white church itself. Since the full heat of the day was upon us, I had hoped to escape it temporarily in the cool that is usually found in an old church, but to my dismay the building was shut up tight. I therefore determined to find some shade in the graveyard that wrapped around the back of the church, and therefore followed the path off to my left. I was immediately struck by both the age of the graves, as well as the terrible power of the weather of this land, for many of the gravestones had been completely eroded, the names of their occupants lost to the ravages of time.
I eventually found a bench tucked under a massive tree and availed myself of its comforts to rest my leg, which had begun to throb mercilessly. Ignoring the pain, I surveyed my surroundings, and though some might call them morbid, in the bright light of day they seemed to me to radiate a sense of peace. I continued to bask in the sun and I found myself silently thanking Jackson, who had so kindly engineered my respite here. I decided that I was quite pleased with this little island of ancient comfort. My thoughts drifted and I am uncertain how long exactly I remained on that bench, when I was finally stirred from my rest by the sound of approaching voices. At first the words were indistinct, but as they drew closer, I was certain that I heard the word ‘doctor,’ which of course attracted my attention.
“Well, when it’s over, he can finally rest,” a voice said, a hint of a slight foreign accent upon on his tongue.
“That will be a joyous day,” a British voice replied warmly.
And then the owners of the voices strolled into my view from a small lane that led into the back of the graveyard. I have a quick eye for faces and given the smallness of the town, I was not surprised to note two of my fellow lodgers at the Globe Hotel. The second voice obviously belonged to the Herculean man that I had encountered the previous evening, while the first had plainly emanated from the Italian that had been eating with Senhor Cordeiro this very morning. Upon seeing me, they immediately ceased their conversation. Both men wore hats against the brightness of the sun, and it may have been a trick of the shadows on their faces, but neither appeared pleased to see me sitting in the graveyard. If indeed such emotions had been present, they were quickly replaced by pleasant, non-committal smiles. Both men tipped their hats at me as they passed by my bench, but neither spoke again. I noted that the giant man walked with a hint of a limp, which told my surgeon’s eyes that he was suffering from a wounded knee.
After they had passed from my view around the east end of the church, I decided that I had spent enough time resting my leg and resumed my walk. By coincidence, I followed the path that the two men had taken, since I had yet to explore in that direction. But I did not overtake them, as my attention was soon distracted by one of the larger gravestones in the yard, its relative newness plainly evident by the fact that the carved words were still clear. They read: “IN MEMORY OF DOCTOR C. RYAN, PRINCIPAL MEDICAL OFFICER TO HIS MAJESTY’S FORCES, WHO FELL ONE OF THE FIRST VICTIMS TO THE EPIDEMIC FEVER OF 1819, IN THE BLOOM OF LIFE.”
I paused and rubbed my throbbing left shoulder. A myriad of thoughts washed over me. I was grateful that I had escaped Maiwand with but the two wounds, my life intact. At the same time, I reflected on the grim toll that the spread of the glory of the British Empire took upon its brave lads. When they survived their wounds, they still might be struck down by a fever, as I had almost been. And despite all the learning of our age, many doctors still paid the ultimate price for their intimate treatment of their pestilential patients.
I shook my head at these somber thoughts and decided that tea-time was nigh. That was certain to lift my spirits. I therefore turned my steps back to the Globe Hotel, and
I eventually found a bench tucked under a massive tree and availed myself of its comforts to rest my leg, which had begun to throb mercilessly. Ignoring the pain, I surveyed my surroundings, and though some might call them morbid, in the bright light of day they seemed to me to radiate a sense of peace. I continued to bask in the sun and I found myself silently thanking Jackson, who had so kindly engineered my respite here. I decided that I was quite pleased with this little island of ancient comfort. My thoughts drifted and I am uncertain how long exactly I remained on that bench, when I was finally stirred from my rest by the sound of approaching voices. At first the words were indistinct, but as they drew closer, I was certain that I heard the word ‘doctor,’ which of course attracted my attention.
“Well, when it’s over, he can finally rest,” a voice said, a hint of a slight foreign accent upon on his tongue.
“That will be a joyous day,” a British voice replied warmly.
And then the owners of the voices strolled into my view from a small lane that led into the back of the graveyard. I have a quick eye for faces and given the smallness of the town, I was not surprised to note two of my fellow lodgers at the Globe Hotel. The second voice obviously belonged to the Herculean man that I had encountered the previous evening, while the first had plainly emanated from the Italian that had been eating with Senhor Cordeiro this very morning. Upon seeing me, they immediately ceased their conversation. Both men wore hats against the brightness of the sun, and it may have been a trick of the shadows on their faces, but neither appeared pleased to see me sitting in the graveyard. If indeed such emotions had been present, they were quickly replaced by pleasant, non-committal smiles. Both men tipped their hats at me as they passed by my bench, but neither spoke again. I noted that the giant man walked with a hint of a limp, which told my surgeon’s eyes that he was suffering from a wounded knee.
After they had passed from my view around the east end of the church, I decided that I had spent enough time resting my leg and resumed my walk. By coincidence, I followed the path that the two men had taken, since I had yet to explore in that direction. But I did not overtake them, as my attention was soon distracted by one of the larger gravestones in the yard, its relative newness plainly evident by the fact that the carved words were still clear. They read: “IN MEMORY OF DOCTOR C. RYAN, PRINCIPAL MEDICAL OFFICER TO HIS MAJESTY’S FORCES, WHO FELL ONE OF THE FIRST VICTIMS TO THE EPIDEMIC FEVER OF 1819, IN THE BLOOM OF LIFE.”
I paused and rubbed my throbbing left shoulder. A myriad of thoughts washed over me. I was grateful that I had escaped Maiwand with but the two wounds, my life intact. At the same time, I reflected on the grim toll that the spread of the glory of the British Empire took upon its brave lads. When they survived their wounds, they still might be struck down by a fever, as I had almost been. And despite all the learning of our age, many doctors still paid the ultimate price for their intimate treatment of their pestilential patients.
I shook my head at these somber thoughts and decided that tea-time was nigh. That was certain to lift my spirits. I therefore turned my steps back to the Globe Hotel, and
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