skin, and, yes, there were the genitals, the penis now shriveled and limp. Despite its sad appearance, it spoke volumes to him. He picked up a magnifying glass and peered at the flaccid organ. A look of delight swept across his face at the sight of it: a pus-filled volcanic crater the size of a half crown, a magnificent chancre—the indisputable sign of venereal infection.
It was a disease that had blighted mankind even before Columbus’s sailors brought it back from the natives of Hispaniola, he told himself. A plague sent by the Almighty as a curse on all profligates and their innocent offspring. It treated its prey without mercy, corroding the flesh, the bones, the vital organs. Worse still, it affected the mind, driving men demented and leaving their offspring a legacy of torment. It left thousands, no, millions, of men—and women—dead in its path. But he, John Hunter, would find a cure. There would be no more need to treat the disease with mercury, which poisoned the blood. No more need for the slow harbinger of death to gnaw away at the body. One day men would bless his name and women would sing his praises. He would be hailed as the healer of the scourge, the savior of mankind. But before that he needed to study the disease in depth. He needed to monitor its progress, notate every stage. He needed in-depth knowledge of every facet of its grotesque existence. And to do that, there was only one option.
Lancet in hand, he pierced the chancre with the needle and drew off the yellow fluid. He held it up to the candlelight. Liquid gold, he told himself, holding within it so many secrets and so many answers to mankind’s problems.
Carefully laying the pus-laden lancet down on his table so that none of the precious cargo escaped, he unbuckled his belt and took down his breeches. He felt the beads of sweat on his brow start to run down his face, but he must not shy away from his task. He had to go through with this, he told himself, for the sake of humanity. He shuddered, swallowed hard, and took a deep breath, puncturing first his foreskin, then the head of his penis, before passing out in a dead faint on the floor.
Chapter 13
L ydia’s carriage swept through Lincoln’s Inn Archway and deposited her in New Square. The sky was heavy with gray clouds. She felt apprehensive, a feeling that was compounded by the fact that she appeared to be the only woman within the huge courtyard.
As she alighted the first rain began to fall, sending the lawyers in their black gowns scudding hither and thither like crows after a pistol shot. She wished now that she had accepted Thomas’s offer to accompany her.
Standing at the bottom of a small flight of steps, she read the gold lettering on a wooden tablet: T HE R T . H ON . R UPERT M ARCHANT . A somber-looking clerk answered the door and asked if she was expected. She was then led through to a room lined from floor to ceiling with hefty tomes. Not only that, but the floor, too, was covered with leather-bound volumes of all shapes and sizes, and seated at a desk in amongst them sat the elegantly dressed figure of Rupert Marchant. His wig was perfectly coiffed and the scent of sandalwood enveloped him. He rose as soon as he saw Lydia and walked over to greet her, bowing low and kissing her gloved hand.
“My dear Lady Lydia, it is so kind of you to grace me with your presence.” He gestured to a seat.
She did not like his pretentious manner, but smiled and sat down. “It is good of you to see me, Mr. Marchant.”
“I always have time for a charming lady,” he replied, catching her eye. She felt the color rise in her cheeks and wished that Thomas was sitting beside her. But she would not allow herself to be distracted from her mission.
“As you know, I am here on behalf of Mr. Byrne,” she began.
“Ah, yes, the famous Irish Giant,” he said almost mockingly, sitting back in his chair and clasping his manicured hands on his lap. “I hear there is even talk of a
It was a disease that had blighted mankind even before Columbus’s sailors brought it back from the natives of Hispaniola, he told himself. A plague sent by the Almighty as a curse on all profligates and their innocent offspring. It treated its prey without mercy, corroding the flesh, the bones, the vital organs. Worse still, it affected the mind, driving men demented and leaving their offspring a legacy of torment. It left thousands, no, millions, of men—and women—dead in its path. But he, John Hunter, would find a cure. There would be no more need to treat the disease with mercury, which poisoned the blood. No more need for the slow harbinger of death to gnaw away at the body. One day men would bless his name and women would sing his praises. He would be hailed as the healer of the scourge, the savior of mankind. But before that he needed to study the disease in depth. He needed to monitor its progress, notate every stage. He needed in-depth knowledge of every facet of its grotesque existence. And to do that, there was only one option.
Lancet in hand, he pierced the chancre with the needle and drew off the yellow fluid. He held it up to the candlelight. Liquid gold, he told himself, holding within it so many secrets and so many answers to mankind’s problems.
Carefully laying the pus-laden lancet down on his table so that none of the precious cargo escaped, he unbuckled his belt and took down his breeches. He felt the beads of sweat on his brow start to run down his face, but he must not shy away from his task. He had to go through with this, he told himself, for the sake of humanity. He shuddered, swallowed hard, and took a deep breath, puncturing first his foreskin, then the head of his penis, before passing out in a dead faint on the floor.
Chapter 13
L ydia’s carriage swept through Lincoln’s Inn Archway and deposited her in New Square. The sky was heavy with gray clouds. She felt apprehensive, a feeling that was compounded by the fact that she appeared to be the only woman within the huge courtyard.
As she alighted the first rain began to fall, sending the lawyers in their black gowns scudding hither and thither like crows after a pistol shot. She wished now that she had accepted Thomas’s offer to accompany her.
Standing at the bottom of a small flight of steps, she read the gold lettering on a wooden tablet: T HE R T . H ON . R UPERT M ARCHANT . A somber-looking clerk answered the door and asked if she was expected. She was then led through to a room lined from floor to ceiling with hefty tomes. Not only that, but the floor, too, was covered with leather-bound volumes of all shapes and sizes, and seated at a desk in amongst them sat the elegantly dressed figure of Rupert Marchant. His wig was perfectly coiffed and the scent of sandalwood enveloped him. He rose as soon as he saw Lydia and walked over to greet her, bowing low and kissing her gloved hand.
“My dear Lady Lydia, it is so kind of you to grace me with your presence.” He gestured to a seat.
She did not like his pretentious manner, but smiled and sat down. “It is good of you to see me, Mr. Marchant.”
“I always have time for a charming lady,” he replied, catching her eye. She felt the color rise in her cheeks and wished that Thomas was sitting beside her. But she would not allow herself to be distracted from her mission.
“As you know, I am here on behalf of Mr. Byrne,” she began.
“Ah, yes, the famous Irish Giant,” he said almost mockingly, sitting back in his chair and clasping his manicured hands on his lap. “I hear there is even talk of a
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