The Isle of Devils (15 page)

“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 my 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.”

She laughed delightedly. “You are a complicated man, Doctor. I do hope to converse more with you soon.” And with that ambiguous statement, she turned and strode back in the direction of the Globe Hotel, the frangipani scent of her perfume lingering in my nostrils.

As I watched her saunter away, I pondered the absurd racing of my heart. I was an army surgeon with a weak leg and a weaker bank account, but even more importantly, she was a married woman. Despite the rapport that had been established between us, I vowed to banish all thoughts of her from my brain.

I slowly followed in her wake back to the hotel, only to discover upon my arrival that she must have already retired upstairs to her room. I felt vaguely disappointed not to see her again, but also relieved that I would not have to test my resolve so soon. I sat down in the dining room intending to partake in a light lunch. Boyle entered from the back rooms and raised his eyebrows at my disheveled appearance. My suit had been stained with water spots during my treatment of the nearly-drowned lad, and was quite a sight.

“Good afternoon, Doctor. So it’s true.”

“What’s true?” asked I, confused.

“That you brought little
Benji
Trimingham
back to life.”

I snorted. “Nothing of the sort. It was just a simple matter of some water removal from his lungs.”

“Well, that’s not what they are saying, Doctor,” replied Boyle. “They are saying that the lad was dead, and that you restored him. They are calling you a miracle worker.”

I shook my head ardently. “Not true at all! Who is spreading such a tall tale? This happened but ten minutes ago!”

“Remember that this is a small town on a small island, where everyone knows each other’s business. News travels fast around here, especially something so moving an anecdote as a resurrection.”

I frowned at the man. “Please assure me, Mr. Boyle, that you will strive to correct future versions of this tale. I tell you that the boy still had a pulse when I reached him.”