by M. C. Muir
He thought of the Spanish Admiral, Jose de Bustamente y Guerra and his friend the Major who had stood on the deck of Médéa and watched his wife, five daughters and three sons consumed by flames before his very eyes.
How could a man endure such an event and go on living with that memory?
How he hated Gibraltar. How he wanted to leave. Now more than ever before.
He lifted the letter, wiped his eyes and read the rest of the Doctor’s words.
As you will be aware, there are no undertakers and no funeral services as there is no-one to attend to the burial of the dead in an acceptable fashion. From what the lady told me, Gibraltar is not her home and, because of the Quarantine Regulations and the nature of her illness, it would be impossible to return her body to Madeira, or even deliver her to your ship for a burial at sea.
Because of this, I have begged permission for her body to be buried in the South Port Ditch Cemetery near Windmill Hill. This is where the soldiers, who have succumbed to the fever, are being laid to rest. Officially the cemetery is not permitting the burial of citizens. Unofficially, for a fee, a space will be found. I felt this would be the best arrangement under the circumstances. It will make every effort to be present when this takes place, though I cannot advise you when this will be.
The letter ended with the doctor’s message of condolence. It was signed, Jonathon Whipple.
Oliver was grateful and he was in the doctor’s debt.
At least, Susanna would be buried in consecrated ground, even if without the usual ceremony. For a terrible moment he had visualised her body being flung on the top of a pile of corpses on the dead cart and conveyed to the newly dug section of the ditch, which stretched for hundreds of yards along the edge of the neutral zone. There, without ceremony, it would have been tipped in, sprinkled with lime and earth, trampled beneath feet and forgotten.
He must arrange to repay the financial debt, but how could he repay the doctor for the attention he had shown.
He would never forget Susanna. She had been the constant glimmer of light that had brightened his darkness during long months at sea.
What was it about her that had been so special?
Why her? he thought. Why not my wife?
No, God forgive me for such a despicable thought.
He shook his head.
Like all sea-wives, Victoria had always been faithful, kind, true and forbearing, even though deprived of the man to whom she had given her life. And Victoria had been without the joy, satisfaction and company of children of her own.
He had failed. Failed as a husband. Failed as a man. But he promised he would make reparation. He must.
Yet for all his regrets, he could not love the memory of Susanna any less. She alone had given him the intense physical joy, the sensual satisfaction and the deep and lasting love, which only a woman can give.
Folding the paper, he touched it to his lips then slid it into the drawer of his writing desk. By closing the drawer, he knew it marked the end of a chapter in his life, and nothing on earth could change it.
CHAPTER 16
Resurrection
Sir Thomas Trigge gazed through the window.
‘Captain,’ he said, ‘I asked you here to advise you personally that I will be departing the rock on the twentieth of the month.’
‘Aboard a British naval vessel?’ Oliver enquired, eager to learn if a ship was due into the bay. Perhaps it would be coming to relieve Perpetual.
‘Yes,’ the general replied. ‘Aboard Triumph, with Captain Barlow. When I leave here, I will gladly convey any letters you have. For the Admiralty, perhaps? I know you, too, are anxious to leave this place. For the present, however, as I have received no instructions to the contrary, your orders are unchanged. You must remain here. My replacement as Lieutenant-Governor of the Colony and Commander of the Garrison will be General Fox. He will take up his appointment in December.’
Oliver was pleased for General Trigge. He was a worthy man. He had survived the epidemic – possibly because he had spent many years of military service in the West Indies. He had managed a disastrous situation with conviction as best he could, while under severe duress. He had arrived in Gibraltar to face an ill-disciplined, mutinous garrison where most of his men were fresh-faced young Irishmen who had never seen action and never witnessed death before.
For Oliver, however, waiting until December for a new commander, with no prospect of being relieved before that, meant many more weeks sitting in Gibraltar Bay. His men would not be happy when he relayed the news, but he could do nothing but acknowledge the situation.
‘Indeed, Sir Thomas,’ he replied dutifully.
‘From an observer’s point of view,’ the general said, ‘it may appear that I am deserting a sinking ship – if you will pardon the nautical expression – as the epidemic continues to escalate.
‘In September the garrison recorded only 31 deaths, excluding those from the Artillery and Engineers, while over 1000 bodies were buried in the mass grave on the northern ditch. But, so far this month, the fortress has suffered 300 deaths including a long-time friend of mine from the First Royal Regiment of Foot. On my desk, I have a long list with the names of my men, their ages and where they have been buried. I knew many of them personally.
‘This contagion is a curse. It is neither selective by age, rank or regiment. And I am acutely aware that when I vacate my command, I will be leaving the colony in a far more depressed and doleful state than when I arrived. The garrison is more vulnerable now than it has ever been since the British captured Gibraltar from Castile one hundred years ago.
‘With the number of soldiers so depleted due to sickness, I have been forced to withdraw troops from the upper galleries near the summit. This means Gibraltar’s Mediterranean coast is undefended. I have concentrated my able-bodied men on the gun batteries overlooking the isthmus and the bastions and Line Wall overlooking the bay.’
Oliver sympathized with the dilemma the general was facing.
‘It truly is an unfortunate situation which could not be foreseen.’
Oliver pondered over the general’s statement. He clearly remembered the questions put to him by the Lord Commissioners.
Have you previously suffered a fever?
Was it possible the Admiralty had foreknowledge of the fever, or was the possibility of an epidemic pure speculation? No one could truly know.
‘On a more positive note,’ the general continued, ‘I am expecting the arrival of a new surgeon shortly and once he arrives, Dr Whipple will be at liberty to return to your ship.
‘That is good,’ Oliver said.
‘Captain, I do not often lavish praise but I must extend my admiration for the tireless efforts and commendable services provided to the fortress by your surgeon. Dr Whipple has been a Godsend both to the garrison and the civilian population. And while putting his own life at risk, he undoubtedly prevented even more deaths than the terrible number that I have mentioned.
‘Of course,’ he continued, ‘from the local population, many deaths will probably have gone unrecorded – infants buried in courtyards, beggars tossed into the sea from the cliffs at Europa Point. The true figures will never be known.
‘The navy was indeed fortunate to acquire the services of such a learned man as Dr Whipple and if he wished to re-consider his position, I would gladly recommend him for a post on the Rock.’
‘I appreciate your commendation, General,’ Oliver said, ‘and I will convey your words to him. However, I must confess during our voyage here, I failed to appreciate the doctor’s ability and commitment to saving lives. I now berate myself for not being more mindful. Perhaps the nature of the man’s reserved character had some bearing on that.’
‘Captain Quintrell, I speak from experience when I say one man out of 200 or 2000 may not stand out, especially if by nature he is humble and unassuming. These are not traits required to advance one’s career in either the military or the navy. Title and money, however, play a signifi
cant role in my branch of the services. While humility is something we have little time to recognize.’
Oliver listened to the address from the old soldier. It was delivered as a father would to his son and reminded Oliver of his grandfather – an honest, hardworking, herring fisherman. A man who lacked guile along with any formal education, a man whose fondest wish was that his son, and his son’s son would achieve more than he had. Oliver hoped he had inherited some of the gentle humility his grandfather had possessed.
The general continued. ‘During the time he was domiciled at the barracks, I am told, the doctor toiled almost twenty hours out of every twenty-four, and his first concern was always the welfare of his patients and not himself. I admit recently my faith eluded me when I visited the hospital and witnessed the rows of men in the throes of death. Threshing. Vomiting. Choking.
‘I, too, was sceptical when I first observed your surgeon approaching a patient, not with a plaster or clysters or a vial of medicine, but with a pen and notebook into which he recorded certain details. From those lucid enough to answer his questions, he asked their age, country of birth and, of course, how long the patient had been suffering from the fever. He also enquired of each victim when the illness began, what course it took, and later he noted the final outcome.
‘To me and my junior officers, it appeared to be a worthless, time-consuming exercise and an imposition on the dying. Surprisingly, however, many of the patients rallied for a while when they found the doctor was taking a sincere interest in them. And when a patient was at death’s door, he would sit on the bed beside the victim providing comfort by his sheer presence.’ General Trigge sighed long and hard. ‘I believe none of us wish to die alone.’
‘Did you require the doctor to keep notes?’ Oliver asked.
‘No, Captain. Deaths occurring at the garrison are recorded, but the information required for government returns is basic and limited. And I admit to questioning the doctor about his extensive record keeping.’
Oliver waited.
‘He told me his notes were part of a study he was conducting. He hoped one day to publish his findings in order that the facts, regarding the epidemic, would assist future physicians in order that the fever can be better treated if it returns.’
‘You think it will return?’
‘I fear so.’
With the arrival of a new surgeon to serve at the garrison, Dr Whipple relinquished his duties at the garrison’s hospital but, with the help of Zachary Irons, continued to attend the sick in the town. With his nights spent aboard the frigate, Oliver took the opportunity to invite the doctor to dine with him in his cabin. A time for the pair to talk was long overdue.
‘I trust you will allow me to speak candidly,’ Oliver said.
‘Please feel free,’ the surgeon said. ‘I have nothing to hide.’
‘Stories circulate a ship like sharks around a whale carcase. And such rumours regarding yourself ran rampant when we sailed from Portsmouth. Unfortunately, those rumours directly targeted your professional reputation and, I admit, made me question your capabilities.
‘However, since we arrived in Gibraltar, I have heard nothing but praise for your work from Captain Gore, General Trigge and Doctor Pym. I have seen the extent and care you have extended to patients who mean nothing to you. In Algeciras, I even noted how well you handled yourself in a dire situation. For my own part, I admit that my initial assessment of your performance in the cockpit was unjustified. I put that down to my ignorance of medical procedures and I offer you my apology.’
Dr Whipple shook his head. ‘That is not necessary.’
‘But I want to understand and offer you the opportunity to speak frankly. I assure you whatever you tell me will go no further than these wooden walls.’
‘I appreciate the opportunity, Captain. What can I tell you?’
‘You boarded Perpetual as ship’s surgeon,’ Oliver said. ‘And you explained to me earlier how you had been stepped up to surgeon from surgeon’s mate. But you did not explain why you did not complete your training as a surgeon. Might I ask why that was?’
‘It was due to the death of my father,’ he replied, casting his eyes down. ‘Unbeknownst to me and the rest of the family, he had amassed a large gambling debt. So in order to save my mother from being relegated to the poorhouse, the house my family had lived in for four generations was sold. Naturally, my allowances and tuitions fees ceased and I had no other means of meeting my expenses. As a student of Mr Astley Cooper, my annual fees were ₤500 a year, plus seven guineas for each lecture, and five guineas to attend a dissection.
‘Mr Cooper was an inspiring mentor and because he had been impressed with my progress he had invited me to be a demonstrator for him at his daily lectures. That job entailed preparation and presentation of cadavers for his students. At times, I also helped him with vivisections which he conducted at his private residence.’
Oliver frowned. ‘Cutting up bodies in a fashionable area of London!’
‘Indeed. Mr Cooper contended that it was preferable to discover how the human body worked by dissecting a cadaver rather than trying to understand how the organs functioned on a screaming subject.’
The doctor’s words resonated with the captain. ‘The moans of men with arms and legs torn off are never so heart wrenching as the screams of a loved one put to the knife.’
‘Men in battle do not feel pain immediately,’ the doctor said. ‘That it is why it is best for the surgeon to remove an arm or leg as soon as possible. The mind blocks the pain. But the pain comes later.’
That was another fact Oliver could relate to. When his hand had been rent in two, he remembered looking at it, considering the blood that was staining his uniform and white silk stockings. He distinctly remembered taking off his neckerchief and binding it around the dripping remnant hanging from his wrist before issuing the next order to fire.
Oliver continued. ‘And you helped procure bodies for him.’
Dr Whipple nodded. ‘Only once. He had regular suppliers.’
‘And I suppose he paid them well.’
‘Oh, yes. The bag-’em-up men make a good income. They charge a set price for adults. Ten pounds each. Babies and still-born infants are calculated by the inch, and a special price is paid for a pregnant woman still carrying the foetus within her swollen belly.’
Oliver frowned. ‘An unseemly business. I cannot imagine the state of decay of some of the bodies.’
Dr Whipple was unperturbed. ‘No cadaver was ever wasted, no matter what state it was in. With occasional requests for skeletons, badly decomposed bodies were ideal because it took little work to strip the flesh from the bones. But if any fat had to be flensed off, it was traded to the local chandler who was not particular what type of fat went into his candles. He used whatever he could get his hands on and if he received complaints about the smell, he would swear the fat was from a pig.’
Oliver curled his nose. ‘But if these resurrectionists were caught, did the surgeon never fear they would reveal his name?’
‘Loyalty amongst thieves – as the saying goes. They respected Mr Cooper because he looked after them. If they were apprehended, he paid for a lawyer to defend them in court. As a result they were usually released with a fine and were back at work in less than a week.’
‘But why would an intelligent man like Mr Cooper do it?’ Oliver asked.
‘Because like all naval navigators, surgeons need charts. Maps to show the routes taken by veins, arteries and nerves. They need to know where they are heading, what passages are safe to travel and what they are likely to encounter along the way.
‘If you witnessed the number of operations I have seen performed on live patients strapped to the table, given nothing to dull the senses, you would agree that practicing on a body which does not feel the knife, is far preferable.’
‘But isn’t laudanum administered to the patients?’ Oliver asked.
‘Not always,’ the doctor admitted. ‘Opiates not only
slow the brain but also reduce the patient’s desire to breathe. Administer too much opiate and the patient will die from lack of their own breath not from the operation.
‘We have a name for our work in the hospital. It is called Pathology. It is the Study of Suffering. As for myself, I found grave-robbing to be a diabolical experience and would never choose to repeat it.’
Dr Whipple continued. ‘Greater fear, I have never felt than in a churchyard, after midnight, when the shadows play tricks with your mind. When the swaying branch of a tree is an arm reaching out to grab you. Where every leaf that rustles in the breeze – a footfall behind you. The screech of an owl – a soul in despair. The eyes of a fox – the face of the Devil. Watching.
‘In the uncomfortable silence of the night, every scrape of the wooden spade jars in your ears. The crack of the coffin lid when it is rent apart explodes like the sound of a giant oak felled in the forest. The noises reverberate through every nerve in your body. You glance around, not knowing where to look, not knowing what to expect, or when. You imagine voices in the night, faces in the trees, but see nothing. You long for it to be over. You want to be away from that place. You are conscious this is desecration.’
He sipped his wine. ‘Then, if the moon suddenly appears through the trees, flickering like a dozen lanterns, you want to run, but you cannot. The grave-diggers whisper. Make jokes. Suck on empty pipes. They have done this many times before. Death is their living. They waste no time. Once a hole is made in the lid, the corpse is hurriedly hauled out, and the shroud or clothing torn off it. Then the body – naked as the day it was born – is stuffed into a large bag.’
‘Do the robbers have no respect? Why would they remove the burial shroud which provides the last vestiges of dignity to the deceased?’
Dr Whipple laughed. ‘Because the law is an ass. It is a crime to steal a possession such as a loaf of bread, a piece of cheese, a silk handkerchief, even a burial shroud. A man can be sentenced to death or seven year’s transportation for such a deed. But a body is a person and not a possession, and there is no law relating to the stealing of bodies.’