The Bedlam Detective

tragedy, exulted in the possibility that he might still achieve something of the scientific purpose of the expedition.

But when the case was recovered, everything inside proved to be smashed or damaged in some way.

“Ruined,” I heard him say. “All ruined.”

That night some animal moved through the jungle close to our camp, smashing and breaking trees. We reached for our remaining guns and leapt to our feet. But as much as we did not want to leave the light of our campfire, the intruder did not wish to approach it and we were spared a confrontation.

The next morning we contemplated its wide trail, and two of the camaradas set out to follow it. Sir Owain called me over and asked for my thoughts.

I said, “There’s no single animal of such a size. Not in this jungle. Unless the rumors are true and the Megatherium survives.”

“Megatherium?” he said. “Never heard of it. Is it a dinosaur?”

“No,” I said. “It’s one of the largest mammals ever known. Believed to have been extinct for over five thousand years, but some say that the Amazon basin is vast enough and wild enough for some areas of its ancient habitat to survive unchanged.”

“Herbivore or carnivore?”

“Herbivore,” I said. “The Megatherium’s stance was like a bear’s, but it was the size and weight of a bull elephant.”

He nodded, and kicked thoughtfully at the trampled ground, and then looked at all the stalks and branches that the creature had broken in passing.

“That could have done it, all right,” he said.

“Could have,” I said. “If one even exists.”

“What do you think, Somerville? What if a man could bag such a beast and drag it home?”

He was serious. I thought for a moment that he was speaking hypothetically, but he was not.

I said, “Owain. Look at what’s been lost. Forget about your standing and your reputation for once. We’ll be lucky if we all survive.”

He narrowed his eyes and looked at me. With the manner of a man who is judging what he’s looking at, and thinking little of what he sees.

He said, “Don’t make me regret bringing you along, Doctor Somerville. You can be such an old woman sometimes.”

The two camaradas did not return. I have no idea why, and nor did anyone else. I don’t believe that they ran away. It made no sense for them to leave the boats. Without the river there was little chance of crossing this jungle and surviving the journey.

Sir Owain talked about going after them, not for the sake of the men but for the beast they’d followed. If he could not bag it alive, he’d have a trophy. I could see that he’d begun to look for some outcome, any outcome, that might save his face and justify his losses on our return to civilization. He was probably writing the Royal Society speech in his head. My dear lost colleagues and loyal servants, I mourn them all; and I dedicate this triumph to their memory.

Meanwhile, his son had begun to suffer painful eruptions on his bare legs. Though he’d dubbed me the party’s physician, Sir Owain had now started to behave to me as he behaved to all critics, by sending the odd sarcastic shot in my direction (“We might have some tea, if Doctor Somerville doesn’t think it too dangerous,”) but otherwise choosing largely to ignore my existence. He said to his son, “It’s just bug bites, boy. Get some lotion on them and stop your complaining,” and so the boy came to me on his own.

He stood by me and said, “Excuse me, sir,” and I hadn’t the heart to let the rocking horse incident color my response.

I’d heard the conversation with his father and so I said, “Hello, Simon. Need something for those bites?”

“Father’s told me to get some lotion.”

I looked at his legs. I saw no bug bites. Just infected scratches. In these conditions he should have been in long trousers from the beginning, regardless of youth and social convention.

“Let’s see what there is for you,” I said.

There was nothing. Someone had been at my kit, and anything that might have been useful was gone. The boy was watching me now, and I didn’t want to turn him away without at least making some effort to help him.

Then I had an inspiration and took out my hip flask. I soaked a pad in neat navy rum, and said, “Some of those wounds are quite raw, so I can tell you this will sting. But in a good way. Have you been scratching them?”

“A little,” he admitted.

“I know,” I said, “it’s hard not to. We’ll bind them up to stop them itching and give them a chance to heal.”

I swabbed his wounds with the rum, which I know must have hurt, but he remained stoical and barely made a sound. Then I tore up some linen and bound his legs in makeshift puttees. They probably wouldn’t help with the itching, but they would protect his legs and prevent him from making the scratches worse.

For the rest of the day he followed me around, offering to help with whatever job I was doing.

Disaster struck again the next morning, within an hour of continuing our journey. Our river merged with a second, faster torrent, and our pilot boat was capsized in the crosscurrent. Sir Owain, his wife, his son, the Indian, the astronomer, and two of our surveyors were dumped into the foam, along with the paddle crew. The boat was lost, but all swam to safety, or were rescued.

Which in itself would have been a comparatively happy outcome, had the boy not been dragged from the shallows unconscious. A first examination found no visible harm. But when his shirt was opened, a spreading contusion under the skin below his ribs signaled some profound hidden injury.

We were crouched on the riverbank beside the child. Sir Owain had his arms around his wife, who was holding the boy’s hand.

Sir Owain said, “What treatment can you recommend?”

I do not think that I have ever felt so helpless as I did in that moment. I said, “None that wouldn’t risk doing a lot more harm.”

“Nothing is impossible for a resourceful man,” Sir Owain said.

At which point I lost all restraint.

“You call on your resources and conjure me a hospital, then,” I said, “and I’ll give you any treatment you’re looking for. What do you imagine you’ve done, here, Owain? You’ve cut us off from all that’s civilized.”

“Please, Somerville.”

“There’s bleeding inside. All I can hope to do is drain it and hope that he bleeds no more.”

He said, “I’ve every confidence in you.”

“Then it’s misplaced!” I shouted. “I’ll do my best, but I’m no surgeon. No more of your sunny reassurances, Owain. We’re up against it now.”

We set up one of our two remaining tents and draped our last net to keep the insects out. I went around all the camaradas to see who had the sharpest knife. I sent some of the Indians out to search for leaves and bark with reputed healing properties. Everyone was looking at me as if I had some idea of what I was doing. I did not. I had these few materials and the hope, with no belief, that I might do some small measure of good with them.

My ignorance was medieval. All I could offer were the rituals of medical attention, with no significant expertise at the heart of it. I turned the unconscious child onto his side and made a cut to let out the blood, which came out thick and dark, and very slowly. When that stopped I placed him on his back and applied the healing poultice to the wound.

I feared to see him moved. But I could foresee no good outcome if we did not get him into the hands of someone more skilled.

I left him with his parents and went and sat by the river. I felt despair. After a while Sir Owain emerged from the tent and came over to me.

“He opened his eyes and spoke my name,” he said. “I do believe he’s stronger already. Well done, man.” And he clapped me on the shoulder.