"I'll inform Heer van Hoek, and then I'll go heat some strong broth with marrow. I haven't much of an appetite, but I'll eat." She remembered to curtsy before she hurried back down the stairs.
"She's wearing herself out with work," said Hroger as he pulled in one of the rolled surgery-mattresses. "You can see it in her face."
"I know," said Saint-Germain, taking the mattress from Hroger and spreading it on the surgery-table.
"She values what you tell her," Hroger went on in his indirect manner.
Saint-Germain said nothing in response to that. "We'll need the
silk twine, the curved needles, the magnifying lens, the irrigation syringe, the Blue Lotus ointment for numbing the skin, and two vials of syrup of poppies, to stop the man's pain."
"Very good," said Hroger, and went off to fetch them.
Fifteen minutes later, Heer van Hoek came up the stairs, pulling on his long smock as he climbed. "Hercegek, thank you for doing this." He removed his wig and hung it on a wooden peg near the stairs.
"It is part of my duties here, I believe." Saint-Germain had already donned his smock and handed his wig to Hroger; he finished tucking up the ruffles at his cuffs, and said, "If you would like my assistance, it is yours to command."
"You appear prepared," said van Hoek. "You might as well remain, in case the injuries are severe. If there is a bad break in a bone, both of us will be needed to set it."
Saint-Germain pointed to his tools. "Would you want to use any of these?"
"I have my own, thank you," said van Hoek, indicating a rolled leather case lying at the end of the surgery-table; he was showing more signs of nervousness as he studied what he had brought with him. "Not that you don't have an excellent collection. Where did you get them? Padova?"
Although he had been at the Universita there in the past, most recently before his voyage to the Audiencia de Peru about sixty years ago, he had acquired the surgical tools over a number of centuries and in a number of places including Padova. "As well as Bologna, Praha, and Alexandria," he answered.
"That's right--you're widely traveled, aren't you?" Van Hoek was beginning to look nervous; he cracked his knuckles and started to pace.
"I have been about a fair part of the world," Saint-Germain answered. "I hope I am sufficiently prepared," said Saint-Germain, hearing the door open below, and a hurried conversation before the footsteps of at least three persons indicated that the Livonian Watchmen were bringing the injured man up to the surgery-room; their efforts were accompanied by slow, persistent moaning.
The lead Watchman was showing his teeth, his breath coming heavily, a look in his eyes that hinted at his distress about the man he and his two comrades carried on the pallet. The man they bore had a sheet thrown over him, much of it stained red; blood dripped off the ends of the sheet, leaving a trail of droplets, and the metallic odor of blood surrounded the man. The Watchman looked around the surgery-room. "Where--?"
"Here. On the table," said van Hoek. "Lift him up and roll him off."
"I don't think that's a good idea," said one of the Watchmen in Swedish. "He's in pretty bad shape."
"I'll help you," Saint-Germain volunteered in the same language. "If you raise the pallet, then I'll do what I can to shift him without rolling." He had learned that trick almost three thousand years ago, during his centuries in Egypt.
The three Watchmen grunted as they strove to lift the pallet, trying to keep it level. At last they had it as high as their waists, and that was about all they were able to do. The Watchmen were sweating, muscles straining, one of them pale with fright. "No higher," said the lead Watchman.
Saint-Germain stepped in next to the pallet, and in a quick, powerful move, slipped his arms under the injured man and, as if swinging an armload of grain-sacks, shifted him onto the surgery-table. As he withdrew his arms, the sleeves of his smock, and its front, came away red. "All right. You may put the pallet down."
The lead Watchman stared at Saint-Germain. "The man's no lightweight, but you--"
"It depends on rapid, steady movement. It is not as hard to do as it looks." For living men, it was harder, but he kept this observation to himself.
The Watchmen regarded him uneasily, but their leader only said, "Foreign tricks, that's what it is."
"Of course." Saint-Germain paid no attention to the blood on his clothes as he leaned over the man and pulled back the sheet. He froze, seeing the color of the man's face and the lacerations that began
just below his shoulder and ran down his left side to the middle of his thigh; the deepest wounds were in the side of his torso, where the blood that welled was frothy and pink, a sure sign that the lung was damaged. There was nothing he or Heer van Hoek could do to save him: the physical damage was too catastrophic. He stepped back from the surgery-table and looked directly at van Hoek. "I have syrup of poppies--that will ease the pain."
"He's been shivering as if he were cold--in this weather," said the leader of the Watchmen, looking a bit pale himself.
The youngest of the Watchmen retched as he caught sight of the dreadful wounds. "I ... I must ... leave ..." With that he bolted down the stairs. His footsteps crossed the main room beneath and took him out of the care-house.
The remaining Watchmen looked sheepish. The leader cleared his throat, then said, "Do you need our services any longer? We have more men to remove from the ..." He made a vague motion of his hand to imply some service he anticipated providing.
"You mean there are more injuries?" van Hoek asked.
"None as bad as this one. Four men have drowned that we know of, but there may be more. The rest are nothing like this." He pointed to the man on the surgery-table.
"Will you need beds for anyone else downstairs? Should we alert the nurses?" Van Hoek tried to concentrate on the patient, taking up bandages and trying to deploy them about the body in an attempt to lessen his bleeding.
The Watchmen stood as far from the injured man as they could; they winced whenever the patient groaned or shuddered. Finally the leader said, "The others are work-gang men. They're not our concern. Their supervisors will have them removed to their camps."
Saint-Germain had filled a small cup with a cloudy amber liquid. "If he can get this down, it will ease him." He moistened a bandage and put it on the man's mouth, then poured a little of the syrup of poppies on it, and was relieved to see the man swallow. He added more to the bandage. "He will take this anodyne; that is to the good."
Van Hoek started wrapping the huge tear in the patient's side, working with determined haste. "I think the bleeding is slowing down."
"It seems that way," said Saint-Germain, and there was no hint of satisfaction in his tone. He gave the man more syrup of poppies.
The leader of the Watchmen bowed slightly. "Well, then, we'll leave. He's in your hands now."
The other Watchman muttered something about God, and left quickly, his leader not far behind him. Their pace increased down the stairs until they all but ran out the door.
They had been speaking in Russian, but now van Hoek changed to Dutch. "How much longer, do you think?" It was as if the departure of the Watchmen freed him to address the reality of the injured man's dying; his question was accompanied by an uncanny wail as their patient began to tremble from a seizure.
"Not long: fifteen, twenty minutes at most." Saint-Germain gently pressed the patient to keep him from falling off the surgery-table. Satisfied that the spasm had passed, he offered more syrup of poppies, making sure the man swallowed the thick liquid before offering more.
"Won't that hasten his death?" Van Hoek frowned his disapproval.
"By a few minutes, perhaps, but that changes nothing," said Saint-Germain. "At least he will not have to be in such agony as he has been."
Van Hoek nodded once. "You're probably right. With the greatest anatomists in Europe, this man could not have been saved. A punctured lung, and the hip looks shattered."
"He probably raised his arm to fend off the ramming ship, a useless gesture, but an understandable one," said Saint-Germain, as he looked over the wounds. "If he were not so torn up, I would recommend putting a blanket over him, to help him regain a little warmth, but he would not be able to stand the pain it would cause."
"I see that," said van Hoek. "Is he conscious enough for a confessor?"
"I doubt it; his eyes are glazed and he hears almost nothing," said Saint-Germain. "A priest would not be here in time, in any case. Do we know what faith he follows?"
"On a dredging-barge, he'll probably be Dutch, or English," said van Hoek. "Protestant, in any case."
"Or Scottish or Irish, and Catholic," said Saint-Germain.
Van Hoek shrugged. "As you say, there isn't enough time." He put his hands together and began the Lord's Prayer.
Saint-Germain provided another bit of syrup of poppies, and noticed that the patient hardly swallowed anything. He stepped away from the surgery-table, and poured the remaining syrup back into the vial from which he had taken it. This done, he wiped out the small cup and put it back with his other supplies. When van Hoek ended his prayer, Saint-Germain joined in the "Amen."
"Whom should we notify?" Van Hoek touched the man's neck, trying to determine if he still had a pulse.
"The supervisor on the dredging-barge, I would suppose," said Saint-Germain, his own, keen senses telling him that the man was slipping away into death.
There was a long, awkward pause, and then van Hoek drew the sheet back over the man. "Would you be willing to do that for me? I find such notifications distressing."
Saint-Germain took a moment to consider. "I will," he said, "providing I can find his supervisor." He glanced at the covered body. "Shall I also ask Jascha and Klavdye to come and move this?"
Van Hoek swallowed hard. "It would probably be best. Then this room can be cleaned, and the surgery-table mattress taken away. And the blood needs to be washed off the stairs." He heard someone coming up those stairs, and fell silent.
Ludmilla appeared in the stairwell. "Is it over?" she asked, crossing herself.
"Yes," said Saint-Germain. "I will go shortly to speak to this man's supervisor. I will find out who he was and what manner of burial he may require."
"In the meantime, he should be removed from this room and taken down to the rear porch to be washed and laid out," Ludmilla reminded them. "It isn't wise to keep bodies within doors when there is sickness in the air."
"True," said van Hoek. "Very well, then. As soon as the Hercegek returns from making the required notifications, we'll send Kyril to the burial work-gang and have him inform them to which cemetery he's to be taken." He leaned against his standing tray of surgical supplies, distress in every aspect of his being. "And there will be more--many more."
"Not like this one," said Saint-Germain.
"No--the Swamp Fever doesn't leave bodies so ravaged. But their numbers will rise before they fall." Van Hoek tightened his hands and closed his eyes. "We must prepare. We must prepare," he said, more to himself than to Ludmilla or Saint-Germain.
"So we must," said Saint-Germain, and raised his voice to summon Hroger. As soon as he arrived, Saint-Germain said, "Do we still have any of that solution that removes bloodstains?"
"Yes," said Hroger.
"Would you be good enough to make it available to Jascha and Klavdye?" He could see the concern in Hroger's eyes, and he added, "We will need a fire outside to burn the surgery-table mattress and the sheet. Bring another drape from my store of them, so the body need not lie under all that gore."
"It will stiffen, and stink," said Hroger, unwilling to present an optimistic view on the death. "For the sake of the other patients, the sooner he is moved, the better. At least a new drape will keep it fairly neat and make preparation for burial less unpleasant." Without waiting for dismissal, he went back into the room that would be Saint-Germain's laboratory to open the large wooden chest which contained all the medical equipment and supplies.
Ludmilla crossed herself again. "Your manservant spoke in kindness, of a sort, but it's still upsetting." Her steady gaze was directed on Saint-Germain and there were unshed tears in her eyes.
"We must become more accustomed to dealing with the dead," said van Hoek with a resigned apathy that he wanted to serve as a shield against what lay ahead. "Swamp Fever is going to keep providing bodies until the cold sets in, and then cough and ague will
come, and we will have more men in our beds." He was doing his best to match Hroger's pragmatic tone, but his voice broke on his last words.
"I am aware of that," said Ludmilla.
"We will need to steady ourselves, not only to take care of the patients, but to keep ourselves from succumbing to despair." Van Hoek straightened up. "Despair can be as deadly as fever."
Saint-Germain had a sudden, intense memory of Nicoris and her suffering in her attempts to live as those of his blood must--how she had fallen into dejection and hopelessness, "Despair is a great killer," he agreed quietly.
"I have had the broth you recommended, and the marrow," Ludmilla said, aware that something more than their immediate conversation was bothering him, and wanting him to know that his skills were valued. "You are right--I have let myself become over-tired."
"Which is what we must avoid," Saint-Germain concurred. "If there is anything that will compromise the care we provide, it is exhaustion. I have seen it happen before." Every time those giving care lapsed into exhaustion, their ability to look after those stricken diminished and their own risk of becoming ill increased sharply. From Egypt to Siberia, from China to Mexico he had seen the pattern repeated, and he had come to understand how dangerous debilitation could be.
