couldn’t help but agree. The worst of the internal bleeding seemed to have stopped (how could it not, he reasoned, for otherwise the captain would already be dead) and until perhaps a quarter of an hour ago, his patient’s skin had been as cold as ice. The wounded Scotsman had begun to tremble and shiver, his body wracked with great spasms that rippled beneath his skin. Feeling utterly powerless and searching for something to do, Caldwell had covered him with several blankets, working on the premise that there was little more that he could do in the way of treatment than watch and wait for Campbell to ride out whatever it was that ravaged his body.
He had exchanged a grim look with the orderly. Both of them were thinking the same thing: Campbell had been bitten or clawed by one of the creatures, and was now turning into one of them. But upon reflection, the doctor was beginning to change his mind about that. Campbell’s skin temperature had suddenly turned from freezing cold to boiling hot, breaking out in a wash of sweat that coated his entire body. Placing the flat of one hand on his brow, the orderly had declared that he could probably fry an egg there.
The fever had sparked and taken hold so very quickly, it had taken him totally by surprise. Campbell wasn’t trying to bite anybody that came within range, something that every single one of the turned had done. Caldwell placed two fingers at his wrist and found a strong, bounding pulse that galloped like the hooves of a cavalry mount – a far cry from the almost imperceptibly weak, thready pulse that it had apparently just replaced.
“He appears to be perfusing once more,” Caldwell said, for the first time sounding cautiously optimistic. Then he qualified it with, “But he’s not out of the woods quite yet.”
Straining against his bonds, Campbell threw back his head and screamed. The candle-light threw a sinister shadow against the far canvas wall of the tent, looking for all the world as though he was more beast than man. There was something feral about the man as he arched his back and strove to get his wrists and ankles free of the straps that bit remorselessly into his flesh, chafing so badly that blood was drawn.
A shadow appeared suddenly in the doorway that was formed from the tent’s tied-back entry flap. It was guarded by two highlanders of the 84th, both of whom stepped smartly aside to allow the newcomer to enter. The figure stepped forward into the candle-light. Dr. Reed Caldwell had never felt so glad to see his commanding general in his entire life.
“A very good evening to you, Dr. Caldwell,” Wellesley said politely, almost deferentially. His usually dark eyes glowed a pale red, lighting up the shadows like twin suns at daybreak.
“Good evening, sir.” Caldwell didn’t salute, as was traditional with most army doctors, but straightened his bearing nonetheless and offered Wellesley a courteous nod.
“How fares Captain Campbell?”
Was it Caldwell’s imagination, or was that a note of genuine concern in the general’s voice? “Had you asked me that same question just an hour ago, sir, or even half an hour ago for that matter, I would have told you that his prognosis was grim. But as it stands now…” He hesitated, struggling to force his groggy brain into organizing his thoughts.
“Yes?” Wellesley asked impatiently, unwilling to brook the delay.
“As it stands now, I feel that Captain Campbell may have just turned the corner. His pulse has regained its former strength, and more besides…” Caldwell gestured with one hand, and Wellesley followed it, taking in the captain’s whipcord-taught muscles as they strained hard to break out of their leather bonds. The Scotsman threw back his head once more and howled, the veins standing out like thick ropes on either side of his neck. At his temple, an S-shaped vein throbbed angrily.
“He is in considerable pain, Doctor. Have you given anything to help with that – morphia,
He had exchanged a grim look with the orderly. Both of them were thinking the same thing: Campbell had been bitten or clawed by one of the creatures, and was now turning into one of them. But upon reflection, the doctor was beginning to change his mind about that. Campbell’s skin temperature had suddenly turned from freezing cold to boiling hot, breaking out in a wash of sweat that coated his entire body. Placing the flat of one hand on his brow, the orderly had declared that he could probably fry an egg there.
The fever had sparked and taken hold so very quickly, it had taken him totally by surprise. Campbell wasn’t trying to bite anybody that came within range, something that every single one of the turned had done. Caldwell placed two fingers at his wrist and found a strong, bounding pulse that galloped like the hooves of a cavalry mount – a far cry from the almost imperceptibly weak, thready pulse that it had apparently just replaced.
“He appears to be perfusing once more,” Caldwell said, for the first time sounding cautiously optimistic. Then he qualified it with, “But he’s not out of the woods quite yet.”
Straining against his bonds, Campbell threw back his head and screamed. The candle-light threw a sinister shadow against the far canvas wall of the tent, looking for all the world as though he was more beast than man. There was something feral about the man as he arched his back and strove to get his wrists and ankles free of the straps that bit remorselessly into his flesh, chafing so badly that blood was drawn.
A shadow appeared suddenly in the doorway that was formed from the tent’s tied-back entry flap. It was guarded by two highlanders of the 84th, both of whom stepped smartly aside to allow the newcomer to enter. The figure stepped forward into the candle-light. Dr. Reed Caldwell had never felt so glad to see his commanding general in his entire life.
“A very good evening to you, Dr. Caldwell,” Wellesley said politely, almost deferentially. His usually dark eyes glowed a pale red, lighting up the shadows like twin suns at daybreak.
“Good evening, sir.” Caldwell didn’t salute, as was traditional with most army doctors, but straightened his bearing nonetheless and offered Wellesley a courteous nod.
“How fares Captain Campbell?”
Was it Caldwell’s imagination, or was that a note of genuine concern in the general’s voice? “Had you asked me that same question just an hour ago, sir, or even half an hour ago for that matter, I would have told you that his prognosis was grim. But as it stands now…” He hesitated, struggling to force his groggy brain into organizing his thoughts.
“Yes?” Wellesley asked impatiently, unwilling to brook the delay.
“As it stands now, I feel that Captain Campbell may have just turned the corner. His pulse has regained its former strength, and more besides…” Caldwell gestured with one hand, and Wellesley followed it, taking in the captain’s whipcord-taught muscles as they strained hard to break out of their leather bonds. The Scotsman threw back his head once more and howled, the veins standing out like thick ropes on either side of his neck. At his temple, an S-shaped vein throbbed angrily.
“He is in considerable pain, Doctor. Have you given anything to help with that – morphia,
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