collected in a bladder then pumped by squeezing through a hollowed goose quill and into a cannula, so to the patient’s veins.
‘A French physician named Denis seems the first to have transfused a human, in the late 1600s. He gave twelve ounces of lamb’s blood each to three patients and only one died. Perhaps it was all chance, not design, but whatever the truth, interest since has been slight.’
Peter Cunningham seemed satisfied with the exchange his shilling had procured, for he smiled and clapped Dunne on the shoulder before continuing on his way.
Similarly pleased, the news-hawker decided he should certainly tell the bloody story to Thomas Owens – but … As the name came into his mind, a thought that had been nothing but a gentle eddy lapping at the recesses of his brain suddenly built up power and broke like a foaming wave on the beach at Boondi.
Was Owens, any more than Captain Rossi, to be trusted completely? For, considering the fact that Dunne and the doctor had never been separated from the instant of the discovery of the mysterious pouch in the corpse’s clenched fist until Rossi picked them up, how in heaven’s name could Owens have tested the contents and decreed them lethal? Yet the doctor was adamant about this, and that it was Bonaparte’s bag. How could he be so sure? Anyway, why had he not reacted to the mention of ‘a certain William Balcombe’ with recognition – even though the Patterer knew the name well?
For that matter, was Owens making too much of the poisons he had identified as having been prescribed for the prisoner on St Helena? That last doubt had been dangled before Dunne (although he had not remarked on it at the time) during an earlier news-reading that day.
This had been to a promising concentration of women near the stone column in Macquarie Place that marked the point of reference for all distances in the colony. The source of entertainment and instruction for these ladies was a description of a druggist shop’s most recently landed stock from London and Paris. It had praised Price & Gosnell’s renowned Essence of Bergamot, Macassar and Russian oils, and violet-scented hair powder.
Now Dunne remembered an unusual thing. On the long list of apothecary’s medicinal stock there had certainly been the Peruvian Bark (for the sweating sickness) and other names that he did not understand: what in God’s name were Lunar Caustic (an aid for women’s troubles?), Lenitive Electuary, Hellebore Powder or Japan Earth? Most importantly, though, he could recall mentions of opium in various forms – laudanum and poppyheads – all, he knew, widely used.
And, intriguingly, while there was no orgeat, there were emetic tartar and calomel. If they were so damned poisonous, why wasn’t half the town dead or dying?
Both Captain Rossi and Thomas Owens were his friends. Which of them was mistaken, or confused? Or lying?
As the Patterer was about to turn into Bridge Street and make for the main road that would take him to the busy Cove and more business, his renewed daydreaming about death and deceit was interrupted by a clear, familiar voice coming from around the corner:
O! What will become of me,
O! What shall I do?
Nobody coming to marry me,
Nobody coming to woo!…
‘Well, Miss Susannah Hathaway,’ murmured Nicodemus Dunne, ‘I’ll soon remedy that.
Here’s
a body coming to woo!’
Chapter Eighteen
If the heart of a man is deprest with cares,
The mist is dispelled when a woman appears.
– John Gay,
The Beggar’s Opera
(1728)
‘The gay provocation of her brief theatre costume was replaced by a more discreet walking-out dress.’
Why, it is surely the tale of
Beauty and the Beast
come suddenly to life, decided Nicodemus Dunne as he confronted Miss Susannah Hathaway near the bridge over the Tank Stream. And there could be no debate over who played which part.
Not that he was an ugly man. No, indeed; he had fluttered many a heart. But the clothes he was
‘A French physician named Denis seems the first to have transfused a human, in the late 1600s. He gave twelve ounces of lamb’s blood each to three patients and only one died. Perhaps it was all chance, not design, but whatever the truth, interest since has been slight.’
Peter Cunningham seemed satisfied with the exchange his shilling had procured, for he smiled and clapped Dunne on the shoulder before continuing on his way.
Similarly pleased, the news-hawker decided he should certainly tell the bloody story to Thomas Owens – but … As the name came into his mind, a thought that had been nothing but a gentle eddy lapping at the recesses of his brain suddenly built up power and broke like a foaming wave on the beach at Boondi.
Was Owens, any more than Captain Rossi, to be trusted completely? For, considering the fact that Dunne and the doctor had never been separated from the instant of the discovery of the mysterious pouch in the corpse’s clenched fist until Rossi picked them up, how in heaven’s name could Owens have tested the contents and decreed them lethal? Yet the doctor was adamant about this, and that it was Bonaparte’s bag. How could he be so sure? Anyway, why had he not reacted to the mention of ‘a certain William Balcombe’ with recognition – even though the Patterer knew the name well?
For that matter, was Owens making too much of the poisons he had identified as having been prescribed for the prisoner on St Helena? That last doubt had been dangled before Dunne (although he had not remarked on it at the time) during an earlier news-reading that day.
This had been to a promising concentration of women near the stone column in Macquarie Place that marked the point of reference for all distances in the colony. The source of entertainment and instruction for these ladies was a description of a druggist shop’s most recently landed stock from London and Paris. It had praised Price & Gosnell’s renowned Essence of Bergamot, Macassar and Russian oils, and violet-scented hair powder.
Now Dunne remembered an unusual thing. On the long list of apothecary’s medicinal stock there had certainly been the Peruvian Bark (for the sweating sickness) and other names that he did not understand: what in God’s name were Lunar Caustic (an aid for women’s troubles?), Lenitive Electuary, Hellebore Powder or Japan Earth? Most importantly, though, he could recall mentions of opium in various forms – laudanum and poppyheads – all, he knew, widely used.
And, intriguingly, while there was no orgeat, there were emetic tartar and calomel. If they were so damned poisonous, why wasn’t half the town dead or dying?
Both Captain Rossi and Thomas Owens were his friends. Which of them was mistaken, or confused? Or lying?
As the Patterer was about to turn into Bridge Street and make for the main road that would take him to the busy Cove and more business, his renewed daydreaming about death and deceit was interrupted by a clear, familiar voice coming from around the corner:
O! What will become of me,
O! What shall I do?
Nobody coming to marry me,
Nobody coming to woo!…
‘Well, Miss Susannah Hathaway,’ murmured Nicodemus Dunne, ‘I’ll soon remedy that.
Here’s
a body coming to woo!’
Chapter Eighteen
If the heart of a man is deprest with cares,
The mist is dispelled when a woman appears.
– John Gay,
The Beggar’s Opera
(1728)
‘The gay provocation of her brief theatre costume was replaced by a more discreet walking-out dress.’
Why, it is surely the tale of
Beauty and the Beast
come suddenly to life, decided Nicodemus Dunne as he confronted Miss Susannah Hathaway near the bridge over the Tank Stream. And there could be no debate over who played which part.
Not that he was an ugly man. No, indeed; he had fluttered many a heart. But the clothes he was
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