“Yet by now, the disease has shown itself in those infected, for as I recall the incubation period is quite short.”
“It usually runs twenty-four to thirty-six hours, but it may be prolonged to as many as four days, depending on a variety of factors, including which subgroup of the cholera organism is responsible. According to the experts I spoke with, their incubation period is unpredictable, and so is their viciousness.”
“Do we know which subtype is present in the Eton outbreak?”
“The bacteriologist will have to determine that feature. But whatever the subtype, it appears to be one which is particularly nasty.”
“Based on what?”
“The fact that there have already been two deaths associated with it.”
5Albert Dubose
Approaching the hospital room of Albert Dubose the following morning, we were greeted by the noxious smell of rotting tissue. We had been forewarned by the specialist caring for the patient, but the unpleasant odor was so strong that it could not be masked by a heavy dose of deodorant that was also in the air. The poor man was suffering from a bedsore which had now reached the necrotic stage. These sores, also referred to as decubitus ulcers, are localized injuries to the skin and underlying tissue caused by sustained pressure to the area, usually over a bony prominence. They are not uncommon in paralyzed individuals who are confined to wheelchairs. In Mr. Dubose, the bedsore was located on his buttock and was resistant to all forms of treatment. As a last resort, his physician was now treating the open wound with maggots.
“It is an archaic type of therapy that has been passed down through the ages, but it can work remarkably well,” my father explained. “It is a quite simple procedure in which live larvae of maggots are inserted into a dressing that is firmly placed upon the open wound. The breeding maggots feed only on the dead tissue and this thoroughly debrides the ulcer and allows for healing.”
“How long does this treatment last?” I asked.
“Two to three days usually suffices.”
On entering the small room, we were warmly received by Albert Dubose who was propped up and lying on his side in a rather large bed. “Ah, Dr. Watson and his son, I presume.”
“Indeed we are,” replied my father.
“Welcome then, and please forgive the unpleasant surroundings that at this moment are so unavoidable.” Even under the sheets we could discern that Dubose was a short, thin man, with obviously shriveled legs. His face was narrow and pale, with a carefully trimmed black beard and goatee. As he attempted to prop himself up further, he called over to his manservant, “Bikram, lend a hand if you will.”
The tall, well-built Sikh hurried over and effortlessly lifted his master from the mattress, then gently rested him down. The manservant was close to six feet in height, with quite broad shoulders and dark skin that was highlighted by the white turban and uniform he wore.
“Thank you,” Dubose said, and remained lying on his side so as not to put pressure on his bandaged bedsore. “Allow me to introduce my trusted aide, Bikram. He came to my assistance at the Battle of Kandahar, and without his courage and devotion I can assure you I would not be alive today.”
Bikram showed no response to his master’s praise. He continued to stand tall and motionless, like a stone statue in the corner of a museum. But his eyes never left Albert Dubose.
“So, Watson,” Dubose went on, “my brother tells me you too soldiered in Afghanistan.”
“I did indeed,” my father replied. “I was an assistant surgeon attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and was ordered to report to my regiment which at the time was stationed in India. But before I could join them, the Second Afghan War had broken out. On landing in Bombay, I discovered that my corps had advanced through the passes and was already deep in enemy territory. I of course followed and succeeded in reaching Kandahar, where I found my regiment.” My father paused as his mind appeared to go back decades in time. “Shortly after my arrival in Kandahar, I was removed from my brigade and attached to the Berkshires, with whom I served at the tragic Battle of Maiwand. That campaign brought honors and glory to many, but for me it held nothing but pain and misfortune.”
“Although not involved, I recall it well,” Dubose reminisced. “The battle was mismanaged and a total disaster, with some of the brigades losing over half of their men.”
My father nodded slowly. “The Berkshire regiment itself lost nearly three hundred. It was there that I was struck by a jezail bullet which shattered bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I survived only because my orderly Murray threw me across a pack horse and succeeded in bringing me safely back to the British line.”
Dubose nodded in return. “You had your Murray, I my Bikram.”
“It required months and months for me to convalesce, but my health was never the same and to this very day I am still reminded of the jezail bullet.”
“And I paid an even dearer price at the Battle of Kandahar. It was there, where my corps, the Ninety-Second Highlander, was storming the village of Gundi Mulla Sahibdad, that an Afghan bullet pierced my spine and left me paralyzed from the waist down. Were it not for Bikram, who fought at my side and carried me to safety, my dried bones would still be baking in the Afghan desert.”
“Such a terrible price,” my father lamented.
“Of which I am reminded on a daily basis,” Dubose said, then waved a hand as if dismissing the memory. “But enough of old war stories. Let us talk of the vandalized Cézanne that I suspect is the true purpose of your visit.”
“Did your brother so inform you?” asked my father.
Dubose smiled thinly. “He believes you came to reminisce over our soldiering days, for he, like most jewelers,
