SEPTEMBER 3, 1880: PESHAWAR, PAKISTAN

11 a.m.

At long last, new of Kandahar reached anxious ears. General Roberts and his troops had reached that city on the 31st, only to discover the Ayub had withdrawn from Kandahar to a village but a couple miles away. The Battle of Kandahar, on September 1, lasted a scant five hours. It was a resounding victory for the British, despite plenty of casualties. It was lucky Roberts arrived when he did, for among the debris the soldier discovered homemade ladders. Undoubtedly the Afghans had planned to use them to scale the walls of the Citadel as a last resort.

For the siege had failed. Despite getting fired upon by two of its own cannons, stolen by the Afghan forces, the Citadel remained unbreached for over three weeks. Not even the constant shelling had damaged much and the men within, though a trifle hungry, were unharmed.

In celebration, the garrisons across that desert land hoisted their Union Jacks proudly. Less triumphant, however, was the news of the disastrous sortie the Citadel occupants had attempted on the sixteenth of August. Taking advantage of a lull in the shelling, several British had attacked the villages of Deh Koja and Kotal, where they believed some of their own were being held hostage. Many Afghans were killed, but so were over one hundred British. Many decapitated bodies were found and buried respectfully.

Watson prayed that Murray had not been among the one hundred. Mail lines had been re-established and Roberts's troops were hard at work repairing the telegraph poles. Watson took advantage of this. He composed a message and sent it along to Kandahar, inquiring into the status of one Henry Murray (12).

The message were quite short, as Watson's free time as limited. Enteric fever (typhoid, as it was also called) had been confirmed in the original six patients and was rapidly spreading through the men. Taking personal offense at this germ warfare being waged at his hospital, Dr. Ives demanded any and all items of Indian origin be burned. Old clothes, blankets, bandages, even some souvenirs like jezail rifles and Khyber knives, were tossed onto the inferno.

But still the terrible illness progressed.

A few of the original six had deteriorated into the relatively calm delirium the high fever produced, quietly muttering and grasping at things and people who did not exist. Temporary rose spots broke out over their chests and bellies. Pulses slowed and grew erratic. Perspiration soaked through to the sheets they laid upon. Dr. Ives grumbled about the ineffectiveness of his bonfire and chalked it up to "this wretch country's atmosphere."

Typhoid, by any reckoning, is not a romantic disease. It is messy, malodorous, painful, and embarrassing. It grips the bowels arbitrarily with constipation or diarrhea. It coats the tongue, distends the abdomen, and induces a flood of perspiration. It drains its victims of energy until they are listless, twitching masses barely alive. And its effects are felt weeks, even months, after convalescence begins.

It was exhausting work, especially for a doctor with a cast to the knee and one arm in a sling. Watson reclined on a lounge on the verandah around eight that night and realized how tired he truly was. He made a few copies of his original message to be sent to the villages surrounding Kandahar. Yet he struggled to focus. His head was throbbing after the long day and he felt, generally, "off." Well, that was not surprising, given the workload and the lack of nourishment he had had. He noted, peripherally, that his throat felt dry and sore and promised himself he would drink more water on the morrow. In the meantime, he had to hurry and finish the last note. The sunlight was dying and already he was starting to feel the night chill.

"How long have you been shivering?" Dr. Ives demanded, as though such an action were a crime punishable by law. Quite uncharacteristically, he had ventured onto the verandah in silence.

"Only a minute or so," Watson answered truthfully. "I wanted to finish this last message before I went in, even if it has gotten cold out here." He gathered his supplies and started to rise.

Ives forced him back down. "It is not cold out here," he said, slowly and forcefully. "It is one of the first balmy nights we've seen all summer." Watson wasn't sure what to say to that but Ives saved him the trouble by placing a hand on his brow. Watson could not help suppress a gasp at how cold the hand felt against his own skin.

Ives gave him a long, piercing look. The gray caterpillars of his brows came together violently and he seized Watson's right wrist without ceremony. Watson was put out by the presumptuous behavior but sat quietly for the full minute. To do otherwise would have been an exercise in futility.

"Fifty-eight beats," announced Ives. "A trifle slow for you, if memory serves. Any other symptoms you'd care to disclose? Headache? Sore throat? Cough?"

"No cough, but the others could be attributed to –"

"To overwork and exhaustion?" Ives finished sardonically. He shook his head. "You stubborn young fools refuse to acknowledge your own limits. Tongue." His gesture indicated what he wanted. Watson rolled his eyes but obediently opened his mouth.

"Coated, but inflamed on the tip and edges. So tell me, Doctor, if a patient has most of the beginning symptoms of enteric fever, in the midst of what appears to be an epidemic of the same, what is the probable diagnosis?"

"Enteric fever."

"And the immediate, prescribed treatment?"

"Bed," Watson muttered. He collected his supplies again and trudged indoors, Dr. Ives bringing up the rear.

(12) Murray's first name is never mentioned in STUDY. Some people have suggested "James" but somehow I don't see it -- he's not a James. Besides, that was Moriarty's first name! I like GM's "Henry" much better. So I stole it.