The merchant ship we boarded creaked and groaned as it sliced through the waves just as it had on our journey out. The fierce sea breeze carried a briny tang that clung unpleasantly, yet remained invigorating all the same. Especially with the panoramic view of London now unfolding before our eyes.
That thick black smoke...
Even after wintering in Paris, March in London remained bitterly cold. The factory smoke was bad enough, but household chimneys belched out just as much filth.
'Hundreds must be dying from the air alone.'
At first I thought "only hundreds?" but quickly caught myself. Nineteenth-century humans were far hardier than my modern sensibilities accounted for. The recent cholera outbreak proved that.
IV fluids?
They'd administered rudimentary oral rehydration solutions, yet mortality stayed below 10%. Normally cholera killed 40-50%, and with medical infrastructure collapsed, it should've been worse. These were already malnourished people to begin with.
'Maybe dozens?'
That they survived at all despite starving conditions...
"What's on your mind?"
"Ah... just... it's been a while."
"A long while indeed. I've sent letters detailing everything, so our medical college should show some changes by now."
"What kind of changes?"
"The miasma theory, for one."
"Ah."
My conversation with Liston shifted my thoughts. Would things really change? Probably somewhat, at least at our college. Even if nothing had changed yet, it would once Liston arrived.
But what about elsewhere?
'White phosphorus match factories are still everywhere.'
I'd heard even factories Liston had physically threatened kept producing them. Some had switched businesses to avoid his wrath, but...
The efficiency gap between regular matches and white phosphorus was too vast. Warnings that "these kill people" fell on deaf ears—"everyone dies anyway" was the inevitable response. Not entirely wrong but...
'Better keep expectations low...'
The Paget faction was another matter. Even after the cholera disaster, half of them—including the Montpellier group—stubbornly clung to outdated ideas. Despite our anatomical triumphs making us rich, Londoners still called us ignorant.
(The coachman who told me this only dared mention it later, adding that doing so in Liston's presence would've gotten him torn limb from limb.)
"We'll dock soon—best go inside now."
The navigator gestured inward. Having learned how violently sailing ships rock when stopping, we complied. The lurching nearly felt like we'd collided with something.
"Every time I sail, I never seem to adapt."
Even Liston looked slightly green, clearly remembering the navigator we'd met earlier. The man wasn't particularly burly—rather gaunt actually.
Considering sailors' rations and drinks at the time, it made sense. The physically demanding work required gritted teeth, inevitably leading to dental damage. With dental hygiene not yet commonplace and rampant cavities, malnutrition from broken teeth was unavoidable.
'Should look into dentistry too... but...'
This damned era had problems wherever you looked—all inevitably leading to medical issues. Trying to fix everything at once would be suicide. The only way was tackling things step by step.
One encouraging sign:
"Anyway, we must research disinfectants immediately upon returning."
Not my words.
"Indeed! This could hold the secret to puerperal fever!"
Also not mine.
These came from Liston and Blundell—exemplary nineteenth-century physicians. Were they the only crazies? Not quite.
"Professor, I'll ask my merchant father if he's heard anything relevant."
"I'll help too. Brewing might provide some clues."
"M-me too! I'll taste-test anything!"
Alfred, Joseph, and overeager Colin—what exactly did that kid want? He'd survived anesthesia tests and drinking sewage for miasma research, remaining bizarrely passionate. Might become someone remarkable.
The key point was our group's sanitation standards had finally reached celestial heights.
"The carriage is here. Let's go."
"Oh the stench! The streets must be teeming with miasma."
Liston and Blundell covered their noses with newly purchased handkerchiefs—gloves included. The other three weren't much better.
'Such hypocrites...'
Especially Liston—that very blade crusted with blood, grease and flesh chunks had amputated limbs recently. Who was he to complain?
"Look at the Thames!"
"Pure sewage. An outbreak here wouldn't surprise anyone."
"Strange though... why didn't cholera appear in our experiments?"
"Divine protection, naturally. The Lord favors us—not the French."
"Hahaha!"
My own thoughts diverged sharply. I hadn't yet explained that pathogens have types causing different diseases, that some "germs" are actually beneficial, or that commensal microbes exist. Hence their conclusions veered oddly.
'Not that I can explain now...'
Not from fear of being branded a witch—this group wouldn't do that. Our shared experiences had bonded us. During cholera, I'd nearly died myself, and even shed tears when Blundell got splashed with sewage and developed diarrhea.
'It would only confuse them...'
Explaining bacteria, viruses, parasites and fungi to these novice microbiologists? The field's complexity warranted its own specialty. Even I, a surgery professor, would find more gaps than knowledge if digging deep.
'Better stay quiet and just help.'
Our carriage crossed the Thames bridge—ground zero for the famous pollution.
"Disgusting..."
"I should address Parliament about this."
"Do that."
The stench was no joke. The water's appearance was horrifying too—unidentifiable chunks floating about. Liston speaking in Parliament seemed our best hope.
"Of course, priorities first."
"Disinfection."
"Right. Disinfection."
Liston's pragmatism was wise. You can't solve everything at once.
"We're here."
"Right."
We'd finally arrived at the university after so long. I felt unexpectedly moved—this had become my academic home. The others seemed less enthused.
"The dissection lab... that miasma pit right beside patient wards? Barbaric!"
"Obstetrics next to this? An insult!"
They vocalized what I'd only thought before. Annoying, but progress.
"Hey brats! Everyone out here!"
"Yes sir!"
"Ah, you're back!"
"Oh my, what's this?"
Liston stormed in like he meant to break down doors. In the gaslit hallway, everyone came scrambling as if greeting a mob boss.
"Studying? Like hell you are!"
The bafflement was palpable. The man who'd always demanded more study to save lives now shouted:
"Rats everywhere! Exterminate them! Scrub every floor! That dissection lab's miasma is lethal!"
No "after lectures" excuses—immediate action. Faculty grumbled.
"Liston... miasma is airborne poison. London's air is already saturated after centuries. Will scrubbing really...?"
"So don't scrub then."
"I... I'll scrub."
The professor grabbed a broom and began sweeping furiously.