Bruce Alexander - An Experiment in Treason

“And wouldn’t Mrs. Stevenson be dismayed!”

“Who is she?”

“Oh, never mind. Now, Jeremy, if I understand that letter properly, you’ve a letter of invitation with you for Franklin. Is that correct?”

“It IS, sir.”

I dove once again into my capacious pocket and pulled out the letter for Benjamin Franklin. That, too, I handed over to Mr. Johnson.

“Though I have little sympathy for those ‘Sons of Liberty’ and their cause, I like Franklin personally and would not have him punished for their sins. Furthermore, he is rather a good writer, and such poor wretches are altogether rare and should be protected.”

“A good writer, you say sir? In which pubKcations do his writings appear?”

“Oh … in various newspapers and gazettes,” said he. “Yet he follows the custom of signing his letters and short essays with various noms de plume to do with his associations — ‘a New England Gentleman,’ ‘an American,’ — that sort of thing.”

“An American?” said I. “I do not believe I have heard that as applied to … people. Do they no longer name themselves Englishmen?”

“Some do not. It’s the influence of that Sam Adams, I’ve no doubt.”

“Hmmm,” said I, considering. Though interested as ever in matters pertaining to the colonies, I often did not fully understand such news, especially lately.

“But I believe,” said Mr. Johnson, “that I may be able to win Franklin’s cooperation with Sir John’s plan. He has been dropping hints that he would like to be invited to the Thrales’, so I shall drop a hint of my own that attendance at Sir John’s might win him a place at Hester’s table. She is doubtlessly the most popular hostess in London and I daresay it’s all because of me.”

“Well,” said I, “the matter is left in your hands then.”

“I shall do all any man can, but shall send word later today of my success or failure.”

“I’ll inform Sir John of that.”

I rose and, after a proper bow, prepared to depart.

“Oh, and Jeremy, let me say again that I thought that quite an excellent summation. I’ve no doubt you’ll make a fine lawyer.”

Having knocked loudly and often upon the door to Mr. Donnelly’s surgery, I had about decided that I should have to return to Bow Street and make another attempt to deliver his invitation later in the day. Yet just as I was about to leave, I heard a noise from deep within his chambers, which sounded ever so much like something shouted. What was shouted I could not possibly say, but I thought it best to wait a bit longer and see what might occur. And having thus decided, I knocked no more and did bide my time till at last I heard footsteps cross the rooms beyond. The key turned in the lock, and the door swung open, exposing Mr. Donnelly to view. He raised his hand in greeting, and I could not but notice that it was generously stained with blood, as was its fellow. If he were to appear below, in Drury Lane, just as he was at that moment, he would most certainly have been set upon by a host of right-minded Lon-doners and accused of bloody murder ere he walked ten steps.

“You have not, I hope, been busy amputating the limb of some poor soul,” said I.

For a moment, he appeared quite puzzled by my remark. But then his eyes brightened with understanding, and he held up both bloody hands, and he laughed.

“No, the patient is dead and has been for a couple of days, I fear,” said he. “Even starting to smell a little.”

“Is he indeed? Well, perhaps I’d best come back another time.”

“Oh no, I’ve a lesson in anatomy prepared for you, and you came at just the right moment to take it in. Come along.”

He led the way through the anteroom, in which his patients awaited his attentions. (It was, or course, deserted at that moment.) Then on into the treatment room, where the body of the footman was laid out upon a table, face-down. I thought that strange for the moment — until I noted the gaping hole of near two inches in diameter at the base of his skull.

“Now, tell me, Jeremy, how many brains have you? Indeed, how many has anyone?”

“Why, one, of course — only that.”

“Not so,” said Mr. Donnelly. “There are actually no less than three.”

“Three? But where are they kept?”

“Well, the large brain, which they call the cerebrum, is the one we think with. It’s that which we consider our one and only brain. But under here — can you see that? — this is what they call the cerebellum.”

“And what does it do that the other does not?”

“Well, I believe, though there are not many with me in this, that it handles all manner of bodily movements. If you decide to run, it allows you to do that. It manages your muscles so that your legs and feet don’t become hopelessly tangled. There are all sorts of simple and complex motions that it manages for you.”

“Doesn’t that cover it all?” I asked. “Thinking, moving about… what more would there be? “

“A good deal more. Do you see this long, pulpy section here? It’s a bit messed about, I fear, for two bone chips from the skull were driven into it by the blow that killed this poor fellow.”

“And what do you call it?”

“The medulla oblongata.”

I laughed in spite of myself. “Forgive me,” said I. “The sound of it struck me as funny.”

“Hmmm. Never quite thought of it that way.”

“And what does it do?”

“In a way, it has the most important functions of all: those which take place inside the body and must proceed without our willing them to continue.”

“I don’t understand,” said I. “What would they be?”

“Well, if you had to think your way through each heartbeat and every breath you took, you’d soon be dead, wouldn’t you? As soon as you fell asleep, you’d lose your ability to keep concentrating on breathing, on keeping your heart pumping, on all those other necessities — and when you did that, you’d be dead.”

I paused, giving all that he had told me due consideration. “I am curious about something,” said I at last. “You said, when you were talking about the … ce-re-bel-lum, that there were not many who would agree with you? All that you’ve said seems perfectly logical to me. The separate parts of the brain have separate functions. Others believe — what?”

“That the brain functions as a single unit.”

“But you’ve proven them wrong.”

At that he smiled. “No, not exactly proven them wrong. It is naught but a theory. But I believe I couQ prove them wrong.”

“And how wouldyou do that?”

“I’m thinking of writing a paper and submitting it to the Royal Society of London.”

“What a grand idea,” said I.

“Yes, well, I’ve been persuaded by the example of Benjamin Franklin. He has no noble patrons, no university connections, and yet using his native intelligence and powers of observation, he has made some valuable scientific discoveries and conducted valuable experiments.”

“Well, I suppose, by and large you are right, though I can’t say that one down in Portsmouth proved of much value.”

“We have not yet heard the end of it,” said he. “Something may yet come of that oil-on-water theory.”

“Perhaps,” said I. “But tell me of the paper you wish to write.”

“Well, you’ve heard the theory. And I have quite a marvelous anecdote, but as yet I have not thought how an actual proof of the theory might be managed. ‘

“You say you have a marvelous anecdote? Tell it to me, by all means.”

“Well, it was quite the most interesting thing I’d seen during my years as a Navy surgeon. I’m surprised I hadn’t told you of it before. I haven’t, have I? The fellow who had the top of his head blown off?”