James McGee - Resurrectionist

Ignoring the patient’s yells, Carslow continued where he had left off. Gripping the metal staff once more, he began to feed the rod down the inside of the penis. His voice remained measured, though louder than when he had started, to counteract the noise from the man struggling on the table. “We place the rod through the urethra and into the bladder, like so, and we listen…”

Hearing the surgeon’s words, Hawkwood was suddenly aware of how still the rest of the room had become. It was as if everyone was holding his breath. Even the patient’s cries subsided into a series of low mewling sounds, though the pain must have been excruciating. Then, to Hawkwood’s astonishment, the surgeon bent and placed his ear to the base of the patient’s cock.

“There!” Carslow announced. “The villain is located.”

Hawkwood realized the surgeon had been listening for the click as the curved end of the rod knocked against the stone.

Swiftly, keeping a hold on the end of the rod, which was sticking out of the patient’s penis like a stopper in a decanter, the surgeon reached for his scalpel.

Hawkwood’s stomach twisted.

“Hold him fast, gentlemen, if you please.”

The dressers bore down on the patient, exerting pressure. The leather straps were pulled tight.

“Now for the first incision. I place the blade against the perineum, so. And remember, slowly and deliberately…”

Placing the point of the blade against the skin behind the patient’s scrotum, he pressed in and drew it carefully down towards the patient’s rectum. The flesh parted like grape skin. Blood welled. A bleating wail rose from between the patient’s clenched teeth.

Hawkwood sucked in his breath.

The patient writhed as the surgeon continued. “I divide the prostate gland and with the point of my blade I press against the bladder wall, feeling for the groove in the bladder sound, while taking care to avoid damage to the surrounding tissue.”

Blood, Hawkwood could see, had started to drip from the incision.

A pig-like squeal rose from the head of the operating table.

“Heads!” The shouts came out of the blue, from the top tier away to Hawkwood’s right. “Heads!”

Jesus, now what? Hawkwood wondered. And then he realized the calls were coming from spectators who were unable to see the operation because the heads of the dressers were blocking their view.

Other students took up the chant. Obligingly, the dressers leaned away from the table, still maintaining their control of the patient’s legs. As the cries ceased and the onlookers settled down, Hawkwood could see that the patient also seemed to be becalmed, as if he’d surrendered to the inevitable. Carslow’s assistant, Gibson, was stroking the man’s sweat-streaked head and whispering in his ear.

The wound had started to bleed profusely. A thin dark-red stream was seeping down the cleft of the patient’s buttocks and dripping into the blood box beneath the table.

“Having located the groove, I cut through the wall of the bladder, using the groove in the sound as my guide.” The surgeon’s voice rose from the foot of the operating table. “I take my forceps, insert them through the perineum and on into the bladder, and remove the stone. Note that the insertion and extraction is gradual rather than sudden.”

With his left hand pressing down on the exposed end of the bladder sound, the surgeon insinuated the forceps into the incision. The look on his face was one of studied concentration.

The patient gave a piercing shriek.

Hawkwood took a surreptitious glance around. There was more than one student who was looking a bit unsteady; he presumed they were the ones attending their first operation.

Suddenly there was a grunt from the direction of the operating table and a collective gasp from the gallery. Hawkwood turned quickly.

At the foot of the table, Carslow was holding the forceps aloft, a look of satisfaction on his face. Caught in the metal jaws was a round, dark object the size of a hen’s egg. It was dripping blood.

With a flourish, the surgeon dropped the stone into the metal bowl and withdrew the bladder sound from the end of the penis. As if on cue, the onlookers burst into a round of applause.

Carslow held up his hand. The room fell silent.

The surgeon returned his attention to the patient, who was lying motionless, with the exception of his chest, which was moving up and down with the rapidity of a fiddler’s elbow as he fought to recover from his exhausting ordeal.

“Bravely borne, Mr Ashby, the ordeal is over. My assistant, Mr Gibson, will attend to you. Mr Liston and Mr Oliver, you may return to your places.”

The patient gave no sign that he had heard.

The surgeon waited while his two recruits made their way back to the gallery and the envious smiles of their friends, before addressing the audience: “Remember, it is the surgeon’s duty to tranquillize the temper, to beget cheerfulness, and to impart confidence of recovery.”

Behind Carslow’s back, Gibson had turned the patient on to his side and was staunching the blood seepage with pads of soft lint.

The surgeon raised an eyebrow towards one of the medical staff standing on the lowest tier of the gallery. “How long, Mr Dalziel?”

“One minute and forty-three seconds, Mr Carslow.”

A murmur went around the room. Hawkwood wondered if that meant it had taken longer or shorter than expected. To the patient stretched out on the table below, it had probably seemed like hours.

The surgeon accepted the time with a thoughtful nod. “Thank you.” He looked up at the students. “It is said that my illustrious predecessor, William Cheselden, could perform the operation you have just witnessed in under one minute. While swiftness is an admirable trait, never let the desire for speed dictate your actions. Let expediency be your guide. Cheselden was quick because he was a good surgeon and because he knew his anatomy. Anatomy is the cornerstone of surgery. Remember that, and you will not fail…” Carslow paused. “It is also incumbent upon me to point out that Cheselden did not pioneer the operation, he merely refined it. It was, in fact, a man of humble origins, one Jacques Beaulieu, who developed the lateral perineal approach. As you may have gathered from the name, he was a Frenchman. There are no frontiers in Science and Medicine, gentlemen. You would do well to remember that also.”

Cheselden. The name had been on some of the pamphlets in Colonel Hyde’s cell, Hawkwood recalled.

As the students filed out of the lecture room, their faces animated by what they had seen, Carslow walked over to the pitcher, poured water into the enamel basin and began to wash his hands.

Hawkwood picked up his coat.

In the small waiting room behind the lecture theatre, Carslow finished drying his hands and passed the damp towel to his dresser. “Please inform Mr Savage that rounds will begin on the hour.”

The dresser, with Carslow’s soiled apron laid over his arm, nodded, handed the surgeon his coat and left the room, taking the towel with him. The surgeon watched him go, then turned with a frown.

“Now then, Officer… Hawkwood, was it? What is so important that you feel the need to disrupt my afternoon lectures?” Carslow slipped an arm into his coatsleeve.

There were dark stains running down the legs of the surgeon’s trousers, Hawkwood saw. Many of them looked crusted over, as though they’d been there for some time. Others looked fresh. He remembered the blood that had run from the last patient’s arse and assumed that it hadn’t been the day’s only operation. He suspected also that a lot of the stains weren’t just blood but had probably come from other body fluids. Some of them looked like dried pus.