Doldrums and Deep Waters
Chapter Three: Recovery
My readers may, like my friend, wonder why it was that I did not employ myself rather more purposefully during the initial years of our acquaintance. The truth is that I was at first rather more unwell than I have chosen to convey in my accounts of that time. I feel the events of this particular case may seem clearer if I now recount what I have only touched upon before.
Enteric fever is a vile disease, and gunshot wounds are almost as bad. Combine such maladies with the bitter and harrowing memories of that disastrous and tragic Afghan campaign, and it may be sufficient to break some men for life. The physical wounds were perhaps less exercising than the spiritual ones. I had been a young man, and naive, when I left for a life in the Army. I had first taken in my exotic surroundings with eyes wide with wonder.
In times such as this, the bonds one forms with ones' companions can take on an unusual intensity. Myself and several companions took it upon ourselves to extract every nuance from the strange new world. We sampled all each new locale had to offer with almost feverish interest, perhaps even then aware that our lives were fragile things indeed. I can still see their faces now, fresh and sunburnt for the most part.
Then had come Maiwand, and out of my six particular cronies, only two besides myself survived. My particular friend, a handsome fellow named Davies, with mischievous eyes, who had seemed irrepressibly fearless, had been one of those I had seen hacked to pieces before my own eyes. He had died as I tried to tend to him, and his eyes were dull with the horror of what had happened to him. He cried for his Mother with his last words.
At first, I could not close my eyes without the images from those days playing before my eyes. Of corpses, horribly and obscenely mutilated; of men, nay boys, their faces twisted with pain and terror. Their sticky blood spilling over my hands as I tried to save those not already too far gone, feeling the hot pawing of the hands of those I could not save, as I eased a little water down dying, parched throats. When sleep came, those days would be visited again with all my senses. The noise was possibly the worst. The screams and cries of dying men and horses. I could not have believed before that time that such noises would ever take on secondary importance, but I am ashamed to say we were all more preoccupied by the terrifying, deafening clash and clatter of the guns. Or perhaps the smell was the worst - flesh putrefying in the sun, and that terrible, sickly odour, mixed in with the terrible, choking dust that nobody who has not been to Afghanistan can fully understand.
The horror of the battle was followed by the worst dat and night of my life, as I was flung over the back of a pack horse, injured in my shoulder and my leg, and jarred back and forth, whilst the sun baked down agonisingly, and my throat burnt with a thirst like nothing I had ever experienced before, then followed by the most aching cold that ever wracked a man's bones. At my lowest moment, I begged poor Murray to end it all for me, as I could stand no more. The spectre of the Ghazis hung above me – the revenge-fuelled disembowelments and mutilations I had seen – at first, we were all exorcised with terror, but towards the end of my ordeal, I would almost have welcomed them.
Of course, we reached the relative safety of the fort, but my torments did not end there. The extraction of bullets in a desperately under-resourced battlefield hospital is a ghastly business. Four men held me down, although I believe I was so weak two could have overpowered me sufficiently. It was quite impossible to entirely resist thrashing about, although I am proud to say I conducted myself with some stoicism, mostly simply grinding my teeth upon the leather strap they gave me as I screamed to relieve the intolerable pain. The surgeon afterwards had ruffled my hair in an almost fatherly fashion, and told me I was "a brave boy", which had prompted a wave of homesickness that it was almost more painful than the extraction of the bullet.
Not even this had broken my youthful resilience. I had rallied, as I have written before, and was capable of pottering, and even making myself a little useful. The enteric fever was the cruellest stroke of all. Not only are the loss of all bodily control and the spasms which wrack the whole frame hideous, but the feverish wandering of the mind adds a nightmarish quality to the condition. I proved very susceptible to the illness, and lay ill for months, each improvement followed by yet another relapse. In the throes of the illness, the wounds in my leg and shoulder caused contractures of the muscles to develop, the effects of which were sadly permanent.
It was with galling grief and bitterness, then, with which I accepted the news I was to invalided out. I can recall the pain of looking at myself in the glass for the first time since Maiwand. I had been largely undressed, so the spectacle was all the more striking. Prior to the battle I had been strong, hearty and well-muscled, with lithe, powerful limbs, my tanned skin glowing with health; the picture of young, virile masculinity, even though I say it myself.
The figure which faced me on that day appeared grey, despite the tanned skin. I appeared shrunken, withered from within and without, so starkly did my bones protrude from beneath my skin, and so wasted did all my fine muscles appear. My posture was marred by a listing to my injured side, and I had an all-over tremor. My hair, which had been thick and shining, had become thinned and brittle. I was also shocked to see the ugliness and extent of my scars. Perhaps my eyes were the worst. They had stared back at me with that dull listlessness I had seen in my patients before, and how I could have laughed and wept at the confident pity I had felt for them then!
The long journey back to England was not conducive to quality convalescence, and I disembarked at Portsmouth an almost broken man. My condition was especially forlorn as I had now no family remaining to me. I believe the loving care of a mother, wife or sister may have done much to improve my condition, but my cheerless existence exacerbated my heartsickness. I believe I might have followed my unfortunate brother's path had not fate introduced me to Mr Sherlock Holmes.
I fortunately had sufficient vanity and pride remaining to me to strive not to exhibit the worst of the vices I had developed to my new and formidable flatmate, and in this possibly lay my salvation. However, no amount of pride can protect a man from the demons which visit him in his sleep. Holmes respected my privacy, but still managed to convey kindness when it was most needed, and began the slow process of drawing me out of myself. I gradually regained enough strength and interest in life to accompany him on his cases, and my recovery was on its way. However, it will be appreciated that such severe damage to mind and body is not reversed overnight.
At the time the events of this narrative took place, I had been lodging with Holmes for several years. His accusation that I did not engage in any useful pursuits was unfair, as I had had my periods of usefulness. After the first year, I had taken on occasional gentle locum work as a general practitioner. I had offered my services at several charity hospitals. I had also immersed myself in study, that, if I were not to pursue my initial ambition of travelling the world and becoming a celebrated surgeon, I should at least be well informed as a physician.
My battered frame had slowly begun to repair itself. I put on weight. I enrolled at the local gymnasium and boxing club, and, to my delight, found that I made some headway in getting myself back into training, and regained much of my prior muscle bulk. I joined the local rugby team, and offered my services as coach, hence participating in their training sessions.
These were evidently great steps in the right direction, but my progress was not to be entirely straightforward. My constitution has almost, but never entirely, recovered from the rigours of my Afghan campaign, a situation which manifests itself by a susceptibility to infection not desirable in a physician. I had frequent relapses of illness; mainly trivial infectious complaints, that a grown man in full health should have easily shaken off, but which left me raggedly worn and exhausted after each episode, to the extent that for several years I was unwell too frequently to hope to hold down any full time work.
Over the last year, I had noted a marked improvement; it was as if I had turned a corner, and my body had decided to finally regain some resistance to disease. I began to cherish a secret ambition; I wished to re-enter one of the bigger hospitals as a surgeon, and from thence make a success of myself. I had been an excellent surgeon in my time, and my battlefield experience would mean I would not be expected to embark on my revitalised career on the bottom rung of the professional ladder.
I do not know why I wished to keep this ambition private; perhaps I feared the shame of failure. However, I fell to studying every article I could lay my hands on as to modern surgical techniques. I still occasionally helped out in the neighbouring practises and charity clinics, and, as I have stated, built up my own small circle of regular patients, such as little Anna Smithson's family.
As I felt my strength grow, so did my courage, and I spoke to an army connection of mine, now back in civilian practise at St Thomas's, and fast making a name for himself as a prestigious surgeon, of my ambition. He replied that he thought a position would soon be coming vacant within his own department, and that he would put in a good word for me with his colleagues, knowing of my previous prowess. It would not be a particularly grand or prestigious role, but it represented an important step in the rekindling of my surgical ambitions.
Whilst I was awaiting confirmation of the vacancy, I was subjected to another of the perverse twists of fate with which my career had been blighted. After a long period of good health, I succumbed to a virulent bout of influenza. This should not have been a problem in itself, but one day, a month before the visit of Dr Effram Morgan, I had stumbled from my bed in a state of some confusion, and, instead of heading for the bathroom as I had intended, I had plunged headlong down the stairs, knocking myself out cold upon the bannister. Holmes had not been home, and Mrs Hudson had not heard my fall, with the result that I had not only jarred my wounded shoulder, but had lain insensible upon it for some time. I was still feeling the effects when I ushered that large and wheezy gentleman into our sitting room; hence why his offer had tempted me.
However, I had by this time a letter in my possession, offering me the opportunity to attend an interview at St Thomas's. The import of this possible passport back into professional self-respect could not be overstated. I had been profoundly grateful that the letter had arrived when Holmes was out, as I felt uncharacteristically nervous, and subject to flights of fancy, such as that by communicating my opportunity, I should lose it.
Another of my superstitious behaviours, perhaps rooted in common sense, was to avoid all opportunities to expose myself to further accident or pathogens, and I had stayed in our rooms at Baker Street, gradually working myself into an intolerable state somewhere between extreme boredom and stomach-churning nervousness. It was unfortunate that this period cooincided with Holmes' period of inactivity, so that my lack of activity was all the more apparent.
Holmes had finally taken on his tedious case, which at least had the benefit of getting him out of the house and had given us a topic of conversation on the previous night. I, however, had clung to my superstitious behaviour, and had not told him of my momentous interview the next day.
On the morning of my interview, I rose early, and dressed with great care. I requested my breakfast, but could eat little of it, my digestive systems being too preoccupied with apparently performing acrobatics. I opted for a smoke instead, to steady my nerves, but discovered it had the opposite effect. As I sat in my usual chair, I could not help thinking how much time I had spent in it recently, and how unprofitable had been those hours. It was a short step from here to dwelling on my own shortcomings, and I rose to set off in a dismal frame of mind, hardly conducive to making a good impression.
I am aware that this must have contributed to the painful events of that day. I am aware, but I still cannot recall those events with anything even approaching equanimity.
Hmmm. Do you think the interview will go well?
Apologies for the tardy updates. I rarely seem to have an opportunity to get near a computer these days, but all my stories will eventually be finished. I very much appreciate you reading and reviewing, and it does spur me on to fully use what time I have!
Thanks!