The Amazing Dr. Darwin
by Charles Sheffield
To Dutch, Sally, Patty, and Nancy— where this began.
INTRODUCTION
In these degenerate times when lawyers rule the world, most works of fiction are preceded by a nervous disclaimer that runs roughly as follows: “All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.”
That cannot be considered one of the more exciting parts of the plot, and most people probably do not read it. The statement is there to discourage libel and defamation suits. I doubt that it helps. Like garlic against vampires, the disclaimer sounds comforting, but it never works when you really need it.
In this book I faced a different problem. Erasmus Darwin was undeniably a living, breathing human being, but his accomplishments were so substantial and diverse that it is difficult to portray him in fiction without being accused of painting him larger than life.
I do not think I have done that. If anything, I have understated the man. In breadth of interests, inventiveness, acquaintances (from King George III to Coleridge to James Watt to Ben Franklin), and human kindness, Darwin bestrode his age. He is arguably the greatest eighteenth century Englishman, a better candidate for that title than Chatham, Pitt the Younger, Pope, Sam Johnson, Marlborough, Priestley, Cavendish, or any other figure in the arts or sciences.
The claim is a large one. In an appendix to this book I have sought to support it, and at the same time drawn a dividing line between the facts and the fiction of each story. If you, like me, tend to read a book from the back forward, be warned: Statements contained in the Appendix reveal plot elements of each story.
On the other hand, if you are such a person, it is already too late. You will be reading this Introduction last of all. I hope that you enjoyed the stories.
—Charles Sheffield
THE DEVIL OF MALKIRK
The spring evening was warm and still, and the sound of conversation carried far along the path from the open window of the house. It was enough to make the man walking the gravel surface hesitate, then turn his steps onto the lawn. He walked silently across the well trimmed grass to the bay window, stooped, and peered through a gap in the curtains. A few moments more, and he returned to the path and entered the open door of the house.
Ignoring the servant waiting there, he turned left and went at once into the dining room. He looked steadily around him, while the conversation at the long table gradually died down.
“Dr. Darwin?” His voice was gruff and formal.
The eight men seated at dinner were silent for a moment, assessing the stranger. He was tall and gaunt, with a dark, sallow complexion. Long years of intense sunlight had stamped a permanent frown across his brow, and a slight, continuous trembling of his hands spoke of other legacies of foreign disease. He returned the stares in silence.
After a few seconds one of the seated men pushed his chair back from the table.
“I am Erasmus—Darwin.” The slight hesitation as he pronounced his name suggested a stammer more than any kind of contrived pause. “Who are you, and what is your business here?”
The speaker had risen to his feet as he spoke. He stepped forward, and was revealed as grossly overweight, with heavy limbs and a fat, pockmarked face. He stood motionless, calmly awaiting the intruder’s reply.
“Jacob Pole, at your service,” said the stranger. Despite the warmth of the April evening he was wearing a grey scarf of knitted wool, which he tightened now around his neck. “Colonel Jacob Pole of Lichfield. You and I are far afield tonight, Dr. Darwin, but we are neighbors. My house is no more than two miles from yours. You provided medication once, to my wife and to my young daughter. As for my business, it is not of my choosing and I fear it may be a bad one. I am here to ask your urgent assistance on a medical matter at Bailey’s Farm, not half a mile from this house.”
There was a chorus of protesting voices from the table. A thin-faced man who wore no wig stood up and stepped closer.
“Colonel Pole, this is my house. I will forgive your entry to it uninvited and unannounced, since we understand that medical urgencies must banish formalities. But you interrupt more than a dinner among friends. I am Matthew Boulton, and tonight the Lunar Society meets here on serious matters. Mr. Priestley is visiting from Calne to tell of his latest researches on the new air. He is well begun, but by no means finished. Can your business wait an hour?”
Jacob Pole stood up straighter than ever. “If disease could be made to wait, I would do the same. As it is…” He turned to Darwin again. “I am no more than a messenger here, one who happened to be dining with Will Bailey. I have come at the request of Dr. Monkton, to ask your immediate assistance.”
There was another outcry from those still seated at the table. “Monkton! Monkton asking for assistance? Never heard of such a thing.”
“Forget it, ’Rasmus! Sit back down and try this rhubarb pie.”
“If it’s Monkton,” said a soberly dressed man on the right hand side of the table, “then the patient is as good as dead. He’s no doctor, he’s an executioner. Come on, Colonel Pole, take a glass of claret and sit down with us. We meet too infrequently to relish a disturbance.”
Erasmus Darwin waved him to silence. “Steady, Josiah, I know your views of Dr. Monkton.” He turned full face to Pole, to show a countenance where the front teeth had long been lost from the full mouth. The jaw was jowly and in need of a razor. Only the eyes belied the impression of coarseness and past disease. They were grey and patient, with a look of deep sagacity and profound power of observation.
“Forgive our jests,” he said. “This is an old issue here. Dr. Monkton has not been one to ask my advice on disease, no matter what the circumstance. What does he want now?”
The outcry came again. “He’s a pompous old windbag.”
“Killer Monkton—don’t let him lay a finger on you.”
“I wouldn’t let him touch you, not if you want to live.”
Pole had been staring furiously about him while the men at the table mocked Monkton’s medical skills. He ignored the glass held out toward him, and a scar across the left side of his forehead was showing a flush of red.
“I might share your opinion of Dr. Monkton,” he said curtly. “However, I would extend that view to all doctors. They kill far more than they cure. As for you gentlemen, and Dr. Darwin here, if you all prefer your eating and drinking to the saving of life, I cannot change those priorities.”
He turned to glare at Darwin. “My message is simple. I will give it and leave. Dr. Monkton asks me to say three things: that he has a man at Bailey’s Farm who is critically ill; that already the facies of death are showing; and that he would like you”—he leaned forward to make it a matter between him and Darwin alone—“to come and see that patient. If you will not do it, I will go back and so inform Dr. Monkton.”
“No.” Darwin sighed. “Colonel Pole, our rudeness to you was unforgivable, but there was a reason for it. These meetings of the Society are the high point of our month, and animal spirits sometimes drive us to exceed the proprieties. Give me a moment to call for my greatcoat and we will be on our way. My friends have told you their opinions of Dr. Monkton, and I must confess I am eager to see his patient. In my years of practice between here and Lichfield, Dr. Monkton and I have crossed paths many times—but never has he sought my advice on a medical matter. We are of very different schools, for both diagnosis and treatment.”