were growing stronger. To augment their recovery, I raised and sank his arms until he was drawing a series of long, natural breaths. However, I could not ascertain if I had been successful in removing all of the water, and I cursed my lack of foresight. Before I shipped out of England, I had at all times carried a stethoscope with me secreted in my top hat, but as I was in Bermuda to recuperate, it had never occurred to me to bring it with me that day. Fortunately, the lad soon rolled onto his side under his own power, blanched and ghastly, but plainly on the mend with the inherent vigor of youth. I contemplated accelerating his recovery by sending someone for a splash of brandy, but ultimately decided that the boy would be fine without. When he finally opened his still-vacant blue eyes, in which a tiny spark of reason had returned, I had the satisfaction of knowing that my hand had drawn him back from that dark valley in which all paths meet.
I rose and spoke to the anxious surrounding crowd. “It has been touch-and-go with him, but
he’ll live now. He simply needs some time and rest.” A series of congratulations and painful backslaps from the crowd followed this pronouncement, but my sole interest was in ascertaining the location of my abandoned companion. I soon spotted her standing in the shade underneath the porch of a nearby building. She was staring at me with the most peculiar look in her bewitching green eyes.
I slowly made my way over to her and inclined my head slightly. “I apologize for abandoning you, Madame.”
A brilliant smile spread across her face as she shook her head. “That was not abandonment, Doctor. That was true gallantry.” She then lifted on her toes, leaned forward, and gave me a kiss on my cheek. “You are a brave man.”
I was thunderstruck. “It was nothing, Madame,” I stammered. “My bravest moment must have come shortly after I arrived in India. I rose one morning only to found a shower in my swamp adder.”
The Isle of Devils Page 10