Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

The fellow stepped back and beckoned me inside. I entered as he took the letter over to a candelabrum that he might read it.

Two candles lit the room which, though of medium size, was crammed full with file drawers and bundled piles of what I supposed to be medical records. It wasn’t until I had been in the place near a minute that some movement in one dark corner followed by a cough brought another man into view. He was a burly sort of man, older and stouter than he who had answered my knock at the door.

“All right, I keep this,” said the letter-reader as he waved the missive at me. “You’re free to go up to talk to your man, Robb, for as long as you can get anything out of him. Been here before? You know the way?”

“No,” said I, “no, I don’t.”

“In that case, Will here will take you there. Ain’t that right, Will?”

“I’ll do it if I must,” said Will from his dark corner. “Come along, lad.”

Though short-legged as men of his size and shape often are, he moved so swiftly that I was forced to follow along at something close to a jog-trot just to keep up with him. He led me across a large courtyard to the building at the farthest side. Looking up at the dark walls all round me, I was reminded of Newgate Gaol, which I knew to be nearby; yet St. Bart’s was even larger, darker still, and altogether more forbidding than that most notorious prison.

Burly Will fair flew up the steps and through the door and quite left me behind as he took the stairway to the next floor. Yet he waited for me there as I arrived somewhat out of breath. He had a little speech to make.

“Now, young sir,” said he in a low voice, “I would give you a bit of advice.”

“And what is that, sir?”

“I and another conveyed your Mr. Robb to this floor when he was brought in last night. Now, I’ve worked here more years than I would care to say, and I’ve seen many hundred come and go, so that I’ve a sense of who’s going out on their feet and who’s going out in a box. Mr. Robb is one who’ll soon go, and Won’t be on his own. If he’s alive now, he ain’t likely to make it till morning.”

“So I’ve heard,” said I. “The doctor who brought him in said that I should talk to him now, for I might not get another opportunity.”

And it was precisely for that reason that I wished to see the old man immediately. I wanted this fellow Will to take me to Arthur’s bed. I shuffled my feet, seeking to impart to him my eagerness to get on with it.

Yet he talked on: “He’s one of those who is sometimes awake and sometimes not. You must catch him awake if you want him to answer you proper. Now, the way to get him awake — ” He paused and peered at me closely. “Do you have a knife with you?”

“No, why?”

“Well, a knife is best, you see — just a quick jab with the point of it, not deep, don’t want to hurt him none, just enough to cause some pain. It’s pain that wakes ‘em up, quicker an’ surer than anything. But you ain’t got a knife, so that won’t do. Next best thing is a good, sharp pinch. On his arse is the best place — maybe the only place with one so skinny as he is. Now, mind what I say, lad, for this is the only way you’re likely to get anything from one so far gone.” He gave me a sharp nod. “Come along,” said he, and went off at the same fast pace as before without so much as a look back at me.

I ran to catch up as he passed first one door and then another. Finally, he turned in at the third, pausing an instant before he disappeared to beckon me inside. The ward was barely lit by candles at either end. Yet it was not difficult to make out the full figure of my guide standing at the foot of a bed about halfway down the aisle.

“Here’s your man,” said Will. “Is there somethin’ else you need?”

I looked about but failed to see the item I sought.

“Would there be a chair? Something I could sit on? I may be here quite some time.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” And off he marched, looking left and right into the spaces between beds to fulfill my request. Not far away he found a plain straight-backed chair. He brought it to me and accepted my thanks with a mock salute. Then he was gone.

My attention went at last to Arthur Robb. True, he breathed still, but lightly, shallowly, and somewhat irregularly, as one might if he were losing the knack. I bent over him, and in the dim light satisfied myself that he showed no signs of waking. His eyes were shut, but his face was far from relaxed; he wore the same pained grimace I remembered from the night before.

I touched him lightly on the shoulder nearest me — with no result; his eyelids gave not the slightest flutter and his breathing continued as before.

“Arthur,” said I in a quiet voice, “wake up. I have some questions for you.”

There was no response. I gave him a good sound shake — and there was still no response. No, not so much as a blink or a word spoken.

By this time, I was well-reminded of my fruitless efforts to waken Nancy Plummer. I could not waken him with a scream, as Lady Fielding had wakened Nancy, for I had not such a scream in me. And even if I found one deep down in my throat and brought it forth, I would likely waken the entire ward, perhaps the entire floor, along with Arthur. I sank down in the chair and considered the matter at some length.

Though it was not late, all those in their beds seemed to be asleep. The sound of steady breathing was all that I heard about me. Only Arthur, of them all, gave signs of great labor in his efforts. What could I do? It was evident that time was short. Mr. Donnelly’s grim prognosis had been seconded by Will. There was little could be hoped for him beyond this night.

I tried shaking him again — without result. I left off for a minute or two, then did I jump from the chair in which I sat, grabbed the all but lifeless form on the bed by both shoulders, and gave it a great prolonged rattling, up and down, down and up. Had I seen another behave so cruelly with the old man’s frail and helpless form, I would have leaped in to stop him. Yet little good it did me to treat him so. The only sign of change in him was a sustained “ahhhh” that came from deep in his throat. Yet it signified nothing, for once I left off shaking the poor old man, he lapsed into the same pattern of labored, shallow breathing. I sat back down in the chair, a feeling of defeat heavy upon me.

I sat thus for what seemed a good long time, and as I did, a voice within me began asking, repeating: “Would it be crueller to pinch him, as burly Will instructed, than to continue shaking Arthur as I had been doing?” When first I heard his advice, I thought it unspeakably brutal. I knew that I would not consider jabbing poor Arthur with a knife point nor pinching his arse — under any circumstances. Yet there I was, considering it. Would it be crueller? No. Was it then worth an attempt? Reluctantly, I decided that it was.

I slipped a hand under the thin blanket which covered his frail body, found his lean buttocks with my forefinger and thumb, and twisted as hard as ever I could — and then I twisted a bit harder.

“Ow! Ohh! Ohh!”

It was Arthur, indeed. I had hurt the poor fellow awake.

“What are you doing to me?” he wailed in a manner most indistinct. It was as if he had little control of his tongue. What he said was much more like, “Wh’doong muh?”

Assured at last that he could respond by forming words and making himself understood, I left off torturing the old man, came forward, and addressed him as quietly and gently as ever I could.

“Forgive me, Arthur, but I was desperate to wake you. I must ask you some questions.”

“Questions … why?” He seemed to be fading already. “Thirsty.”