Ficcage.
This was begun several months before the Forum was set up, initially as a response to a prompt on the now sadly defunct aos_challenge; yet I suppose now could be considered AU for StC - how the meetings between characters may have occured differently.
Title: A Second Opinion
Rating: PG
Summary: Wellington is ill, and one of his aides calls in a physician.
Author's Note: For teh_elb, who is a wonderful Stephen. I know it’s not quite your Stephen, but I hope you like it anyway. Takes place in a nondescript year. Fits the look_sharpe prompts table; Prompt #30 “Writer’s Choice - ‘Submission’”.
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General the Hon. Sir Arthur Wellesley, Lord Wellington, was not a man to generally succumb to illness. All through his adult life he had enjoyed relatively good health, surviving India where many of his contemporaries had perished, only ever being troubled by milder ailments (serious illnesses being few and far between) and most importantly never having passed under the surgeon’s knife. Wellington was a man who showed illness and disease the same contempt he would show an advancing column of French infantry; yet even Wellington knew when to admit defeat, and Wellington by his own admission was at present ‘not a well man’.
Captain Padstowe, Exploring Officer and currently on the General’s Staff, was worried. His Lordship could never be called sweet-tempered at the best of times; yet indisposed he proved almost intolerable. He was a miserable invalid, capable of the foulest abuse when he had the strength, and sometimes when he did not. His tempers were wearing heavily on them all; so much so that he had succeeded in completely cowing James McGrigor, the army’s Surgeon-General and a fiery Scot, into weary resignation. To his credit the Peer attempted to attend to as much business as possible from his sickbed, spending the days surrounded by aides with documents and despatches for his attention, but he quickly tired and his temper would become shorter than a mortar fuse, or he would suffer from a sudden attack of convulsions which would cause work to be halted as he was attended to. However, a week after he had taken to his bed His Lordship showed no sign of recovery; in fact he had got to the stage where he was no longer being offensive, only gruffly wishing to be left in peace, which worried Padstowe extremely. If Wellington was too ill to be snide, then the situation was dire. The army was crippled without him - the downside of the General insisting on doing everything himself - and so it was in a state of desperation that Captain Padstowe wrote to a colleague in Gibraltar, hoping, praying that his correspondence would reach its intended recipient in time.
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“…pallor would suggest such a case.”
“You are certain, sir?”
“Oh, most definitely; a prime example.”
These were the words that greeted Wellington as he surfaced from a fitful sleep. Moments before he had been dreaming he was back in India at Assaye; only the battle had been lost and he was a prisoner, dragged before Scindia in chains to be mocked and beaten. He was about to have had a nail driven through his skull by a jetti when he had woken, somewhat disorientated, to this odd conversation at his bedside.
“Would it be possible for His Lordship to be wakened? I should like to examine him more closely.”
“I’m damn-well awake anyway,” he murmured groggily. Opening his eyelids he gazed blearily upwards and was confronted by a pair of grey eyes and a cold, searching reptilian stare. He started in surprise.
“Who in God’s name are you?”
“My lord,” it was McGrigor who spoke. “Allow me to name Dr. Stephen Maturin; natural philosopher and a most highly accomplished physician.”
The man with the grey eyes bowed.
“Your servant, sir.”
“And yours,” the General said faintly. He blinked. Dr. Maturin was an odd little man; short, ill-favoured in looks, dressed in a rusty black coat and gifted with a disquieting stare, made all the more potent by his unusually pale eyes. He seemed to be wearing what looked like a wig made of grey wire, partially bald in places. Odd though this apparition might be though, it held a title which initially merited manners. “How come you happen to be in the Peninsula, sir?”
“I lend my services to the navy and for the timebeing act as surgeon aboard the frigate HMS Surprise, under Captain John Aubrey. We are anchored at Gibraltar, and it was there I received the summons to attend to your lordship.”
Wellington frowned. The man's manner and the use of the word ‘lend’ indicated that the doctor must hold a very high opinion of himself and his abilities; yet that was not what disturbed him.
“I sent no such letter!”
“It was I who sent it, sir,” said Padstowe, somewhat apologetically. The captain was standing a little distance back from the bed with Captain Sanders and Major Bullen, both also of his Private Staff. “I heard that the Surprise was in, so I took the liberty and wrote the good doctor of your condition and he agreed to come at all speed.”
“And a thumping great liberty it was too,” Wellington growled, albeit half-heartedly. He was not in the mood for this; he felt irritatingly fragile and wanted nothing more than to be left to lie in peace, not poked and pestered by some quack!
“Whether a liberty or not, my lord,” Maturin cut in, his voice firm and precise. “I am here and so I shall perform the duty I was requested to do.”
“I am delighted,” Wellington said flatly.
Maturin looked at him with his pale grey eyes; keeping up a steady, and possibly somewhat unsettling gaze.
“So am I,” he said quietly.
Which the General did not find encouraging, so as Stephen rolled up the sleeves of his coat in a business-like fashion and undid his bag of instruments he endeavoured to put off the inevitable.
“Aubrey… The fellow that took the Cacafuego in the Year One?”
“The same. Captain Aubrey will be most pleased to hear your lordship recalls the action. And did not recall General Aubrey first,” Stephen said, adding the last bit privately.
“Now that I come to think of it, your name does seem familiar to me. Are you not the Maturin that cured Clarence of the marthambles?”
Again Dr. Maturin bowed, yet internally felt the satisfaction that flattery would get the General nowhere. He had heard much about Wellington, and he was fast discovering that a lot of what had been said was true. The bright blue eyes which Stephen supposed when well must be sharp and scrutinising seemed dull and perhaps a little glassy; yet even sick the General was a formidable character. Here was a patient upon whom a surgeon’s usual trickery would be lost, and truth be told would most likely not be the least impressed with Latin or Greek. A straightforward and simple approach would be in order.
“I had the honour of treating the Duke,” Stephen said, taking out a glass bottle of God knew what potion, swilling it around and holding it up to the light, peering at its contents speculatively. “And an excellent patient he was too; one that did not ask too many questions and took what physik was required of him, nor one to indulge in idle chatter or hollow questions that prove distraction to the process of an accurate and competent diagnosis.”
Wellington was about to make a particularly cutting retort - namely regarding whether Dr. Maturin was absolutely certain it had been the Duke of Clarence he had treated - when all of a sudden his guts knotted together violently making him groan instead, and drawing his knees up to his chest he rolled to one side of the bed as he retched, clutching at his stomach and vomiting noisily on the grass. Once the heaving had ceased, Stephen and McGrigor gently lay him back down against the pillows, the latter wiping his commander’s mouth with a handkerchief.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” the General said weakly. Sweat created a sickly sheen on his pale forehead, his breath coming in pants. He closed his eyes briefly and swallowed, shivering as he suddenly felt very cold. God, how he hated being sick! His stomach still heaved, though empty, and the back of his throat burnt from the foul taste of the risen bile.
“I can see, my lord, that you are very ill and therefore there is no need for apology,” Stephen said softly, perhaps finally taking some pity on his patient. “I have witnessed many such cases, have been covered in a wide variety of bodily fluids, yet this is the hazard of my trade. Gentlemen -” The doctor turned to address the staff officers. “If you would please wait outside? I must examine the patient, and for this I require privacy.”
Reluctantly the staff officers filed out, though one figure lingered, hovering anxiously in the corner. The General shot a sideways glance to him.
“You too, Padstowe,” he said, but not unkindly.
Once the captain had gone Dr. Maturin set about examining Wellington in earnest, a process which pushed the General’s patience to its limits. He could usually cow most doctors into submission, but no; trust his luck he actually had one who knew what he was doing. He was more inclined to believe this was a curse instead of a blessing as he was poked, prodded and examined to an embarrassing degree, and he felt a most unusual urge to box the little man’s ears. The indignity of it rankled too; how illness made him lose control, composure, the distastefulness of sweating and vomiting, of being seized by convulsions in front of his own staff! If the disease itself did not kill him than his own shame yet might.
“Now, my lord, if I might ask you a few questions?”
“Not got much choice in the matter, have I?” Wellington murmured sullenly.
“Nevertheless,” Maturin continued patiently. “It is my duty to, for the sake of your health. You have no appetite?”
“Not really. What I do eat I have been unable to keep down.”
“Have you taken anything today?” Dr. Maturin asked, lifting a thin wrist to feel a thready pulse.
“A little biscuit, some water and some tea.” Wellington cast a sideways glance over the edge of the bed and sneered. “Yet I fear you can see that clearly enough for yourself.”
“And your habits before this illness?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your daily routine. How often do you usually take your meals? When is it that you take exercise?”
“I am usually roused at six,” Wellington’s brow creased as he attempted to recount a normal day. “I go for a walk or ride depending on the practicality of our situation, and then I walk forty paces back and forth in front of my bivouac, after which I start on my work. I breakfast usually at eight. After that I attend again to the daily business or whatever needs my attention, then I dine at seven or eight. Afterwards perhaps I do an hour’s more paperwork or read, retiring usually at ten.”
Maturin frowned disapprovingly.
“A Spartan regime if ever I heard of one,” he said acerbically. “Please let me see your tongue. As I thought, a definite lack of healthy colour; you may put it away now. Have you suffered from any such complaint in the past?”
“A few times as a youth.”
“And what treatment was prescribed, may I ask?”
“Calomel combined with cathartic extract into a pill. Three grains of each.”
“And your doctor at this time?”
“Dr. Alexander Lindsay of Dublin; my family’s physician. During another bout it was Hunter; a gentleman of my brother’s acquaintance in Brighton.” Wellington frowned. “I recall Hunter also prescribed bark, opium and quassia, also with calomel mixed into pills; plus Strasburg liniment, tincture of cantharides I think and a tincture of opium - for rheumatism he said…”
Stephen pursed his lips. If anything the account proved the General’s mental health was unaffected.
“Lindsay I am familiar with from my days at Trinity - a very learned man and a most excellent physician. Hunter, though I have not made his acquaintance, seems a knowledgeable gentleman and possessed of good sense, yet even so I judge his treatments were somewhat on the superfluous side; the prescription need not be so lengthy.”
The mention to Trinity did not go unnoticed by Wellington. A physician, and Irishman and a Trinity scholar no less!
“Your post as a naval surgeon cannot offer you much entertainment nor stimulation for the mind, sir,” Wellington said gruffly.
“On the contrary,” Stephen said. “It is far from being so. Consider the conditions on a ship if you will; all of human life crammed in together for long periods of time, no privacy, no secrecy, on limited rations and subject to a strict regime… Why, it is a veritable gift for a man whose life is the study of humanity! And there is no other creature, none on land, sea or air that is so prone to disease or hypochondria as the average seaman. And then there are the opportunities of foreign travel, the prospect of seeing such lands as most men do not see in a lifetime, of examining exotic flora and fauna, the categorising of non-descript species, and the chance to see creatures only described in books - such a wealth of life and diversity! Admittedly the lack of learned company can prove somewhat tedious, yet when I return from my voyages I have the anticipated pleasure of discussing my findings, more often than not with my good friend Sir Joseph Blaine. I believe you may have made his acquaintance?”
At the mention of Blaine Wellington’s heart skipped a beat. He passed a glance over the unremarkable little man watching him intently, confirming his own suspicions as soon as they arose. Suddenly the doctor’s reasons for answering Padstowe’s plea took on a whole new light, and the General sensed that he was now on very uncertain ground.
“I have met the gentleman once or twice,” he said cautiously.
“A most learned colleague of mine, and a Fellow of the Royal Society. His line is more into beetles; a veritable expert on entomology, and I have more than once been able to furnish him with a rare specimen for his study. He is always most interested to learn of any discoveries, and also to hear my views on recent events within the Society, as indeed there have recently been many conflicts of interest between different schools of thought.” Maturin shook his head. “A sad state of affairs, for although there are certain things upon which we do not see eye to eye, Sir Joseph and myself are of the opinion that the different disciplines - medicine, mathematics, geography, astronomy, naturalism - could greatly benefit from the discoveries of the others, were there to be greater communication between members of different departments. It is only in that way, surely, that harmony shall be achieved and the number of conflicts of interest reduced?”
“There may be something in what you say, sir,” Wellington replied, thinking that he may have guessed to what Maturin was alluding. “Yet as I am not a Fellow I am possibly the wrong man to pass judgement. Perhaps, sir, you should like to make the acquaintance of Major Hogan of the Engineers? He is quite a jovial soul and has also, I believe, made the acquaintance of Sir Joseph when attending a lecture at the Society - only I believe it was more of the mathematical persuasion, and they met in the dining room.”
“Perhaps I shall then. It does well to call on mutual acquaintances, and indeed a Fellow.”
“Your diagnosis, sir?” McGrigor asked gently, thinking it best to break into the chain of dialogue and remind Maturin of his present duty, as it seemed he had begun to wander somewhat.
“A fairly simple one,” Stephen said, sighing as he rolled down his coat sleeves. “To speak plainly, my lord, it is exhaustion; complete and utter. You have over-exerted yourself mentally and physically to such a degree as to have made yourself seriously ill; dangerously ill. This coupled with your careless attitude towards sustenance - do not argue, sir! Eight to seven with nothing in between is too long, too little by far for an active man! This and your constant exertions in all weathers have left you vulnerable to the return of these previous complaints. My answer is simple; you must rest. I can give you some physik to assist but rest, rest is the key to your recovery! In the meantime there is to be no wine, no spirits at all, no beef, no mutton- Do not look so stricken, my lord; it is for your own benefit. I shall prepare a draught now and leave the details with Dr. McGrigor, but before that I shall prescribe a purgative.”
“Oh God, no!” the General moaned, clutching convulsively at the blankets around his waist as if they could protect him.
“For a man with your lordship’s reputation for courage you are showing a distinct lack of it, sir,” Maturin said acerbically, taking an enema from his bag. “It is a treatment of the most beneficial nature, and with the application of the draught afterwards shall hasten your recovery most effectively. Be so good as to lie on your front and raise your nightshirt. Your assistance, if you please, dear colleague.”
Twenty minutes later Wellington, waxen-faced and sweating copiously, was helped back into bed by the two doctors.
“Handsomely does it… There, that was not so bad, my lord, was it?”
Wellington merely moaned pitifully in response. His limbs were still trembling as he watched Maturin draw out instructions for McGrigor to make up pills, discussing something in low voices the subject of which he could not discern, then finally measure out a glass of something which was brought across to the bed.
“Here, my lord, is a physik which you must take immediately. All of it is to be swallowed without hesitation, as it will help to settle the after effects of purging.”
It did not take much more encouragement to persuade the General to take it, Maturin supporting his head whilst the glass was held to his lips. The liquid was bitter and Wellington very near choked at the unfamiliar taste, but he resolutely swallowed it down, though he could not help grimacing as he did so. He breathed deeply and steadily as he tried to settle his nerves from the shock of the purgative, from the absurd attentions of this odd little man who now prattled away to him about the importance of regular physical exercise, of the necessity of delegation and the dangers of over-taxing the mind, the need of a balanced diet ("...by no means over-indulgence or the excessive drinking of spirits, nor fasting..."). not to mention the essentialness of decent hygiene… Wellington found himself cursing Maturin and wondered if he’d like to try sticking to such a regime whilst attempting to run an army efficiently. Yet soon he found that he was missing the doctor’s words, that his attention was wandering and he was tiring. He did not wish to sleep, had been wide awake moments ago; yet for some reason sleep was fast descending on him in a great cloud and he fought to keep his eyes open. However Dr. Maturin, noticing his sudden weariness, placed a reassuring hand to the patient's shoulder.
“We have quite tired you enough with our questions and preparations, my lord. I shall take my leave, and wish you a swift recovery.”
Wellington found it impossible to reply; his tongue was like lead and his eyelids slid shut, his head slowly falling to one side on the pillow with no more than a sigh escaping his lips as he slipped into unconsciousness.
Stephen felt the General’s pulse, then lifted one of his eyelids, satisfied to see that the laudanum had done its work. He turned back to McGrigor.
“Twenty-three drops it shall be, then. The draught shall make certain that the patient sleeps, counteracting the restlessness and insomnia so that he shall be undisturbed by dreams or fever. A restful, peaceful oblivion which shall benefit him greatly; a mind so busy as his cannot be else otherwise. I have found in the past that a mentally active man is the most difficult to subdue.”
“My thanks to you, Dr. Maturin. I would have thought it treatable… but in such a circumstance I considered it best to seek a second opinion. The life of the Commander-in-Chief should not be trusted to one doctor; plus it has been nigh on impossible to make any treatment affective with him. An impossible patient, I should say; indeed, I do say it!”
“I thank you for your high regard,” Stephen said, bowing to McGrigor. “Yet no patient is impossible, sir, if the physician is able to discover the correct approach to treatment. From what I observed His Lordship despises deceit and guile in his personal dealings, so I gave him an open, honest examination and assessment; he would have stood for no less.”
“True, but I’m a doctor under his orders, which means I am not allowed to tell him he’s ill when he does’nae want to be.” McGrigor shook his head. “Short of tying him to the bed and removing all papers from his line of vision; but then he would probably have me shot for mutiny.”
Stephen gave a thin smile.
“Such is ever the way when treating an immediate superior with no little disregard for his supposed inferiors; yet calling on an outside influence, on one that is outside any hierarchy, is usually solution enough. We may call the other gentlemen back in. Gentlemen,” Stephen said softly once Bullen, Sanders, Brandon and Padstowe had returned. “His Lordship will sleep for some hours, and it is requested that on waking he is not to be too much troubled with papers; Dr. McGrigor shall brief you on the details fully. Now, Captain Padstowe - Jonathan, my dear - if you would be so good as to conduct me to Major Hogan of the Royal Engineers? I believe the major and I have several matters of mutual interest to discuss…”
Title: A Second Opinion
Rating: PG
Summary: Wellington is ill, and one of his aides calls in a physician.
Author's Note: For teh_elb, who is a wonderful Stephen. I know it’s not quite your Stephen, but I hope you like it anyway. Takes place in a nondescript year. Fits the look_sharpe prompts table; Prompt #30 “Writer’s Choice - ‘Submission’”.
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General the Hon. Sir Arthur Wellesley, Lord Wellington, was not a man to generally succumb to illness. All through his adult life he had enjoyed relatively good health, surviving India where many of his contemporaries had perished, only ever being troubled by milder ailments (serious illnesses being few and far between) and most importantly never having passed under the surgeon’s knife. Wellington was a man who showed illness and disease the same contempt he would show an advancing column of French infantry; yet even Wellington knew when to admit defeat, and Wellington by his own admission was at present ‘not a well man’.
Captain Padstowe, Exploring Officer and currently on the General’s Staff, was worried. His Lordship could never be called sweet-tempered at the best of times; yet indisposed he proved almost intolerable. He was a miserable invalid, capable of the foulest abuse when he had the strength, and sometimes when he did not. His tempers were wearing heavily on them all; so much so that he had succeeded in completely cowing James McGrigor, the army’s Surgeon-General and a fiery Scot, into weary resignation. To his credit the Peer attempted to attend to as much business as possible from his sickbed, spending the days surrounded by aides with documents and despatches for his attention, but he quickly tired and his temper would become shorter than a mortar fuse, or he would suffer from a sudden attack of convulsions which would cause work to be halted as he was attended to. However, a week after he had taken to his bed His Lordship showed no sign of recovery; in fact he had got to the stage where he was no longer being offensive, only gruffly wishing to be left in peace, which worried Padstowe extremely. If Wellington was too ill to be snide, then the situation was dire. The army was crippled without him - the downside of the General insisting on doing everything himself - and so it was in a state of desperation that Captain Padstowe wrote to a colleague in Gibraltar, hoping, praying that his correspondence would reach its intended recipient in time.
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“…pallor would suggest such a case.”
“You are certain, sir?”
“Oh, most definitely; a prime example.”
These were the words that greeted Wellington as he surfaced from a fitful sleep. Moments before he had been dreaming he was back in India at Assaye; only the battle had been lost and he was a prisoner, dragged before Scindia in chains to be mocked and beaten. He was about to have had a nail driven through his skull by a jetti when he had woken, somewhat disorientated, to this odd conversation at his bedside.
“Would it be possible for His Lordship to be wakened? I should like to examine him more closely.”
“I’m damn-well awake anyway,” he murmured groggily. Opening his eyelids he gazed blearily upwards and was confronted by a pair of grey eyes and a cold, searching reptilian stare. He started in surprise.
“Who in God’s name are you?”
“My lord,” it was McGrigor who spoke. “Allow me to name Dr. Stephen Maturin; natural philosopher and a most highly accomplished physician.”
The man with the grey eyes bowed.
“Your servant, sir.”
“And yours,” the General said faintly. He blinked. Dr. Maturin was an odd little man; short, ill-favoured in looks, dressed in a rusty black coat and gifted with a disquieting stare, made all the more potent by his unusually pale eyes. He seemed to be wearing what looked like a wig made of grey wire, partially bald in places. Odd though this apparition might be though, it held a title which initially merited manners. “How come you happen to be in the Peninsula, sir?”
“I lend my services to the navy and for the timebeing act as surgeon aboard the frigate HMS Surprise, under Captain John Aubrey. We are anchored at Gibraltar, and it was there I received the summons to attend to your lordship.”
Wellington frowned. The man's manner and the use of the word ‘lend’ indicated that the doctor must hold a very high opinion of himself and his abilities; yet that was not what disturbed him.
“I sent no such letter!”
“It was I who sent it, sir,” said Padstowe, somewhat apologetically. The captain was standing a little distance back from the bed with Captain Sanders and Major Bullen, both also of his Private Staff. “I heard that the Surprise was in, so I took the liberty and wrote the good doctor of your condition and he agreed to come at all speed.”
“And a thumping great liberty it was too,” Wellington growled, albeit half-heartedly. He was not in the mood for this; he felt irritatingly fragile and wanted nothing more than to be left to lie in peace, not poked and pestered by some quack!
“Whether a liberty or not, my lord,” Maturin cut in, his voice firm and precise. “I am here and so I shall perform the duty I was requested to do.”
“I am delighted,” Wellington said flatly.
Maturin looked at him with his pale grey eyes; keeping up a steady, and possibly somewhat unsettling gaze.
“So am I,” he said quietly.
Which the General did not find encouraging, so as Stephen rolled up the sleeves of his coat in a business-like fashion and undid his bag of instruments he endeavoured to put off the inevitable.
“Aubrey… The fellow that took the Cacafuego in the Year One?”
“The same. Captain Aubrey will be most pleased to hear your lordship recalls the action. And did not recall General Aubrey first,” Stephen said, adding the last bit privately.
“Now that I come to think of it, your name does seem familiar to me. Are you not the Maturin that cured Clarence of the marthambles?”
Again Dr. Maturin bowed, yet internally felt the satisfaction that flattery would get the General nowhere. He had heard much about Wellington, and he was fast discovering that a lot of what had been said was true. The bright blue eyes which Stephen supposed when well must be sharp and scrutinising seemed dull and perhaps a little glassy; yet even sick the General was a formidable character. Here was a patient upon whom a surgeon’s usual trickery would be lost, and truth be told would most likely not be the least impressed with Latin or Greek. A straightforward and simple approach would be in order.
“I had the honour of treating the Duke,” Stephen said, taking out a glass bottle of God knew what potion, swilling it around and holding it up to the light, peering at its contents speculatively. “And an excellent patient he was too; one that did not ask too many questions and took what physik was required of him, nor one to indulge in idle chatter or hollow questions that prove distraction to the process of an accurate and competent diagnosis.”
Wellington was about to make a particularly cutting retort - namely regarding whether Dr. Maturin was absolutely certain it had been the Duke of Clarence he had treated - when all of a sudden his guts knotted together violently making him groan instead, and drawing his knees up to his chest he rolled to one side of the bed as he retched, clutching at his stomach and vomiting noisily on the grass. Once the heaving had ceased, Stephen and McGrigor gently lay him back down against the pillows, the latter wiping his commander’s mouth with a handkerchief.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” the General said weakly. Sweat created a sickly sheen on his pale forehead, his breath coming in pants. He closed his eyes briefly and swallowed, shivering as he suddenly felt very cold. God, how he hated being sick! His stomach still heaved, though empty, and the back of his throat burnt from the foul taste of the risen bile.
“I can see, my lord, that you are very ill and therefore there is no need for apology,” Stephen said softly, perhaps finally taking some pity on his patient. “I have witnessed many such cases, have been covered in a wide variety of bodily fluids, yet this is the hazard of my trade. Gentlemen -” The doctor turned to address the staff officers. “If you would please wait outside? I must examine the patient, and for this I require privacy.”
Reluctantly the staff officers filed out, though one figure lingered, hovering anxiously in the corner. The General shot a sideways glance to him.
“You too, Padstowe,” he said, but not unkindly.
Once the captain had gone Dr. Maturin set about examining Wellington in earnest, a process which pushed the General’s patience to its limits. He could usually cow most doctors into submission, but no; trust his luck he actually had one who knew what he was doing. He was more inclined to believe this was a curse instead of a blessing as he was poked, prodded and examined to an embarrassing degree, and he felt a most unusual urge to box the little man’s ears. The indignity of it rankled too; how illness made him lose control, composure, the distastefulness of sweating and vomiting, of being seized by convulsions in front of his own staff! If the disease itself did not kill him than his own shame yet might.
“Now, my lord, if I might ask you a few questions?”
“Not got much choice in the matter, have I?” Wellington murmured sullenly.
“Nevertheless,” Maturin continued patiently. “It is my duty to, for the sake of your health. You have no appetite?”
“Not really. What I do eat I have been unable to keep down.”
“Have you taken anything today?” Dr. Maturin asked, lifting a thin wrist to feel a thready pulse.
“A little biscuit, some water and some tea.” Wellington cast a sideways glance over the edge of the bed and sneered. “Yet I fear you can see that clearly enough for yourself.”
“And your habits before this illness?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your daily routine. How often do you usually take your meals? When is it that you take exercise?”
“I am usually roused at six,” Wellington’s brow creased as he attempted to recount a normal day. “I go for a walk or ride depending on the practicality of our situation, and then I walk forty paces back and forth in front of my bivouac, after which I start on my work. I breakfast usually at eight. After that I attend again to the daily business or whatever needs my attention, then I dine at seven or eight. Afterwards perhaps I do an hour’s more paperwork or read, retiring usually at ten.”
Maturin frowned disapprovingly.
“A Spartan regime if ever I heard of one,” he said acerbically. “Please let me see your tongue. As I thought, a definite lack of healthy colour; you may put it away now. Have you suffered from any such complaint in the past?”
“A few times as a youth.”
“And what treatment was prescribed, may I ask?”
“Calomel combined with cathartic extract into a pill. Three grains of each.”
“And your doctor at this time?”
“Dr. Alexander Lindsay of Dublin; my family’s physician. During another bout it was Hunter; a gentleman of my brother’s acquaintance in Brighton.” Wellington frowned. “I recall Hunter also prescribed bark, opium and quassia, also with calomel mixed into pills; plus Strasburg liniment, tincture of cantharides I think and a tincture of opium - for rheumatism he said…”
Stephen pursed his lips. If anything the account proved the General’s mental health was unaffected.
“Lindsay I am familiar with from my days at Trinity - a very learned man and a most excellent physician. Hunter, though I have not made his acquaintance, seems a knowledgeable gentleman and possessed of good sense, yet even so I judge his treatments were somewhat on the superfluous side; the prescription need not be so lengthy.”
The mention to Trinity did not go unnoticed by Wellington. A physician, and Irishman and a Trinity scholar no less!
“Your post as a naval surgeon cannot offer you much entertainment nor stimulation for the mind, sir,” Wellington said gruffly.
“On the contrary,” Stephen said. “It is far from being so. Consider the conditions on a ship if you will; all of human life crammed in together for long periods of time, no privacy, no secrecy, on limited rations and subject to a strict regime… Why, it is a veritable gift for a man whose life is the study of humanity! And there is no other creature, none on land, sea or air that is so prone to disease or hypochondria as the average seaman. And then there are the opportunities of foreign travel, the prospect of seeing such lands as most men do not see in a lifetime, of examining exotic flora and fauna, the categorising of non-descript species, and the chance to see creatures only described in books - such a wealth of life and diversity! Admittedly the lack of learned company can prove somewhat tedious, yet when I return from my voyages I have the anticipated pleasure of discussing my findings, more often than not with my good friend Sir Joseph Blaine. I believe you may have made his acquaintance?”
At the mention of Blaine Wellington’s heart skipped a beat. He passed a glance over the unremarkable little man watching him intently, confirming his own suspicions as soon as they arose. Suddenly the doctor’s reasons for answering Padstowe’s plea took on a whole new light, and the General sensed that he was now on very uncertain ground.
“I have met the gentleman once or twice,” he said cautiously.
“A most learned colleague of mine, and a Fellow of the Royal Society. His line is more into beetles; a veritable expert on entomology, and I have more than once been able to furnish him with a rare specimen for his study. He is always most interested to learn of any discoveries, and also to hear my views on recent events within the Society, as indeed there have recently been many conflicts of interest between different schools of thought.” Maturin shook his head. “A sad state of affairs, for although there are certain things upon which we do not see eye to eye, Sir Joseph and myself are of the opinion that the different disciplines - medicine, mathematics, geography, astronomy, naturalism - could greatly benefit from the discoveries of the others, were there to be greater communication between members of different departments. It is only in that way, surely, that harmony shall be achieved and the number of conflicts of interest reduced?”
“There may be something in what you say, sir,” Wellington replied, thinking that he may have guessed to what Maturin was alluding. “Yet as I am not a Fellow I am possibly the wrong man to pass judgement. Perhaps, sir, you should like to make the acquaintance of Major Hogan of the Engineers? He is quite a jovial soul and has also, I believe, made the acquaintance of Sir Joseph when attending a lecture at the Society - only I believe it was more of the mathematical persuasion, and they met in the dining room.”
“Perhaps I shall then. It does well to call on mutual acquaintances, and indeed a Fellow.”
“Your diagnosis, sir?” McGrigor asked gently, thinking it best to break into the chain of dialogue and remind Maturin of his present duty, as it seemed he had begun to wander somewhat.
“A fairly simple one,” Stephen said, sighing as he rolled down his coat sleeves. “To speak plainly, my lord, it is exhaustion; complete and utter. You have over-exerted yourself mentally and physically to such a degree as to have made yourself seriously ill; dangerously ill. This coupled with your careless attitude towards sustenance - do not argue, sir! Eight to seven with nothing in between is too long, too little by far for an active man! This and your constant exertions in all weathers have left you vulnerable to the return of these previous complaints. My answer is simple; you must rest. I can give you some physik to assist but rest, rest is the key to your recovery! In the meantime there is to be no wine, no spirits at all, no beef, no mutton- Do not look so stricken, my lord; it is for your own benefit. I shall prepare a draught now and leave the details with Dr. McGrigor, but before that I shall prescribe a purgative.”
“Oh God, no!” the General moaned, clutching convulsively at the blankets around his waist as if they could protect him.
“For a man with your lordship’s reputation for courage you are showing a distinct lack of it, sir,” Maturin said acerbically, taking an enema from his bag. “It is a treatment of the most beneficial nature, and with the application of the draught afterwards shall hasten your recovery most effectively. Be so good as to lie on your front and raise your nightshirt. Your assistance, if you please, dear colleague.”
Twenty minutes later Wellington, waxen-faced and sweating copiously, was helped back into bed by the two doctors.
“Handsomely does it… There, that was not so bad, my lord, was it?”
Wellington merely moaned pitifully in response. His limbs were still trembling as he watched Maturin draw out instructions for McGrigor to make up pills, discussing something in low voices the subject of which he could not discern, then finally measure out a glass of something which was brought across to the bed.
“Here, my lord, is a physik which you must take immediately. All of it is to be swallowed without hesitation, as it will help to settle the after effects of purging.”
It did not take much more encouragement to persuade the General to take it, Maturin supporting his head whilst the glass was held to his lips. The liquid was bitter and Wellington very near choked at the unfamiliar taste, but he resolutely swallowed it down, though he could not help grimacing as he did so. He breathed deeply and steadily as he tried to settle his nerves from the shock of the purgative, from the absurd attentions of this odd little man who now prattled away to him about the importance of regular physical exercise, of the necessity of delegation and the dangers of over-taxing the mind, the need of a balanced diet ("...by no means over-indulgence or the excessive drinking of spirits, nor fasting..."). not to mention the essentialness of decent hygiene… Wellington found himself cursing Maturin and wondered if he’d like to try sticking to such a regime whilst attempting to run an army efficiently. Yet soon he found that he was missing the doctor’s words, that his attention was wandering and he was tiring. He did not wish to sleep, had been wide awake moments ago; yet for some reason sleep was fast descending on him in a great cloud and he fought to keep his eyes open. However Dr. Maturin, noticing his sudden weariness, placed a reassuring hand to the patient's shoulder.
“We have quite tired you enough with our questions and preparations, my lord. I shall take my leave, and wish you a swift recovery.”
Wellington found it impossible to reply; his tongue was like lead and his eyelids slid shut, his head slowly falling to one side on the pillow with no more than a sigh escaping his lips as he slipped into unconsciousness.
Stephen felt the General’s pulse, then lifted one of his eyelids, satisfied to see that the laudanum had done its work. He turned back to McGrigor.
“Twenty-three drops it shall be, then. The draught shall make certain that the patient sleeps, counteracting the restlessness and insomnia so that he shall be undisturbed by dreams or fever. A restful, peaceful oblivion which shall benefit him greatly; a mind so busy as his cannot be else otherwise. I have found in the past that a mentally active man is the most difficult to subdue.”
“My thanks to you, Dr. Maturin. I would have thought it treatable… but in such a circumstance I considered it best to seek a second opinion. The life of the Commander-in-Chief should not be trusted to one doctor; plus it has been nigh on impossible to make any treatment affective with him. An impossible patient, I should say; indeed, I do say it!”
“I thank you for your high regard,” Stephen said, bowing to McGrigor. “Yet no patient is impossible, sir, if the physician is able to discover the correct approach to treatment. From what I observed His Lordship despises deceit and guile in his personal dealings, so I gave him an open, honest examination and assessment; he would have stood for no less.”
“True, but I’m a doctor under his orders, which means I am not allowed to tell him he’s ill when he does’nae want to be.” McGrigor shook his head. “Short of tying him to the bed and removing all papers from his line of vision; but then he would probably have me shot for mutiny.”
Stephen gave a thin smile.
“Such is ever the way when treating an immediate superior with no little disregard for his supposed inferiors; yet calling on an outside influence, on one that is outside any hierarchy, is usually solution enough. We may call the other gentlemen back in. Gentlemen,” Stephen said softly once Bullen, Sanders, Brandon and Padstowe had returned. “His Lordship will sleep for some hours, and it is requested that on waking he is not to be too much troubled with papers; Dr. McGrigor shall brief you on the details fully. Now, Captain Padstowe - Jonathan, my dear - if you would be so good as to conduct me to Major Hogan of the Royal Engineers? I believe the major and I have several matters of mutual interest to discuss…”