The Duel at Trafalgar Square (Part 1)
Trafalgar Square.
A grand public square built to commemorate Vice-Admiral Horatio Nelson's decisive triumph at the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805. To draw an equivalent back home, it was practically on par with Gwanghwamun Square standing under the watchful gaze of Admiral Yi Sun-sin. And right here, on ground of such national gravity, I was scheduled to wage a public surgical duel against Dr. Josef.
In truth, this was hardly my first time operating before a crowd. I had already staged several public spectacles, but—
“Do well, my boy,” Robert Liston barked, clapping a heavy hand onto my shoulder. “Smash him utterly to pieces.”
The difference today was that I was undeniably the main attraction.
Liston had flatly refused to participate, muttering: “I have no stomach for such piddling, dainty butcheries. Besides, the outcome is bloody well obvious. You cannot properly reconstruct a nose anyway… the very thought leaves a foul taste in my mouth.”
He despised rhinoplasty.
I could readily accept an objection to delicate, small-scale procedures from a man of his inclinations. But claiming it was unworthy because it couldn't be properly reconstructed?
This bastard…
My temper bristled. Coming from a fellow whose entire medical repertoire consisted of lopping off limbs at breakneck speed, the gall was downright offensive.
“Understood, sir. I shall do my utmost.”
Naturally, lacking the suicidal bravado required to vent my grievances before the living Sword Master of London, I offered the meekest, most respectful reply possible and strode forward.
The square was an absolute sea of humanity.
Had we not arranged escort with the Metropolitan Police beforehand, we would have been swallowed whole by the swelling mob before ever setting foot in the center. Fortunately, our entourage cut through the press without incident.
“Wh-who’s shoving?!”
“Got an objection?” Liston rumbled, looming over the disgruntled spectator.
“N-no, sir! Not at all, sir!”
Having Robert Liston flanking us was an invincible deterrent.
“Look there! It’s Pyeong! Pyeong in the Blue Robe! Clear the way if you value your miserable lives! Move, move!”
Well… having me present seemed to help as well.
“Police! Clear the passage!”
And the truncheon-wielding constabulary did the rest.
At last, we reached the center of the square, where a strange structure loomed. What in heaven's name was one supposed to call this thing?
“An altar,” the Hospital Director remarked with a chuckle.
“Ah, yes. An altar indeed.”
Just as the Director observed, an altar stood before us. It certainly hadn't been part of the original plaza architecture; someone had cobbled together a massive wooden dais in a desperate rush. It stood tall enough that we had to mount a flight of timber stairs to reach the platform.
Awaiting us atop the scaffold were two patients, rounded up through the collaborative machinations of the Director and the police. Each stood stiffly beside the bed upon which he was destined to bleed. The beds differed in design, tailored to match my preferred operating table and the contraption Dr. Josef favored.
“Leave it to a German,” Liston muttered, salivating as his gaze swept over Josef's operating table and the gleaming tray of instruments arranged beside it. “His steel looks rather appetizing.”
Careful there, Josef…
The odds of him leaving London with those instruments intact were dwindling by the second. A staggering sum of personal wealth was already staked on today’s outcome. While the Hospital Director happily shouldered the financial risks on my behalf, Josef looked primed to be stripped down to his very smallclothes.
“Quiet, gentlemen, quiet!”
The moment Josef and his entourage climbed onto the opposing edge of the platform, the man presiding over the dais bellowed at the top of his lungs. His face looked faintly familiar. When I squinted, I placed him immediately—a Member of Parliament. A rather distinguished grandee from the House of Commons was presiding over a circus show.
“Today, at long last, we present the grand surgical contest for which the good citizens of London have so thirstily yearned!”
Whether he had won his seat purely on lung capacity was anyone's guess, but his voice echoed like artillery across the cobblestones. His rhetoric was fiery, though he came across far less like an austere statesman and far more like a traveling snake-oil hawker.
“To our right… a gentleman who requires no introduction!”
No, seriously, he was a total snake-oil hawker. The sweeping theatrical gestures were positively shameless.
“The enigmatic physician from the distant Kingdom of Joseon, Noble Kim! A prodigy who became the youngest licensed doctor and medical lecturer in imperial history! Co-discoverer of general anesthesia alongside our very own Sword Master, Dr. Robert Liston! A hero who wrought a victory in the salons of Paris rivaling the Battle of Trafalgar itself! Truly an object of dread, terror, and miraculous wonder!”
“Waaaargh!”
“Hooray for Pyeong!”
“God save Noble Kim!”
Wait…
That’s my official introduction? Not delivered by a carnival charlatan, but proclaimed by an elected Member of the British Parliament? This utter nonsense?
I glanced back at Liston, wondering whether we ought to drag that howling politician off the scaffold by his collar, only to find Liston beaming with paternal pride. His lips framed a silent, unmistakable phrase:
That’s my brother.
Stop wiping your nose like a proud big brother, damn it…
Glancing around, I saw that it wasn't just Liston. Joseph, Alfred, and even Colin had their chests puffed out, sneering at the surrounding throngs with expressions that screamed, Look at our mate! We drink with this bloody legend!
I buried my face in my hand, at a total loss for words.
“And now, to our left!” the MP roared, wheeling dramatically toward our opponent. “Dr. Josef of Germany! The great deliverer of the Hebrews, a paramount benefactor dedicated to carving away the wretched noses that proclaim their vulgar deceit!”
“Hooray!”
“Hang the Jews! Why waste good steel fixing their snouts?!”
Ah.
Hearing that side of the introduction put things into perspective. Josef's camp was steeped in its own brand of madness. Altering Jewish noses to disguise ethnic heritage, and these Londoners hailing it as an act of salvation while jeering with vicious anti-Semitism…
Well, the Nazis didn't invent European anti-Semitism out of thin air. Contempt and persecution were everyday sports across the continent long before the twentieth century.
Characters like Shylock weren't caricatured by coincidence; they reflected deep-seated continental hatred. Having never dealt directly with the local diaspora, I couldn't speak to their character, but prejudice in Victorian London ran deep as an open sewer.
“Now then… patients, take your places upon the tables!”
“Y-yes, your honor… but about the coin…”
“Such sordid trifles shall be settled once the knife is cleaned!”
“Ah, of course, sir… but still…”
“You pocketed your advance, did you not? You’ll have the rest upon completion!”
“Y-yes, sir… under-understood.”
With introductions concluded, the master of ceremonies ushered the two unfortunates onto their respective operating tables. A quick glance confirmed that my patient matched the precise anatomical criteria I had demanded. With the Director and the police working in corrupt harmony, finding an ideal guinea pig had been a trivial chore.
If anyone wondered whether such blatant collusion risked public scandal, they clearly didn't understand the nineteenth century. The medical fraternity of this era barely grasped the concept of surgical indications. To them, if a patient possessed a defect, you charged at him brandishing cold steel. In Josef's case, if a Jew possessed a recognizable bridge, he lunged forward with a scalpel.
“What an absurdly vulgar circus,” James Blundell murmured, eyeing the opposing camp with refined distaste.
Josef had brought an enormous retinue. Not merely medical assistants, but—
“A blacksmith,” Liston observed, narrowing his eyes at a hulking figure by Josef's side. “He intends to graft a flap from the arm, it seems.”
“You recognize him, sir?” I asked.
“No. But those shoulders and forearm cords were forged over an anvil swinging a twelve-pound sledge.”
“Ah.”
“German fellow, by the look of him.”
“Indeed.”
A German smith… Looking closely, the man possessed the stubborn, weathered countenance of an exceptionally diligent artisan.
I rather want him…
How skilled must he be for Josef to drag him across the Channel as part of a surgical entourage? Or was it the opposite? If he were truly a master craftsman, he would be settled comfortably in an industrial workshop; had some desperate misfortune forced him into vagrancy alongside an itinerant cosmetic surgeon? Whatever the truth, my immediate concern lay on my own table, not his.
I held not the slightest doubt of victory, but before this was a contest, it was an operation on a living human being.
“Patient,” I said, leaning down.
“Y-yes, Doctor?”
“We are going to reconstruct your nose. We will be swinging down a flap of skin harvested from your forehead…”
“Pardon?”
“Close your eyes and sleep. By the time you wake, the entire matter will be finished.”
“Uh…”
I gave the poor soul the most comforting explanation I could muster under the circumstances. The moment my words ceased, Alfred deftly twisted the valve on the gas apparatus he had prepared. With a low, metallic hiss, anesthetic vapors poured through the tubing, and within moments, the patient went limp, slipping peacefully into oblivion.
“Ladies and gentlemen! At this very moment, Noble Kim’s camp has administered the fabled vapors of sleep!”
“Whooooaaaaa!”
The MP launched into full live commentary. I glanced at the roaring crowd, then slowly looked back down at the table.
Madmen, the lot of them.
Their eyes were rolled back in frenzied bloodlust. They were so thoroughly overstimulated that if I suddenly announced, ‘This is not a surgery, but a public execution,’ they would nod in rapturous approval. Hell, they would probably cheer even louder.
“Joseph.”
“Ready!”
No matter how feral the gallery became, we couldn't afford to lose our discipline. Our duty was to execute the procedure with clinical precision. Whatever else was happening, we were medical men; with a patient on the table, nothing else existed.
Swab. Scrub.
Joseph’s disinfection technique was poetry in motion. How he managed to scour an entire human face so rapidly using a makeshift swab was beyond comprehension. His coverage was absolute; carbolic acid left faint but unmistakable traces, and every square inch of the operative field was thoroughly cleansed.
“Good. Scalpel.”
“Here, sir,” Colin said, placing the handle firmly into my palm.
With Colin and Joseph flanking me, the operation commenced in earnest.
The mechanics of the Indian forehead flap were straightforward. Colin handed me the blade, and Joseph pulled the forehead skin taut to provide optimal tension for incision.
Slice.
I scored down through the skin, shifted two centimeters laterally, and cut a parallel track. Joining the two incisions at the superior margin, I took a broad elevator to separate the cutaneous flap from the frontal bone along the plane of cleavage.
Tap. Tap.
Stripping beneath the periosteum required a rhythmic, tactile touch. To anyone who hadn't performed it, subperiosteal elevation sounded gruesome, but mechanically, it was strangely satisfying. A brisk nudge and lift, and the tissue peeled away like ripe rind. It was difficult to articulate the sensation, but clean tissue dissection was immensely gratifying work. Of course, tearing above the periosteum risked vascular chaos and ruined margins, but my hands had internalized surgical planes long ago. A straightforward forehead dissection presented no challenge.
“Good. Suture.”
“Right here!”
Having mobilized the flap in mere moments, I rotated the pedicle downward toward the nasal defect.
“Joseph, close the upper donor site.”
“On it.”
While I approximated the flap edges to the margins of the absent nasal bridge, Joseph mobilized and closed the forehead defect to shave crucial minutes off the clock. Prolonged exposure to nineteenth-century anesthetic mixtures carried steep neurological consequences. Memory deficits, cognitive fog—a previous patient had completely forgotten he had consented to an amputation, waking up in absolute horror to find his limb already missing from the ward.
And contemporary literature already notes marked declines in executive function following protracted narcosis…
It was common medical knowledge that early general anesthetics took a measurable toll on cerebral acuity until twentieth-century pharmacology refined the agents. If nineteenth-century compounds were that crude, speed was of the essence.
“Good heavens! For those standing too far to witness the miracle, my sincerest condolences! The nose! A nose is rising before our very eyes!”
Furthermore, if we lingered any longer, our lunatic Member of Parliament was practically guaranteed to contaminate the surgical field. As he bellowed his commentary, spittle flew from his jaws—and Joseph darted his gloved hand out mid-air, swatting the droplet away inches above the open wound.
“Shibal,” Joseph hissed through clenched teeth.
“I beg your pardon? Is that a medical term?”
The venom in Joseph's voice had clearly registered, but having never heard the Korean curse and assuming no common Londoner would dare insult a sitting Member of Parliament, the politician leaned in with genuine, wide-eyed curiosity.
Before Joseph could unleash another profanity, I fabricated an explanation on the fly.
“Indeed it is. Hey, what are you dawdling for, shibal? Hand me the shears!”
“Ah, right away, Doctor.”
Snip. Snip.
I trimmed the freshly placed sutures. The MP wheeled back toward the roaring crowd, puffing his chest and baying at the top of his lungs:
“Did you witness that shibal, citizens?! A truly magnificent shibal!”
…I had a distinct feeling I had chosen the wrong word to improvise.