Prevention Is What Truly Matters (3)
Parliament sent an envoy to our clinic.
The delegate's official purpose was to inquire whether white phosphorus matches were truly as perilous as reported. His tone, however, was anything but cordial, and it took no genius to discern what kind of response he desired.
These bastards... they want me to reassure them that everything is fine.
Under ordinary circumstances, I would have been more than willing to compromise with the political establishment. Why pick a quarrel with the men who ruled the empire when I could simply curry their favor? Yet white phosphorus was a line I refused to cross.
I understood all too well what horrors it wrought.
White phosphorus... it reacts with the calcium phosphate in the jaw, rotting the bone away until it dies.
The condition even had an established medical term: Phossy Jaw.
Long before my previous life began, its lethal toxicity had been conclusively proven, leading to a worldwide ban on its production. And for good reason—the venomous fumes were not confined to the factory floor. They could poison anyone during ordinary, everyday use. The Little Match Girl had not hallucinated while striking matches in the freezing alleyway merely for dramatic sentiment; her visions were the classic onset of acute phosphorus vapor poisoning. That was why she had perished in the biting cold without ever realizing she was freezing to death.
"Look here," Liston barked, thrusting a ledger forward. "Is this not precisely what our Pyeong warned us about?"
"Still, there remains the possibility of mere coincidence..." the envoy stammered.
"Look here, man! In the factory I personally inspected, several match girls are already displaying these exact symptoms! Every single one of them is in such critical condition that radical surgery is their only salvation. And you dare dismiss that as a coincidence?"
"B-But... how could this fellow possibly know such things?"
"Tsk, tsk! That only lays bare your profound ignorance of the Kingdom of Joseon! It is an ancient realm whose medical arts have advanced to rival our very own British Empire!"
"Well, that is..."
Sharing my indignation, Liston bellowed at the man without mercy. A few points in his theatrical defense twinged at my conscience, but what was I to do? There was not a chance in hell that Robert Liston had ever set foot in Joseon. Had the country not opened its ports only in the 1870s? Until then, Joseon was the quintessential Hermit Kingdom.
"Even so, matches are vital military stores, are they not?" the envoy pressed, struggling to stand his ground. "If we alone cease production and war breaks out with the French again, what then?"
The French.
Heh.
Far from waging war against them, Britain would soon forge an alliance with France. Ever heard of the Crimean War? It wasn't far off. As the Russian Empire expanded southward, this island nation of ours would contest its every advance alongside the French. But spouting future history would serve no purpose here.
"Look closely, if you please," I intervened.
I held up a slender wooden stick before the envoy, who was still stubbornly pushing back against Liston's fury. It was a white phosphorus match. Knowing its lethal properties all too well, I felt squeamish merely carrying the thing in my pocket, but inhaling London's coal-choked smog was already poisoning my lungs anyway. What was the use of being fastidious? Since I had been granted a second life, I intended to live it fully, even if it turned out brief and tumultuous.
"Do you truly believe this is purely beneficial?" I asked.
I spoke critically, yet I could not deny its utility. The wretched thing caught fire with terrifying ease. In an era when portable combat rations were still decades away, an army possessing such instant fire held an enormous advantage over one that did not.
"Of course! That is self-evident!"
"Then consider this."
Its greatest virtue was also its fatal flaw: it ignited far too easily. Just yesterday, during a brief tour of the hospital wards, Liston and I had documented numerous patients suffering horrific burns after matches kept in their coat pockets rubbed together and spontaneously combusted. And what of the military? The situation was worse by far. Soldiers were constantly on the march, and because they handled volatile black powder alongside these matches, accidental ignitions had triggered catastrophic powder explosions on more than a few occasions.
It was the London Police Chief and Sir Damien who had supplied us with that crucial intelligence. Truly, having friends in high places never failed to bear fruit.
"The hazards are indisputable. It is exceedingly dangerous," I said firmly. "Moreover, our British Empire's own laborers are perishing simply by manufacturing it. It must be banned."
"I recognize the drawbacks. However..."
Even when cornered by evidence, the parliamentary envoy clung to his exasperating bureaucratic excuses. That was when Liston stepped in to voice what I, as a physician bound by modern ethics, could never say aloud.
"Then buy them from France! What do we care what befalls their workers?"
"Well, that..."
"Our governments stand on amicable terms, do they not? We already import plenty of goods from them without complaint."
"That... is true enough, but..."
Dismissing foreign lives with a casual shrug wasn't a sentiment I could comfortably voice myself, but Liston had no such reservations.
"It is not as though phosphorus is the sole method to strike a flame," Liston pressed, his voice tightening like an iron vice. "Our own people are dying in plain sight, and we cannot simply stand by and watch. Look at these sketches. Look at them!"
"Mmh..."
Liston continued his persuasion, which bore far more resemblance to outright coercion. In truth, the very fact that such dramatic persuasion was necessary felt absurd. People were dying—dying in grotesque, agonizing disfigurement—so what was there to debate? Having laid eyes on the gruesome illustrations of afflicted match girls whose lower jaws had rotted into suppurating bone, the envoy finally seemed shaken and fell quiet.
"This is... admittedly rather dreadful."
"Rather dreadful? Shall I saw off your jawbone right now so you can tell me how dreadful it feels?"
"Wait, why... why are you threatening me? I am merely—"
"Which is why you had better choose your words very carefully when you report back to Parliament. I have committed your face and name to memory."
"Pardon?"
"If nothing changes, where do you think I will pay a visit? Naturally, I shall seek out someone I already know."
"S-Spare me, please!"
"Then simply avoid doing anything that warrants dying. Go and do your utmost. Sir Damien will provide ample political cover, so what could you possibly have to fear?"
Having rattled off a string of terrifying threats, Liston let out a hearty belly laugh and clapped the man on the shoulder. But as he did so, his hand lingered meaningfully against the sheath of his surgical knives, turning the envoy's face an ashen, bloodless white. For a fellow who supposedly threw his weight around Westminster, he looked ready to faint.
"Now then, do your very best."
"Well, I..."
"Shall I excise it here and now?"
"N-No, absolutely not! I shall take my leave at once! I swear I will see this through!"
"Splendid. My expectations are high. If any factory owner refuses to comply, let me know. I shall teach them that the law is not the only power that holds sway in London."
"Yes, sir! At once!"
Vowing vehemently to accomplish what had previously seemed an impossible task, the envoy bolted out the door. Liston watched his retreating figure with a satisfied grin before turning back toward me. As for me... I couldn't help feeling a twinge of pity for the poor bastard.
"Brother Liston, will that really work? Those politicians in Parliament rarely listen to reason."
Did the politicians in my previous life ever listen to experts, for that matter? Throughout history, expert advice—the most credible counsel available—was almost always the bitterest pill for politicians to swallow. Reality had an inconvenient habit of shattering their desk-bound fantasies.
"It might sound strange to say this compensates for postponing the sewer overhaul," Liston replied casually, "but Parliament will grant Sir Damien this concession to save his face. To put it bluntly, matches aren't an irreplaceable necessity, and they're dirt cheap anyway. Aside from the few profiteers making a fortune off them, nobody has any real reason to oppose a ban. The trade that costs the British Empire the most money is the tea trade, after all."
"Ah... right."
The tea trade...
Come to think of it, the Opium Wars predated the Crimean War. If so, British opium might already be flooding into China. That would mark the turning point where the mighty civilizations of the East began crumbling into the clutches of Western imperialism.
Well, what can I do? I can't even eliminate the white phosphorus right in front of me on my own.
A mantis trying to stop a war chariot. What could one reincarnated doctor accomplish against the relentless tide of world history? Securing my own standing and survival had to come first.
"Ah, that reminds me," Liston said. "You haven't forgotten the reception, have you?"
"The reception? Ah, of course I remember. How could I forget? Not only did he gift me a microscope, but he extended an invitation as well."
"You've been introduced as a nobleman. That is correct, yes? Noble Kim?"
"Yes, naturally."
In all likelihood, my ancestors had simply purchased their surname when the late Joseon caste system collapsed. Given the sheer percentage of Kims in modern Korea, it was mathematically absurd to believe they had all descended from royalty. Still, despite that nagging doubt, I had grown up hearing that our family came from proud yangban stock. Then again, practically every classmate I had ever known claimed their family were yangban too, even though historical demographics dictated that most were commoners or slaves. Judging by my stocky build in my previous life, my ancestors had probably tilled rice paddies for generations.
"A proud yangban," I affirmed smoothly. "Ah, that is the Joseon word for high nobility."
"As I thought."
Having long since mastered the art of bald-faced lying, I uttered the word without a single shred of hesitation.
"Good. We shall introduce you as such, then. Do you have suitable attire?"
"Of course. I earn a rather handsome living these days, you know."
"Haha! That you do. Get yourself ready, then. A carriage will be sent for you. You are, after all, an honored guest."
"Ah... yes, sir."
A gathering attended by high nobility like Sir Damien was bound to be colossal in scale. A mere fledgling doctor like me had no business attending, but Sir Damien had evidently pulled some strings on my behalf. Astonishingly, the host of the grand affair was none other than Duke Jamie.
Having weathered rumors that he had driven himself mad from benign prostatic hyperplasia and sliced off his own testicles, today marked his triumphant return to high society. No one would dare whisper words like 'balls' or 'testicles' to his face, of course, but gossip suggested he had moved heaven and earth to restore his battered prestige. Word had it that this would be the most extravagant gala London had witnessed in years—eclipsing even royal banquets. What that looked like in practice was almost beyond my imagination.
"I'm so jealous..."
"Tell me about it. A professor truly lives in another world."
When I returned home, Alfred and Joseph were eyeing me with unabashed envy over a dinner of bland British fare.
"I bet they'll have stargazy pie at the party," Alfred muttered.
"And jellied eel pudding..." Joseph added.
They began listing dishes that transcended mere tastelessness to reach culinary depravity. Alfred might have been speaking out of genuine rustic longing, but Joseph was undeniably mocking me. The rascal had grown up eating Korean food with me in Upton, for heaven's sake.
"Why on earth would I eat that garbage? I'll stick to bread."
"Rumor has it Duke Jamie is so wealthy he stuffs his bread with fermented sardines," Joseph quipped.
"Ha."
"Still, I envy you," Alfred sighed. "Every titled peer in the realm will be there. It's a tremendous occasion. Even Professor Blundell didn't get an invitation, yet you're attending."
Contemplating the prospective menu made my stomach churn, but there was no denying that this was an extraordinary occasion.
Dabbing on a dash of cologne, I assumed a dignified expression and waited for my carriage. Before long, an ornate coach arrived to collect me, bearing me away toward a palatial mansion nestled in Kensington.
"Hm?"
"Who is that?"
The moment I stepped down from the carriage, a barrage of distinctly unwelcoming glares bore into me. I didn't care.
"Ah, Pyeong."
The instant Liston fell into step beside me, the hostile stares plummeted dramatically. Most guests hurriedly fixed their eyes upon the ground—nobles, prosperous merchants, decorated officers, all alike. None of them fancied crossing paths with Liston's legendary surgical knives.
"Ah, Pyeong!"
Then Sir Damien approached with a delighted greeting, causing all eyes to swivel back in my direction. This time, the gazes were of a completely different nature. Hostility had given way to unadulterated curiosity. I could feel it in the air: this was my formal debut into Victorian high society.
"I shall introduce you to everyone in due course," Sir Damien murmured, "but let us greet Jamie first. He is no stranger to you, and proper etiquette dictates paying respects to our host before all else."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Come, this way."
As far as high-society debuts went, this was unmatched: escorted by one duke directly to another.
Whoa...
When we finally reached Duke Jamie's reception hall, the scene was magnificent beyond words. Curiously, one particular primary color dominated the entire hall to an overwhelming degree. Yet because that color happened to be green—my favorite—it didn't strike me as gaudy.
Still, there was an unmistakable oddity to it.
The carpets, the wallpaper, and even the gown of the noblewoman standing beside the duke were draped in that exact, vibrant emerald hue.
Is this the latest fashion?
If it was high society's prevailing trend, I supposed there was nothing strange about it.