Dr. Darcy was whistling when he entered the front doors of Calcutta Native Hospital nearly two hours later.
George Darcy in a feisty, ebullient mood was nothing surprising. Nor was the finely woven sherwani of navy blue with maroon trimming worn over a paler blue shalwar kameez anything worth noting. This was the East India Company hospital exclusively for the care of Indian citizens, so most of the staff were natives, thus George’s attire was not all that unusual. What was rare was to see an Englishman as vibrantly dressed and rarer still to find one who possessed his verve and forceful personality. Nevertheless, the bulk of the people who worked at Native Hospital, as well as those at Calcutta General Hospital where Europeans were treated, had grown familiar with Dr. Darcy. A few shook their heads or pursed their lips, but the vast majority at either facility smiled when he appeared, hearts lifting as if a cleansing breeze had blown in with him.
“Good morning, Mr. Bhatt! How are you this fine day? What have I missed?” He snatched two apples off the basket sitting on the front desk, tossed one blindly over his shoulder to Anoop, who caught it deftly, and bit into the other as Mr. Bhatt, the receptionist, greeted them with namaste and a bow before answering pleasantly.
“Good morning, Dr. Darcy. Or should I say ‘good almost noon’? I am well, thank you for asking. And all you have missed is Dr. Parsall’s weekly visit.”
“Drat! Was that today?”
Mr. Bhatt hid his smile and did not look at Anoop, who was rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Yes, Vaidya. It was today, as it is every Monday and has been for a number of years now.”
“Has it? Extraordinary! How did I not know that? Anoop, be sure to make a note so I won’t miss the director’s visit next week. Is Shoolbred in his office? I am sure he will fill me in on the critical information I missed by not being here earlier. As long as we are still open for business, I can save the valuable enlightenment for later. We are still open for business, aren’t we?”
“Indeed, Dr. Darcy. We are, and your patients await. Dr. Koneru is in the infectious ward prepared to update you.”
George nodded, clapping the receptionist on the shoulder before grabbing another apple and heading into the hospital ward.
Waving and halting for brief chats with a number of orderlies, doctors, and patients along the way, George and Anoop finally parted the thick curtain at the end of a long hallway blocking the large building assigned exclusively for those patients with obvious illnesses of a type known to be transmittable. No one fully understood the intricacies involved with contagion but there wasn’t a doctor alive who had not seen diseases like measles or typhus spread as a wildfire to whole families or communities. Furious debates raged as to how or why, and there were far too many men of science who flat refused to accept that they were the cause of directly transmitting infections, especially those within wounds. However, gradually, advances were being made in understanding, and although isolation served more to contain a possible epidemic rather than cure the individual patient, it was a place to start. Thus the enormous wing was sectioned into smaller areas either curtained or separated by walls for the various diseases.
Dr. Koneru was standing next to Dr. Maqbool, sheaths of papers in their hands. In unison, they glanced up when George approached.
“Namaste, Dr. Darcy. We have three cases of a pox that came in over the night.” Dr. Koneru handed the paper to George with one hand, pointing to the beds on his right with the other. “All children, as you can see, and from the same family. Parents panicked, sure it was smallpox.”
“You think otherwise?”
“The smaller lesion size and lack of overt illness other than a mild fever and malaise suggest the so-named chicken pox variety. Their worst complaint was pruritis, which we have relieved with a paste of kasaundi root and kanji. Now their complaint is boredom.”
George laughed. “Yes. I know how rapidly boys grow bored, even when ill. Keep them here for the day, just in case. If the itchiness grows unbearable even with the paste, try juice of amaltas leaves or zinc oxide. If nothing else, they can alleviate their boredom by painting themselves white. Then you would really scare the girls, right?” The latter addressed to the youths, who laughed and nodded.
They moved to the next area, and then onward around the ward. Collaboration in most cases, Dr. Darcy needing only to be informed of changes and offering new orders when appropriate. Unafraid to touch patients, George frequently interacted by examining, asking questions, changing dressings, and whatever else he deemed necessary. Anoop took notes while others scurried to fulfill his instructions or fetch requested items.
When Dr. Shoolbred, superintendent and chief surgeon of Calcutta Native Hospital, found Dr. Darcy, the lanky physician was sitting cross-legged on a bed with a five-year-old girl in his lap. George had his sherwani open and the little girl was leaning with her ear pressed against his left chest. Crossing his arms after an amused exchange with the girl’s mother, Dr. Shoolbred waited and observed.
“What do you hear? Galloping camels?”
“No!” She giggled. “Boom booms like a drum.”
“Fast and at a beat you can dance the bihu?”
“No, silly.” More giggling. “Slow and dull.”
“Dull, am I? Well, that is disconcerting. Hopefully your chest provides better sounds. Can I listen now?”
She nodded, standing up so Dr. Darcy could easily reach her thin chest. “Take as many deep breaths as you can. Oh my! You will not believe what I hear in there, Ekaa!”
“What, Vaidya?”
“A strong, fast heart. Perfect to dance the bihu. And better yet, lots of whooshing air. When did you last cough?”
“In the night. Woke me up,” she said with a pout. “Not today though. Am I better now? Can I go home with mata-jee?”
“I think you can. I will send medicine with your mata-jee just in case the whooping cough happens. Continue to rest for a few days, promise me, Ekaa? Good. Your siblings can pamper you for a while, how is that?”
He stood, ruffling her hair and patting one rosy cheek before turning to the superintendent as he buttoned his sherwani.
“Dr. Shoolbred! Excellent to see you.”
“Glad you found your way into the hospital today, Darcy.”
“I have been here for hours and hours. Tending to patients. Sorry we didn’t encounter each other sooner. It is easy to miss people in a facility this grand.”
“Yes, I suppose it must be since you missed the director’s inspection and apparently have not seen the cluster of men standing at the end of the ward.”
“Oh I saw them! They are rather conspicuous after all. I figured they were enjoying the respite from boring lectures, directions to places they won’t be able to find tomorrow, and endless introductions to people they won’t remember. Besides, they probably don’t know Hindi, so I only would have confused them.”
“You confuse everyone, Darcy, English or Hindi, but you are the Chief of Infectious Diseases and Liaison for Ayurvedic Medicine—”
“Both titles I resisted, if you recall, John. I was perfectly content to be the Handsome Physician of Fine Garments, but you wouldn’t allow it.”
“You are incorrigible.”
“I am hearing that quite often lately. I rather like it!”
Dr. Shoolbred chuckled and gestured with his head toward the eight men standing in a semicircle and watching the exchange they could not hear. “Just get it over with. It won’t be too painful.”
George grimaced but started walking, Dr. Shoolbred alongside. “Not so sure about that. They are going to ask me incessant questions and expect hand-holding for the next month.”
“Didn’t you when you first arrived in Bombay?”
“No.”
Shoolbred started a bit at the automatic, peremptory answer. He looked up at the taller physician, expecting to see a jesting expression, but George
was studying the new EIC recruits with the fierce, eagle-eyed gaze they were as familiar with as the jocular one. No, he probably didn’t, Dr. Shoolbred decided. Rarely had he met a medical person as confident as Dr. George Darcy, and while it was logical to assume it the result of twenty-plus years practicing, Dr. Shoolbred’s association with the renowned physician for the past year had revealed a genius that he knew transcended the normal. More than that, in the superintendent’s nearly forty years as a surgeon in multiple capacities, he had only met a handful of physicians who possessed the gift for diagnosis Dr. George Darcy did.
With that in mind, he carefully watched the exchange that took place over the subsequent minutes as he introduced each of the eight men.
The recruits were of varying ages and experience, four barely finished with their education and the other four ranging from three to ten years practicing. Five were English, one Welsh, one Frenchman, and one Spaniard. All of them had arrived in Calcutta over a month ago, working since then at General Hospital so as to acclimatize to the Indian environment while treating in a style familiar to them and on people they could converse with. As with everywhere in life, gossip filtered through the halls of a hospital, and it was normal for one to ask questions and listen, especially when new. Therefore, Dr. Shoolbred knew before looking at any of their faces that they had heard of Dr. Darcy or even caught a glimpse of him since he was popular there as well. Most likely, they had assumed the stories were exaggerated, just as previous new staff had. They had been standing here for forty-five minutes watching him in action, but if that weren’t already enough, they would soon learn they were wrong in their assumptions on all fronts.
Dr. Darcy greeted each one as they were introduced, inclining his head respectfully. All traces of flippancy were gone, his face firm and eyes penetrating. The air about him was professional and friendly at the same time. He was polite, serious, and unthreatening. The questions he asked of each man were more conversational than direct, his queries on their education and background general. He didn’t lecture or talk about the hospital or the medical personnel. He didn’t drill them on diseases or surgical techniques. That will come later, Dr. Shoolbred thought.
Shoolbred noted the subtle signs of Dr. Darcy already forming opinions of their potential, opinions he would be willing to change if proven wrong—Shoolbred knew his colleague to be fair in that regard—but then he was rarely wrong and his impressions gave the administration vital information for assignments. It was one of the reasons new recruits were brought to him, a fact Dr. Darcy was aware of.
For the next three hours, Dr. Darcy toured the surgeons around the hospital. He didn’t show them a single storage cabinet or linen closet. How they learned that was of no interest to him unless they didn’t learn swiftly, at which point they would be excused. Nor did he translate very often. They would either learn the language, asking for help in the meantime, or end up catering to European patients. Either was fine by him. He simply wasn’t going to waste his time at the present on someone with zero aptitude. What he did do was tend to his patients and had them assist. In doing this, he taught about the unique illnesses and injuries they would see in India, and gave an overview of indigenous treatments and therapies they would be expected to respect at the least. In this he was crystal clear, the look he gave each man allowing no room for confusion over what his tolerance was if this rule was broken at Native Hospital.
“We treat the Indian people here, employing exactly the same standards and medications and skills as at General. What we also do is work with the local, native physicians and holy men. It is a cultural melding of medicine, some that work and some that don’t, but until you try it, you will never know.”
Each surgeon was dirty and exhausted by the time they left, piling into the three tangas that would convey them back to the residential compound. George stood in the foyer, his arms crossed over his chest and eyes watching the wagons wheel away. Dr. Shoolbred remained silent, waiting for what he suspected was coming after trailing along most of the afternoon. Still, the individual interest surprised him.
“Tell me about the Spaniard. Penaflor, was it?”
“Correct. Dr. Raul Penaflor Aleman de Vigo. I think there is more to his name than that, but I can’t recall it. As he told you, he is not but two years out of university. His credentials are excellent, what we know of them that is.”
“What do you mean?”
Dr. Shoolbred shrugged. “Nothing worrisome. Merely that being a Spaniard, he didn’t come through Company Headquarters in London. He connected through representatives in Madrid, so the documentation isn’t as complete as usual. Want me to dig a bit more?”
George waved his hand, turning to head back into the ward. “Don’t care. Send Drs. Penaflor, Gwythur, and Lumley back tomorrow. The others are competent but not for Native Hospital.”
Then he was through the doors, leaving a grinning Dr. Shoolbred behind.
***
George had been to the Calcutta Government House once before in October of 1811, two months after he and Jharna had arrived in Calcutta. At that time, they were on holiday, spending their time exploring the city and region surrounding while George volunteered in a number of medical outlets, some EIC controlled and some not. He had not met Governor-General Lord Minto, the controller of foreign policy for the British East India Company, and was mildly surprised the important man knew of him, let alone wanted to speak with him. Few would accuse Dr. Darcy of being humble, and they would be correct, yet when asked by Lord Minto personally to accept a permanent position with the Bengal Presidency of EIC, not only as a staff physician but also in a managerial role at the hospitals and as a professor of languages and medicine at Fort William College, George was unexpectedly touched. Nevertheless, it was after discussing the commitment with Jharna and then negotiating for only a two-year contract that he agreed. Since then, his interactions with Lord Minto consisted of a handful of social engagements and nothing else.
This sunny morning in March of 1813 began as every other except for Mr. Bhatt greeting him with an envelope bearing the Governor-General’s seal with a summons inside for an audience with Lord Minto that afternoon at two o’clock.
Interesting!
He wasn’t worried though. He knew his record was excellent, for one thing, but mostly because, like everyone in Calcutta, he was aware of the political changes on the horizon. Sure enough, the chamber he was escorted to contained several men, including Lord Minto and his soon-to-be successor, the Marquess of Hastings. Having assumed they had another position of some kind they wanted him to fill, George was taken aback when the request was of an entirely different nature.
After the typical pleasantries, introductions, and serving of refreshments, Lord Minto opened the topic. “Dr. Darcy, as I am sure you know, I will be vacating these offices soon. The Council and I are in the process of orientating Lord Hastings to ensure smooth transition into his leadership. He has agreed to honor an ambassadorial expedition the Council has been discussing for a number of months now and that is to Hill Tipperah, or Tripura as they prefer.”
“We have a stable relationship with the prince and there are British contacts in the area,” Lord Hastings explained. “Nothing official, nor are we seeking this. We are not exerting our influence, Dr. Darcy. Tripura is neutral and sovereign. They are, however, nestled between Burma and Assam, two principalities not as stable. Our goal is to extend our hand, so to speak, and assure we are closely monitoring the situations without.”
“Your role,” Lord Minto took over, “is as it ever has been: that of a medical practitioner. Your services would include overseeing the health of our envoy as well as an outreach to the Tripuri people if possible. You have, by far, the most experience when it comes to that sort of activity. Now, your questions for us.”
“How long?”
“Two months at the most.”
“Can my lady accompany me?”
The two lords exchanged glances, Lord Minto answering, “It is unusual to include a woman, Dr. Darcy. However, I am aware that your lady is of the royal Maratha house and that she has accompanied you on your travels. I suppose we can arrange this then, if it is the contingent?”
George nodded. “It is, my lord. And I have one other. I wish to take an associate. Dr. Raul Penaflor.”
Again the two men exchanged glances, Lord Minto answering, “I am not familiar with Dr. Penaflor, but if in your judgment a second physician is sensible, or even a third, we trust your choice.”
“No, one will do and Dr. Penaflor is the best choice. Thank you.”
Dr. Shoolbred was the only one not surprised by Dr. Darcy’s decision to include Dr. Penaflor. Even George wondered at his spontaneous request.
“I had no idea what they had up their collective sleeves, Jharna, so it isn’t like I consciously was thinking of Dr. Penaflor. I blurted without thinking and I never do that!”
“You have spoken highly of him on several occasions.”
“Have I?”
Jharna laughed at his wide-eyed gape. “Yes, you have. You rarely mention those you work with, unless it is to criticize their incompetence. Dr. Penaflor must be unique. Reminds me of another young doctor who once impressed an older, experienced doctor, so much so that he was hunted down until accepting his destiny.”
“This is nothing like Kshitij and me,” George grunted. “I am thankful he pursued me to be sure. I simply have no desire to have an apprentice or a partner so won’t be doing any hunting. Anoop tagging along is worry enough! No, Penaflor is on his own. If he wants to thank me for the opportunity, that is fine, but he better not expect more.”
“Somehow I doubt it is young Dr. Penaflor who will be the one expecting more, priya. You are the exacting one, as I am certain he knows. And if he reaches or exceeds your standards, you may well change your mind.”
George waved that nonsense away, turning the topic to his elation over an adventure to a new region with her.
The Passions of Dr. Darcy Page 37