CURARÉ
“Who’s there?” cried Alpheus Briggs, astonished and afraid. He faced
toward the front hall. “What’s wanted?”
A tapping at his window-pane, with eager knuckles, drew his attention.
He heard a woman’s voice—the voice of Laura Maynard:
“Here’s Hal! Let us in; quick, _quick_!”
“Hal?” cried the old man, turning very white. That evil had indeed come
to him was certain now. He strode to his desk, dropped the revolver
into the top drawer and closed it, then crossed over to the window
and raised the shade. The face of Laura, with disheveled hair and
fear-widened eyes, was peering in at him. Briggs flung the window up.
“Where is he, Laura? What’s happened? Who’s here with him?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you, captain!” she whispered. He saw her trembling;
he noted those big, terror-stricken eyes, and thrilled with panic.
From the front door sounded a confused bass murmur; and again the bell
sounded. “Men from the store,” she gulped, “Jim Gordon and others.
They’re—”
“They’re what, Laura? Bringing Hal back home?”
She nodded silently. He thought he had never seen a woman so pale.
“Captain, let them in!” she cried. “I’ve got to tell you. Hal—is
injured. Open the door, quick! Get Dr. Filhiol!”
Everything else forgotten now, the captain turned, precipitated himself
into the hall and snatched open the front door. Gusts of rain and wind
tugged at him, flapping his bath robe. For a moment, not understanding
anything, he stood peering out at what was all a blur of perfectly
incomprehensible confusion. His fear-stricken eyes and brain failed to
register any clear perception. A second or two, he neither heard nor
saw. Then he became aware that some one—Jim Gordon, yes—was saying:
“We done the best we could, cap’n. Got him here as fast as we could.
We’ll bring him right in.”
The captain saw something white out there on the dark, wet porch. In
the midst of this whiteness a form was visible—and now the old man
perceived a face; Hal’s face—and what, for God’s sake, was all this
crimson stain?
He plunged forward, thrusting the men aside. A lantern swung, and he
saw clearly.
“God above! They’ve—they’ve murdered him!”
“No, cap’n, he ain’t dead yit,” said some one, “but you’d better git
him ’tended to, right snug off.”
Old Briggs was on his knees now gathering the lax figure to his arms.
“Hal! Hal!”
“Shhh!” exclaimed Gordon. “No use makin’ a touse, cap’n. He’s cut some,
that’s a fact, but—”
“Who killed my boy?” cried the old man, terrible to look upon. “Who did
this thing?”
“Captain Briggs,” said Laura tremulously, as she pulled at his sleeve,
“you mustn’t waste a minute! Not a second! He’s got to be put right to
bed. We’ve got to get a doctor now!”
“Here, cap’n, we’ll carry him in, fer ye,” spoke up Shorrocks. “Git up,
cap’n, an’ we’ll lug him right in the front room.”
“Nobody shall carry my boy into this house but just his grandfather!”
cried the captain in a loud, strange voice.
The old-time strength of Alpheus Briggs surged back. His arms, that
felt no weakness now, gathered up Hal as in the old days they had
caught him when a child. Into the house he bore him, with the others
following; into the cabin, and so to the berth. The boy’s head, hanging
limp, rested against the old man’s arm, tensed with supreme effort. The
crimson stain from the grandson’s breast tinged the grandsire’s. Down
in the berth the captain laid him, and, raising his head, entreated:
“Hal, boy! Speak to me—speak!”
Gordon laid a hand on his shoulder.
“It ain’t no use, cap’n,” said he. “He’s too fur gone.” With a muffled
clumping of feet the others, dripping, awed, silent, trickled into
the room. Laura had already run up-stairs, swift-footed, in quest of
Dr. Filhiol. “It ain’t no use. Though mebbe if we was to git a little
whisky into him—”
“Hal! Master Hal!” wailed a voice of agony. Old Ezra, ghastly and
disheveled, appeared in the doorway. He would have run to the berth,
but Shorrocks held him back.
“You can’t do no good, Ez!” he growled. “He’s gotta have air—don’t you
go crowdin’ now!”
The shuffling of lame feet announced Dr. Filhiol. Laura, still in her
drenched long coat, helped him move swiftly. Calkins shoved up a chair
for him beside the berth, and the old doctor dropped into it.
“A light here!” commanded he, with sudden return of professional
instinct and authority. Laura threw off her coat, seized the lamp from
its swinging-ring over the desk, and held it close. Its shine revealed
the pallor of her face, the great beauty of her eyes, the soul of her
that seemed made visible in their compassionate depths, where dwelt an
infinite forgiveness.
“You’ll have to stand back, captain,” ordered the doctor succinctly.
“You’re only smothering him that way, holding him in your arms; and you
must _not_ kiss him! Lay him down—so! Ezra, stop that noise! Give me
scissors or a knife, quick!”
Speaking, the doctor was already at work. With the sharp blade that
Calkins passed him he cut away the blood-soaked bandage and threw it
to the floor. His old hands did not tremble now; the call of duty had
steeled his muscles with instinctive reactions. His eyes, narrowed
behind their spectacles, made careful appraisal.
“Deep stab-wound,” said he. “How did he get this? Any one know anything
about it?”
“He got it in the cabin of the _Kittiwink_,” answered Laura.
“Everything was smashed up there. It looked to me as if Hal had fought
three or four men.”
“McLaughlin’s!” cried the captain. His fists clenched passionately.
“Oh, God! They’ve murdered my boy! Is he going to die, Filhiol? Is he?”
“That’s impossible to say. We’ll need plenty of hot water here, and
soap and peroxide. Towels, lots of them! Ezra, you hear me? Get your
local doctor at once. And have him bring his surgical kit as well as
his medical. Tell him it’s a deep stab, with great loss of blood. Get a
move on, somebody!”
Ezra, Gordon and Calkins departed. The front door slammed, feet ran
across the porch, then down the steps and away.
“Everybody else go, too,” directed Filhiol. “We can’t have outsiders
messing round here. Get out, all the rest of you—and mind now you
don’t go making any loose talk about who did it!”
Silently the fishermen obeyed. A minute, and no one was left in the
cabin save old Briggs, Filhiol and Laura, gathered beside the wounded,
immobile figure in the berth.
“How long will it take to get your local doctor?” demanded Filhiol,
inspecting the wound that still oozed bright, frothy blood, showing the
lung to be involved in the injury.
“Ten minutes, perhaps,” said Laura.
“H-m! There’s no time to lose here.”
“Is he going to die?” asked the old captain, his voice now firm. He
had grown calm again; only his lips were very tight, and under the
lamp-glow his forehead gleamed with myriad tiny drops. “Is this boy of
mine going to die?”
“How can I tell? Why ask?”
“If he does, I won’t survive him! That’s the simple truth.”
“H-m!” grunted Filhiol, once more. He cast an oblique glance at the
captain. And in that second he realized that the thought, which had
been germinating in his brain, could lead him nowhere; the thought
that now his wish had really come to pass—that Hal was really now his
patient, as he had wished the boy might be. He knew, now, that even
though he could so far forget his ethics as to fail in his whole duty
toward Hal Briggs, the captain held an unconscious whip-hand over him.
Just those few simple words, spoken from the soul—”I won’t survive
him”—had closed the doors of possibility for a great crime.
Ezra came in with a steaming basin, with soap and many towels.
“Put those on this chair here,” commanded Filhiol. “And then either
keep perfectly quiet, or get out and stay out!”
Cowed, the old man tremblingly obliterated himself in the shadow
behind the desk. The doctor began a little superficial cleaning up of
his patient. Hal had still shown no signs of consciousness, nor had
he opened his eyes. Yet the fact was, he remained entirely conscious.
Everything that was said he heard and understood. But the paralysis
gripping him had made of him a thing wherein no slightest power lay to
indicate his thought, or understanding. Alive, yet dead, he lay there,
much as the _amok_ Malay of fifty years before had lain upon the deck
of the _Silver Fleece_. And all his vital forces now had narrowed to
just one effort—to keep heart and lungs in laboring action.
Little by little the invading poison was attacking even this last
citadel of his life. Little by little, heart and lungs were failing, as
the _curaré_ fingered its way into the last, inner nerve-centers. But
still life fought. And as the doctor bent above Hal, washing away the
blood from lips and throat and chest, a half-instinctive analysis of
the situation forced itself upon him. This wound, these symptoms—well,
what other diagnosis would apply?
“There’s something more at work here,” thought he, “than just loss of
blood. This man could stand a deal of that and still not be in any such
collapse. There’s poison of some kind at work. And if this wound isn’t
the cut of a kris, I never saw one!”
He raised one eyelid, and peered at the pupil. Then he closed the eye
again.
“By the Almighty!” he whispered.
“What is it, doctor?” demanded the captain. “Don’t keep anything from
me!”
“I hate to tell you!”
The old man caught his breath, but never flinched.
“Tell me!” he commanded. Laura peered in silence, very white. “I can
stand it. Tell me all there is to tell!”
“Well, captain, from what I find here—there can be no doubt—”
“No doubt of what?”
“The blade that stabbed Hal was—”
“That poisoned kris?”
Filhiol nodded silently.
“God above! The curse—retribution!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, captain, drop all that nonsense!” flared
out the doctor from taut nerves. “This is no time for your infernal
superstitions! We’ve got all we can handle without cluttering things up
with a mess of rubbish. We’ve got a long, hard fight on our hands.”
“I know. But you can save him, doctor! You must!”
“I’ll do all in human power. This wound here I’m not in a position to
deal with. Your local doctor can attend to that. It isn’t the vital
feature of this case. The poison is!”
“You’ve got a remedy for that, haven’t you? You said you had!”
“Do you realize it’s been an hour, perhaps, since this wound was
made? If the _curaré_ had been fresh and new—” He finished with an
expressive gesture. “It’s old and dried, and some of it must have been
worn off the blade. Perhaps, not a great deal got into the cut. There’s
a chance, a fighting chance—perhaps.”
“Then the remedy! Quick, doctor! Get it, make it!”
“I’ve got to wait till the physician comes. I’ve got no drugs with me.”
“Will he have the right ones?”
“They’re common enough. It all depends on the formula, the exact
mixture.”
“You remember them?”
“Maybe I can, if you don’t disturb my mind too much.”
“I’ll be quiet, doctor. You just order me, and I’ll do anything you
say,” the old man promised abjectly. His eyes were cavernous with
suffering. “Lord God! why don’t Dr. Marsh come?”
“Hal here is suffering from a general paralysis,” said Filhiol. “This
_curaré_ is peculiar stuff.” He laid his ear to Hal’s chest, listened a
moment, then raised his head. “There’s some heart-action yet,” said he.
“Our problem is to keep it going, and the respiration, till the effects
pass. It’s quite possible Hal isn’t unconscious. He may know what’s
going on. With this poison the victim feels and knows and understands,
and yet can’t move hand or foot. In fact, he’s reduced to complete
helplessness.”
“And yet you call me superstitious when I talk retribution!” the
captain whispered tensely. “I lived by force in the old days. He,
poor boy, put all his faith and trust in it; he made it his God, and
worshipped it. And now—he’s struck down, helpless—”
“It _is_ strange,” Filhiol had to admit. “I don’t believe in anything
like that. But certainly this is very, very strange. Yes, your grandson
is more helpless now than any child. Even if he lives, he’ll be
helpless for a long time, and very weak for months and months. This
kind of _curaré_ used by the upper Malay people is the most diabolical
stuff ever concocted. Its effects are swift and far-reaching; they last
a long, long time, in case they don’t kill at once. Hal can never be
the same man he used to be, captain. You’ve got to make up your mind to
that, anyhow.”
“Thank the Lord for it!” the old man fervently ejaculated. “Thank the
good Lord above!”
“If he lives, he may sometime get back a fair amount of strength. He
may be as well as an average man, but the days of his unbridled power
and his terrific force are all over. His fighting heart and arrogant
soul are gone, never to return.”
“God is being very good to me!” cried Briggs, tears starting down his
wrinkled cheeks.
“Amen to that!” said Laura. “I don’t care what he’ll be, doctor. Only
give him back to me!”
“He’ll be an invalid a very long time, girl.”
“And all that time I can nurse him and love him back to health!”
Footsteps suddenly clattered on the porch. The front door flung open.
“Laura! Are you all right? Are you safe?” cried a new voice.
“There’s my father!” exclaimed the girl. “And there’s Dr. Marsh, with
him!”
Into the cabin penetrated two men. Nathaniel Maynard—thin, gray,
wiry—stood staring. The physician, brisk and competent, set his bag on
a chair and peeled off his coat, dripping rain.
“Laura! Tell me—”
“Not now, father! Shhh! I’m all right, every way. But Hal here—”
“We won’t have any unnecessary conversation, Mr. Maynard,” directed Dr.
Marsh. He approached the berth. “What is this, now? Stab-wound? Ah,
yes. Well, I’ll wash right up and get to work.”
“Do, please,” answered Filhiol. “You can handle it alone, all right.
I’ve got a job of my own. There’s poisoning present, too. _Curaré._”
“_Curaré!_” exclaimed Marsh, amazed. “That’s most unusual! Are you
sure?”
“I didn’t serve on ships in the Orient, for nothing,” answered Filhiol
with asperity. “My diagnosis is absolute. There was dried _curaré_ on
the blade that stabbed this man. It’s a very complex poison—either
C_{18}H_{35}N, or C_{10}H_{35}N. Only one man, Sir Robert Schomburg,
ever found out how the natives make it, and only one man—myself—ever
learned the secret of the antidote.”
“So, so?” commented Marsh, rolling up his shirt-sleeve. He set out
antiseptics, dressings, pads, drainage, and proceeded to scrub up.
“We can’t do this work here in the berth. Clear the desk, Ezra,” he
directed. “It’s long enough for an operating-table. Make up a bed
there—a few blankets and a clean sheet. Then we can lift him over.
We’ll strip his chest as he lies—cut the clothes off. Lively, every
one! _Curaré_, eh? I never came in contact with it, Dr. Filhiol. I’m
not above asking its physiological effects.”
“It’s unique,” answered Filhiol. He got up from beside the wounded
man and approached the chair on which stood the doctor’s bag. “It
produces a type of pure motor-paralysis, acting on the end plates of
the muscles and the peripheral end-organs of the motor-nerves. First
it attacks the voluntary muscles, and then those of respiration. It
doesn’t cause unconsciousness, however. The patient here may know all
that’s going on, but he can’t make a sign. Don’t trust to this apparent
unconsciousness in exploring the wound. Give plenty of anesthetic, just
as if he seemed fully conscious.”
“Glad you told me that,” said Marsh, nodding. “How about stimulants, or
even a little nitroglycerine for the heart?”
“Useless. There’s just one remedy.”
“And you’ve got it?”
“I can compound it, I think. It’s a secret, given me fifty years ago by
a Parsee in Bombay. He’d have lost his life for having given it, if it
had been known. Let me have some of your drugs, will you?”
“Help yourself,” answered Marsh, drying his hands.
While Laura and the captain watched in silence, Filhiol opened the bag,
and after some deliberation chose three vials.
“All right,” said he. “Now you to your work, and I to mine!”
“Got everything you need?”
“I’ll want a hypodermic when I come back—if I succeed in compounding
the formula.”
“How long will you be?”
“If I’m _very_ long—” His look finished the phrase. Laura came close
to Filhiol.
“Doctor,” she whispered, her face tense with terrible earnestness. “You
_must_ remember the formula. You can’t fail! There’s more than Hal’s
life at stake, now. The captain—you’ve got to save him!”
“And you, too! Your happiness—that is to say, your life!” the old
man answered, laying a hand on hers. “I understand it all, dear. All,
perfectly. I needn’t tell you more than that!”
He turned toward the door.
“Captain Briggs, sir,” said he, “I was with you in the old days, and
I’m with you now—all the way through. Courage, and don’t give up the
ship!”