The War of Knives by Broos Campbell

Author:Broos Campbell
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781590133385
Publisher: McBooks Press
Published: 2007-01-03T16:00:00+00:00

Dr. Pepin arrived with five soldiers in tow, three of them carrying buckets of water. The other two carried a tub in which several bed sheets lay soaking in vinegar.

“Do not ask how I get this vinegar,” said Pepin. “Suffice it to say you owe me a small fortune, which I trust you will repay me before long. And now for the patient.”

“He’s burning up,” said I. “He turned yellow this morning, and he’s been puking black stuff all day. Shits and pisses himself, too.”

“Can’t help it, sir,” Cahoon muttered. It was the first coherent thing he’d said in a while.

“Ah, he is aware of his surroundings,” said Pepin. He surveyed the mess around the sergeant. “You see the stale blood that has expelled from the anus? It indicates a hemorrhage in the intestinal mucus membrane. He is stuporous, yes?”

“A stupid man I well may be,” said the sergeant, trying to rise, “for who else would go t’ sea? But ’tisn’t a man who’ll say I’m the stupidest.”

“Stuporous,” I said. “He means you’re in a daze.”

“Oh aye, daft is it? But ’tis fair enough I suppose.” He fell asleep again.

Dr. Pepin knelt beside him. “The pulse, he is rapid yet feeble. The patient exhibits a dry brown tongue accompanied by incontinence. La, la,” he clucked. “But perhaps there is hope. Allons,” he said, turning to one of the soldiers, “be so good as to throw that water on him.”

Cahoon sat up yelling. “What the bloody fuck!”

“Ah ha!” chuckled Pepin. “There is hope indeed! Encore une fois— once more with the water!”

Several bucketfuls later, Cahoon was not exactly lively, but he was awake.

“’Tis yer eyes I’ll be havin’ for poached eggs,” he muttered, adding, “I’ll be murderin’ yis in yer sleep when I find me strength. ’Twill be a thought for to savor, these black nights.”

“Clap a stopper on it, Sergeant,” I said cheerfully. “At least you’re clean now, which is probably as much a relief to you as it is to us.”

“And now we wrap him in a sheet soaked in the vinegar,” said Pepin. “I find this works well at this stage. Sometimes two or even three patients out of ten survive this treatment.”

“Survive the treatment, is it?”

“Ha ha! I misspeak, Sergeant—I mean, survive after receiving this treatment.”

I was pretty sure Pepin meant that so many of his patients survived because of the treatment, but I didn’t care to press him further.

“C’est bien, garçons,” said Pepin to the soldiers. “Merci.” He gave them each a coin, and they went away laughing.

We’d stripped Cahoon of his clothes already, he being so leaky there didn’t seem any point in keeping them on him. As Pepin began swaddling him in the sheet, I said in French:

“Dr. Pepin, what are those little red bumps on his arms that look like mosquito bites?”

“They are called petechiae,” said he. “You’ll notice more of them on his chest. They often appear in concert with bilious remitting fevers, and some regard them as a sign of impending death.

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