"Athos? Come on, Athos…" Aramis panicked as his hand quickly rushed to his friend's neck desperately trying to find a pulse beating beneath his shaking fingers.
"Aramis?" Captain Tréville asked, his voice hinting at fear.
Aramis nodded, closing his eyes with relief as he let out a long sigh. "Thank God."
"While he is unconscious, now would be the best time to amputate," the doctor stated dryly.
"I will have the steward remove you from the premises if you even mention amputating this man's arm again," Captain Tréville warned the doctor.
"It is a procedure that is usually required with such an injury," the doctor retorted.
"It's because of your callous mention of the procedure that caused Athos to panic in the first place," Aramis growled. "This is a human being, not an inanimate object to test your butchering skills on." The medic was at his wits end and was unable to hold his tongue any longer. "If you weren't in such a damn hurry all the time but actually took the time to care for your patient as a person. . ."
"That's enough, Aramis," the captain interrupted. "Doctor, do your job and treat this man's arm—properly—or you can leave immediately."
"Very well, I will see what can be done," the doctor agreed.
"Can you handle things in here, Aramis?" Captain Tréville asked. "I'd like to go check on Porthos and d'Artagnan now."
"Yes, I think so, Captain," Aramis glanced skeptically at the doctor.
"Oh, your message is on the way; Luc left a little while ago," the captain reported.
"Ah, that is good, Captain," Aramis smiled. "Thank you." The pleased expression on the medic's face morphed into a scowl as he returned to watching the doctor examine Athos. Aramis didn't trust this doctor at all so he was going to keep a very close eye on him.
The doctor put on his glasses to begin examining the arm more closely—and with more apparent empathy—when he paused, grimacing and shaking his head.
"What is it, doctor?" Aramis asked with concern.
"It appears there may be some small tears in the muscle," the doctor wiped at his brow. "I am not skilled in surgery; it would be better if we wrapped the arm tightly and waited for the surgeons to tend to it tomorrow. Otherwise, if we simply sew the wound closed he could lose use of the arm."
"Alright, doctor, but if we can get a hold of some ice to pack around the wound it will keep overnight better," Aramis suggested. "At least, we can keep cold compresses on it."
"Yes, that is a good idea," the doctor agreed. "If you wouldn't mind inquiring about the ice, I will begin binding the wound to hold it until tomorrow."
The medic stood with raised eyebrows, stunned the argumentative doctor agreed with him for a change. "Alright, I'll be back shortly." Aramis watched the doctor as he and a nurse began rolling strips of bandages tightly around the arm, tying the edges together with firm knots.
Aramis searched for the steward to inquire about the availability of ice at the château. Steward Fontaine led Aramis to a cold storage room in the basement where several chunks of ice were kept in clay pots on the stone floor. The medic looked around the room in amazement. "I don't believe this," he huffed.
"Duke Gaston enjoys his iced drinks," the steward smiled. "Being the king's brother does include some privileges."
"Indeed it does," Aramis agreed. He used the ice pick to break off several large chunks of ice then placed them in a bowl. "We can't apply too much ice; just enough to keep the wound chilled," he voiced. The duo turned to leave when Aramis paused to look back at the ice. Deep in thought, his fingers ran absently through his beard. "I wonder how well ice would go with wine... or ale?" he raised his eyebrows questioningly at the steward.
"No." Steward Fontaine shook his head, frowning with disapproval.
"No?" Aramis repeated, his eyes shifting from the steward to the ice. "Hmm, maybe you're right," the medic shrugged as he turned on his heel to leave.
The steward showed the way back to the room where Aramis began wrapping pieces of ice in a cloth while the doctor watched. The medic put the iced-filled cloth to Athos' arm; he then wrapped it with another cloth to hold it in place. "There, that should do it—until it melts, anyway," he scratched his head, perplexed.
"How long are you going to leave the ice on his arm?" the nurse asked, as if reading Aramis' mind.
"Well, I don't want the ice to melt and soak the bandage," Aramis replied. The medic's brow creased as his mind worked on a viable solution. "I need to time how long it takes for the ice to begin melting," he looked around the room. "Do you have an hourglass I can keep time with?"
"Of course," answered the nurse. "But I can do better than an hourglass. Duke Gaston keeps a table clock in his office; I'll go get it."
"Rank and wealth really does have its privileges," Aramis muttered out loud. "I wish we had these extraordinary conveniences back home; it would certainly make our life easier."
Once Aramis got the timing down of the melting ice he decided to check on his two brothers. He left detailed instructions with the nurse to remove the ice at the required time. "Please, don't let the ice melt and get the cloths soggy, or you will have to replace the bandage," Aramis smiled.
"Don't worry, I won't forget," the nurse returned the smile.
The medic entered into Porthos' room to find his friend awake. "How are you feeling?" Aramis asked as he sat beside the bed.
"A lit'le sore," Porthos smiled weakly. "How's Athos and d'Aratagnan?"
"D'Artagnan is doing as well as can be expected," he replied. "I stitched up his shoulder a while ago; it should heal well, as long as it doesn't get infected. I'll have to keep a close eye on it, of course."
"And… Athos?" Porthos asked with hesitation. "Is something wrong?"
"His arm may have some muscle damage and the doctor—whatever his name is—couldn't get past any treatment, other than amputation. At the mention of amputation, it sent Athos into a panic, which then resulted in quite a struggle."
"Bloody hell," the larger man exclaimed, wide eyed. "Is Athos goin' to lose his arm,'Mis?"
"No," Aramis huffed, shaking his head at the memory. "The captain and I wouldn't dare to allow that man to touch Athos' arm, not like that. I've sent for doctors Berteau and Molyneux—hopefully they can come tomorrow and take care of Athos properly."
"Wha' about you, 'Mis?"
"I'm fine," the medic replied before quickly changing the subject. "I am surprised at how clean both yours and d'Artagnan's wounds were, considering the dirty conditions of that dungeon. Why is that?"
Porthos shook his head then turned away from Aramis.
"Hey, Porthos, don't do this." Aramis turned his friend's face back toward him. "Don't shut me out. Please, talk to me. I can take better care of you and d'Artagnan if I know what happened and understand what you went through in that place."
"They used water torture on me," Porthos' voice whispered. "Then the second time I was whipped, they splashed some kind of a salty mixture on me—burned like hell."
"Aw, Porthos," Aramis shook his head. "My God, they used water torture on you?" the medic's eyes were wide as saucers. "I've heard stories about them nearly drowning people on tables, is that what they did to you?"
Porthos nodded quietly.
Aramis choked back a sob. With a hand covering his mouth, he turned away to hide the tears filling his eyes and spilling over onto his cheeks. The hell they both endured in that place, I can't even fathom. The medic pounded on his knee with a fist… again and again.
"Aramis, it's over," Porthos whispered, not wanting his friend to worry. "They're dead. . . and I'm bloody glad," he growled. "We made it, thanks to you and Athos. So that's it, 'Mis, it's over."
"That's it, it's over? Is that all you have to say, after everything you went through?" Aramis carefully thought about what to say next. "Porthos, you can talk to me about anything—even this," he implored. "I'm not going to press it right now, but don't keep it bottled up inside where it will fester and one day explode. It will haunt your dreams if you try burying it and pretending it never happened, trust me."
"Yes, 'Mis, I know. . ."
"We've all been through hell recently, starting with that damn mission with the decoy; it just keeps getting piled on. . ." Aramis winced as the pain in his ribs flared, nearly doubling him over.
"Aramis, are you okay?" Porthos tried to roll toward the medic but was stopped as pain under his ribs stabbed through his chest like a knife, stealing his breath away. Damn, it feels like I keep getting stabbed over and over again with that knife. Why in the hell did Henri stab me? Damn him, why?
"Don't worry. . . about me, dammit, Porthos," Aramis scolded. He grimaced, but endured the pain in his ribs. "Just lie still and don't agitate that chest wound. The doctors won't be here until tomorrow- that is if they're coming," he muttered under his breath.
"You haven't told me wha' hap'nd to you, 'Mis," Porthos gazed at the marksman with concern.
"I ran into some highwaymen looking to make it rich off me," he huffed. "Sorry to disappoint," the medic winced at the memory.
"How did you manage to fight 'em off?"
"That's the beauty of such perfect timing!" Aramis wagged his index finger at Porthos. "God's intervention—fate, or whatever you want to call it—stepped in when Athos happened to be riding by and found me. What are the chances, huh?"
"Athos shouldn't have been on the road; and you were on vacation," Porthos narrowed his eyes. "So how did you both know to come lookin' for us?"
"Call it 'brotherly intuition'." Aramis suddenly doubled over, trying to stifle the painful cough rising from his lungs. He covered his mouth with his fist as he coughed, then wiped at the corners after the fit had passed. "Oh no," the medic moaned. He pulled his fist away to find bloody sputum bubbled on his fingers.
"Aramis, what's wrong?" Porthos asked, having heard the alarm in his friend's voice.
"Nothing, Porthos, it's just a cough," Aramis lied. "I need to go check on d'Artagnan and then get back to Athos." He carefully pushed himself out of the chair, trying not to jostle his ribs any further.
"Aramis, dammit, what are you hiding from me?"
"Nothing, I need to go," Aramis lied again as he made for a quick exit.
"Dammit to hell, 'Mis!" Porthos growled. "You just scolded me for not talkin' to you 'bout my feelings. Now, what is wrong?"
"I'll stop by again later," Aramis called from the door before ducking into the hallway.
"If I could get up out of this bed, I would wring his neck!" Porthos fumed.
Aramis felt bad for leaving Porthos like that. As a medic, he knew that if his broken ribs had shifted they could puncture a lung—which would then lead to a collapsed lung. He knew the symptoms of a punctured lung included bloody sputum and difficulty breathing. Since I can still breathe perfectly fine, I believe the bloody sputum may indicate a tear rather than a puncture wound, for now. "I can't worry Porthos about me; he has enough to worry about with himself."
The medic knew that he must inform either Molyneux or Berteau tomorrow, or else his broken ribs would cause serious damage. He knew all too well that he should get off his feet and take care of himself, but how could he? His brothers were injured and they needed his care. The only doctor they had, for the time being, was questionable, at best. No, his own care would have to wait.
Aramis walked into d'Artagnan's room to find the physician tending to him as a nurse wiped the young Gascon's brow with a cool cloth. "What's going on? I just left d'Artagnan a few hours ago and he was fine—what's happened?"
"He is beginning to show signs of infection," the doctor reported. "The infection probably began working on him a while ago but didn't show any signs until after the surgery. I am mixing a poultice of juniper leaves to apply to the shoulder area and it should help pull out the infection."
"Yes, that is a good idea, doctor," Aramis complemented. "Wait, I have some herbs in my saddlebag we can add to the juniper—the extra herb mixture will help draw out the infection better than just the juniper alone.
Once Aramis fetched his medical bag with the medicines Cécile packed, the medic mixed a poultice of juniper leaves, marshmallow root, and witch hazel; he hoped the mixture would begin pulling the infection from d'Artagnan's wound immediately.
The young Gascon moaned and tossed his head side to side, as Aramis applied the cold poultice; he spread the mixture across his shoulder, especially over the wound. D'Artagnan arched his back and tried to pull away from the ministrations, but the nurses held him in place.
Once the poultice was applied, the medic wrapped the wound and covered the shoulder to keep the healing ointment covering the skin. "Let's pray this poultice works at removing the infection before it gets any worse," Aramis voiced his thoughts. If it gets any worse, we could have a repeat of Chamarande.
The severe suffering Athos endured from the infection and deadly septic poisoning flowing through his veins had nearly cost his friend his life. It was probably the single most stressful and extremely close call Aramis could ever remember. But then there was that dream…
God please, how can I go through that awful experience again, except now with d'Artagnan? Wasn't Athos enough? I can't deal with this a second time. The marksman's blood turned cold at the memories of Athos struggling to hang on- struggling to live— all the while wishing his friends would just let him go peacefully.
"I can't go through that again," Aramis said to d'Artagnan, squeezing his hand softly. "You need to fight this infection, my young brother. After the hell you went through in that dungeon and the torture they put you through, you have more than proven yourself to be brave and tough. You endured torment that would have broken men bigger and stronger than you, but you didn't break; you held on. . ." the medic paused as he choked back a sob.
"You survived brutal torture at the hands of monsters," Aramis wiped away his tears. "Don't let this little bug beat you; do you hear me little brother?" Suddenly, the medic was stricken with a wave of agonizing pain shooting through his chest as he tried to inhale. He sat back in his chair then straightened his body; he tilted his head back as he tried to breathe through the pain.
"Aramis, are you alright?" The doctor asked, seeing the medic was in obvious distress.
"Yes, I'm fine," the medic lied once again. "I need to get back to Athos' room."
"You really should rest, Aramis," the doctor advised. "You do not look well."
"There is a large chair in Athos' room that looks comfortable." Aramis winced as another burst of pain shot through his chest. "The chair should keep me sitting up straight; I'll go rest there for a while," he whispered, attempting to get up.
"Here, let me help you," the doctor offered his hand.
The doctor raised the medic to his feet then proceeded to help Aramis slowly shuffle down the hallway to Athos' room.
From the hallway, they could hear the hacking coughs of the Musketeer. Aramis forgot about his pain and rushed to Athos' bedside to find him lying in the fetal position, struggling to breathe. "I c-can't go through this ag-again, 'Mis," Athos wheezed. "P-please just knock me out."
"Athos, I know this is hard but please try to be strong." Aramis pounded in circles on Athos' back to loosen the congestion in his lungs. "You've done this before and you can do it again."
"Yes, I've d-done this b-before. . . which is why. . . I know I c-can't g-go through it again," Athos contended. "'Mis, I can't do it again. . ." Athos coughed, doubling himself into a ball.
I have some laudanum that will help him sleep, I'll be right back." The doctor left the room to go fetch the medicine.
"Athos, are you sure that you want to take laudanum?" Aramis questioned. "Remember your reaction to the drug before?"
The Musketeer could only nod as he unleashed a series of wet, hacking coughs that clogged his throat with phlegm from his lungs.
Aramis grabbed a napkin and held it under Athos' mouth, "spit," he ordered. The medic waited patiently for the Musketeer to finish before throwing the napkin into an empty basin. "Feel better now?"
Athos nodded, closing his eyes as he concentrated on breathing slowly. His eyes flew open again when the doctor returned; he ordered the Musketeer to sit up so he could drink water with the medicine stirred in. The Musketeer drank the water then fell against the pillows, completely exhausted.
"The laudanum will help you sleep and it will help ease your breathing." The doctor smiled at Athos as he and Aramis piled the pillows up to keep him elevated. Soon, the Musketeer's eyes drooped as they became more difficult to keep open, until finally he drifted off to sleep.
"You need to get some rest too while Athos sleeps," the doctor said. The older man pulled an oversized chair to the bed then ordered Aramis to sit down. He then fetched a blanket and draped it over the medic's lap. "Now, go to sleep," he said. "I will keep an eye on Athos."
"I really should stay awake in case he needs me." Aramis protested but he just couldn't stay awake. The medic turned his head into the tall wing of the chair and closed his eyes; he fell asleep almost instantly.
The doctor smiled and then turned to the sick Musketeer on the bed. At last, while everyone sleeps, I will finally have the opportunity to prove my skills as a doctor. Everyone will praise me for healing you from your cough and, since you are a King's Musketeer, the reward for healing you should be quite handsome.
The doctor set his medical bag on the table and began pulling out his lancet, tourniquet, measuring bowls and towels. The left arm would have been the most convenient, but it is wrapped in bandages. The doctor rubbed his chin with disappointment.
I will do this in multiple sessions, starting with his right arm and then I will do his neck. It will be good practice to start on the arm and test my skill, anyway. If I am successful, I can move to the jugular vein where I will get the greatest supply of blood with a constant flow. Once I get enough blood in the measuring bowls, I will stop the bleeding and his cough should be cured.
Moving toward the drugged Musketeer, the doctor laid out the necessary tools on the bed. Glancing one more time at Aramis sleeping in the chair, the doctor tied the tourniquet tightly just above Athos' elbow and took a deep breath.
Turning the arm palm up, the doctor took the lancet and sliced a small diagonal cut in the bulging vein; he placed the first measuring bowl under the flowing crimson arc. I'll show everyone that I'm not an inept village doctor when I've cured a King's Musketeer.
The doctor glanced at Aramis sleeping in the chair just a few feet away then turned back to his bloodletting with a satisfied grin. The doctor's heart beat wildly with excitement as he held the bowl catching blood pouring freely from Athos' arm. This isn't so bad, how hard can the neck be? This is just practice, Athos. Next time, I'm going to bleed your neck, then everyone will see how great a doctor I really am!
A/N:
Ice was harvested and stored in China before the first millennium. Hebrews, Greeks, and Romans placed large amounts of snow into storage pits and covered this cooling agent with insulating material. The ancient Egyptians filled earthen jars with boiled water and put on roofs overnight to expose to cold air.
Cooling drinks were very popular in the 16th and 17th centuries, particularly in Europe's southern climates, especially in Italy and Spain. It became en vogue by 1600 in France. By this time, instead of cooling water at night, people rotated long-necked bottles in water in which saltpeter was dissolved. This solution, it was discovered, could be used to produce very low temperatures and, as a result, manufacture ice. By the end of the 17th century, iced liquors and frozen juices were popular in French society. Ice cream is reputed to have been made in China as long ago as 3000 BC, but it did not arrive in Europe, via Italy, until the 13th century.
During the 15th and 16th centuries, clock making flourished, particularly in the metalworking towns of Nuremberg and Augsburg Germany; and in Blois France. Some of the more basic table clocks have only one time-keeping hand, with the dial between the hour markers being divided into four equal parts, making the clocks readable to the nearest 15 minutes. In 1584, Jost Burgi developed the spring-loaded or "wind-up" clocks, which were a great improvement in accuracy as they were correct to within a minute a day. These clocks helped the 16th-century astronomer, Tycho Brahe, to observe astronomical events with much greater precision than before.