Chapter 25: Experiments

“‘The scientific method,’ Thomas Henry Huxley once wrote, ‘is nothing but the normal working of the human mind.’ That is to say, when the mind is working; that is to say further, when it is engaged in correcting its mistakes. Taking this point of view, we may conclude that science is not physics, biology, or chemistry — is not even a ‘subject’ — but a moral imperative drawn from a larger narrative whose purpose is to give perspective, balance, and humility to learning.”

— Neil Postman, The End of Education: Redefining the Value of School (1995). Originally published by Alfred A. Knopf. Copyright © 1995 Neil Postman. All rights reserved.

The first thing Theophilus Ashcombe did after he had his hypothesis about the samples of blood he had been given. Clearly, there were healing properties to the liquid, but did it need to be applied to the wound only or could it be consumed? There were internal wounds, infection, or cancer.

He supposed that it would not matter, and while he could test this on himself by harming himself over and over, there was no promise that he could not build up an immunity to the cure, so he would need subjects.

To this end, Ashcombe began writing letters to the local hospitals and encouraged them to move their patients with the least chances of survival to the medical wing of the university for study, for the testing of a tincture that could have positive healing qualities.

While he did not understand how the blood worked, he could find out. This would also give him the opportunity to come up with a cover that they might yet accept. After all, since Ashcombe did not fully know the origins of what Silas had given him, he did not know what the compound was, and that left holes in the explanations that he could give.

With so little, he could not hope to test it on rats and hope that he would have enough to give to potential human subjects. This could be a medical breakthrough that might mean a lot for Dreibruch in such a little time. He had to act.

The Dreibruch medical wing had been built with lofty and expectant aspirations and entirely insufficient funding.

Even with the recent expansion (financed in no small part by the generosity of Silas Wolcott), there remained an austerity to the place that no amount of polished wood or brass fixtures could fully conceal. Money to help build a facility was a start. One would need to make medical breakthroughs to receive funding from other benefactors. Once more the politics of one millionaire was not enough to effect the change that Ashcombe knew the world needed.

Outside of the building, sleet whispered against the windows in thin scratching patterns.

Inside, suffering waited patiently in its sterility and promise for true change.

Dean Theophilus Ashcombe stood near the receiving chamber as attendants hurried through the hall with a wheeled cot. Upon it lay a woman no older than twenty-five, though hardship and rural labor had added years where nature had not intended them.

Her name was Margaret Whitlock.

She was terribly pale despite likely having a light tan from being out in the sun. In a way, he was glad that she might be one of his major patients. He had heard of farmers taking wives as young as thirteen because once she bled, it meant she was altogether fertile, so she could have eight children in her lifetime to help run the farm.

In Ashcombe’s mind, there was such a thing as too young of a partner. In her mid-twenties, that would be an ideal patient, and she was an adult, so his qualms about what he might do felt easier.

He observed that she had dark auburn hair clinging damply to her forehead while her breathing came in weak, shallow intervals. He was writing this down on a fresh notepad because she would be the first major use of the compound. One hand rested instinctively over the swollen curve of her stomach as though she could physically shield the child within from whatever doom stalked the difficulties of childbirth in the nineteenth century.

Beside the cot walked a tall, gaunt physician in a weatherworn coat.

Dr. Abraham Ohmstein removed his gloves with visible agitation.

“She vas stable two days ago,” he said, exhaustion roughening his voice. “Then de weakness worsened. Dizzy spells. Bleeding gums. Shortness of breath. Her mudder also died during childbirth, yes? Her grandmudder as vell.”

Theophilus nodded gravely, taking note of all that was said.

“Your letter mentioned hereditary complications, yes, Doctor. This is helpful to the research.”

“Yes, of course,” Ohmstein muttered bitterly. “But unhelpful to her and her family if she does not live, ya?”

From further down the corridor came the measured approach of another man.

Dr. Wilhelm Kaufman carried himself with the erect posture of military discipline despite the late hour. His beard was touched heavily with iron-gray streaks, and his sharp eyes moved across Margaret with immediate clinical assessment even through his round eye-glasses.

“Move her carefully,” he instructed the attendants in his thick accent. “If she begins hemorrhaging before delivery, ve may already be too late to save her and ze baby.”

The attendants obeyed instantly.

Unlike Ashcombe, who inspired reverence through intellect, Kaufman inspired obedience through certainty. He was as precise as Ashcombe had come to know through his notes. Kaufman led the medical section of the school but lectured rarely. Medical breakthroughs were far more necessary than teaching because the discoveries could be taught by anyone who was capable of teaching, but making those discoveries required a disciplined mind like Kaufman.

Theophilus stepped beside him.

“What is your assessment?”

Kaufman pressed cold fingers briefly against Margaret’s wrist.

“Pulse is weak. Skin cold. Breathing shallow.” His jaw tightened. “She has maybe two hours before labor begins naturally. Maybe less.”

Ohmstein removed his spectacles and rubbed tiredly at his eyes.

“In de countryside, dere vould be no hope at all,” he admitted quietly. “Your letters hinted that Dreibruch possessed more experimental methods.”

Theophilus exchanged the briefest glance with Kaufman.

Experimental was one word for it, surely, but while Kaufman did not know the lengths of what Ashcombe was doing, he was willing to take a chance on the Dean because they both shared a fervor for results that could lead to the betterment of the science.