Cholera (3)

I pushed aside the heavy canvas of the temporary quarantine tent in Namwon and stepped outside, surveying an isolation zone steeped in gloom. A long breath left me as I set the water pail down.

"Hahh."

A cool mountain breeze brushed my cheek in place of the muggy air inside the tent, and the melancholy that had been sitting on me lifted, if only a little.

Joseon's situation, however, was growing worse by the hour.

"...Aigoo. At this rate I can't tell whether we're saving people ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠or just barely keeping them clinging to life."

The tent I had just left was packed with cholera patients hauled in not only from Namwon but from the neighboring counties as well. And even those who did not have cholera—anyone with vaguely similar symptoms—were clamoring to be let into the isolation ward.

"Tsk."

On top of that, there were not even enough beds to lay the patients on. Magistrate Seo Gong-sun and Jeolla Provincial Governor Sim I-taek had hastily summoned carpenters to knock together makeshift platforms and cots as a stopgap.

Of course, not a single carpenter had actually answered that summons of his own free will. An invisible plague was sweeping the entire country—who in their right mind would walk into that kind of danger? Anyone who did would have to be a living natural monument, a nationally protected species. In the end, our Vanguard members, acting on the magistrate's request, had gone from place to place, seized men by their topknots, and dragged them out.

Even knowing this was still far more progressive than Joseon's existing quarantine policy was cold comfort. Rumor had it that in northern Gyeongsang Province more than half a village had died in a single night, and they had burned the entire settlement to the ground.

If this keeps up, we are really in trouble.

Even as I stepped outside to catch my breath, I watched patients being carried in on stretchers, their bodies writhing as they passed the entrance, and my heart sank. The number of patients arriving from the isolation wards and inspection stations still vastly outnumbered those who were recovering and getting back on their feet.

We prepared this much and it still isn't enough. So it really does have to be IVs? Or maybe...

Somehow word had gotten out. It was not only ordinary commoners flooding the isolation wards and the treatment centers set up by the Dongmaenghoe. Local notables, landlords, and yangban who fancied themselves important were coming too, instead of convalescing at home.

The reason was simple enough. When a person wants to live, what business do nobility and baseness have with one another?

I frowned, recalling the disgusting faces of those who shamelessly came and went from the treatment center for nothing more than a mild stomachache that was not even cholera.

Those bastards. If they hadn't at least paid a donation, I'd have thrown them out on the spot.

Setting all that aside, the decisive problem was that oral ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠rehydration therapy alone had its limits.

Yes, it mattered that the disease ravaging Joseon was cholera, a waterborne epidemic. But the greater issue was that abdominal pain, diarrhea, and fever were preventing patients from eating properly or taking in any nutrition at all.

Even when patients spent time in isolation and the physicians' care briefly drove the symptoms back, most of them never recovered their strength in between, and they simply fell ill again. The vicious cycle kept repeating.

"Damn it."

With exhausted eyes I glanced toward the warehouse behind the quarantine courtyard and let out a groan. Three days had passed since I had trained the physicians, and yet some hundred and fifty IV kits, custom-ordered from Mitsui & Co., were still sitting in that warehouse gathering dust, unused, because nobody knew how to administer them.

Remembering that lecture, and those primitive IV kits whose very efficacy was still uncertain, I scowled and sank into thought. I knew the result. I did not know the method.

"...It's not as if I can just jam a needle into someone's forearm and hope for the best. So what in the world am I supposed to do?"

Hygiene and infection were problems as well. The IV needles were specially manufactured medical goods, so few in number that we could not simply use them once and throw them away, and every supply we needed—disinfecting alcohol, medicinal spirits, all of it—was running short.

On top of that, there was sepsis from infection to worry about. And even if we somehow learned how to place an IV, a mistake in regulating the volume would rupture the vessel.

In other words, we might well end up watching people die in the very act of trying to save them.

"We'll try as far as effort will take us, and if it comes to it... it's trial and error in the name of success. Trial and error. Do it enough and the feel will come."

Of course, that effort and those trials would be the physicians' to endure. Why? Because those people had at least stuck acupuncture needles into human bodies before. I had been a language specialist in the army. I could not tell a vein from an artery.

Meanwhile, even as I sat there resting, a hundred-odd patients and fewer than a quarter as many physicians were staggering about, clearing vomit and diarrhea from wounds and from the floor. Caught off guard by the flood of beds and bodies, they had already gone three nights without sleep.

That was when it happened.

"Aaagh!"

"Urgh—I-I am so sorry..."

"I-it's fine. Just get well, will you."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

Watching their desperate struggle, I could not help but groan. One of the patients, while a physician was trying to change his soiled clothes, had voided diarrhea all over the man's shoulder. Every pair of eyes that witnessed it spilled the same mute despair.

"Damn it all."

No matter how hard we thrashed, the reality was mountain after mountain. I had just slumped down on a barrel and buried my head between my knees, moaning, when a familiar voice reached my ear from the quarantine entrance.

"Oh? Teacher Unam."

"Hm?"

I lifted my head toward the sound. There stood Lee Ha-young, fully outfitted, wearing a look of genuine relief.

"Aigoo, I have been looking everywhere for you! Why on earth is the Teacher in a place this dangerous?"

He was making a fuss in a place where people were dying. I answered with a deliberately solemn face.

"This is the quarantine plan I put together. I ought to set the example, don't you think? In wartime, does a general hide behind his soldiers?"

"Ah, this humble one was being shortsighted. As always, Teacher, your words are a hundred times correct."

"But what brings you here, comrade? I heard you had business in Gunsan."

"Ah—that's right!"

He had been laying on the flattery even after that, then slapped his forehead as if he had only just remembered and launched into his report.

"I completely forgot—I was in such a state. The truth is, Busan and Dongnae have been all but completely sealed off under orders from the Japanese consul and the superintendent of customs, so Mitsui & Co.'s steamships were only calling at Wonsan and Incheon. I went all the way to Japan to get those routes turned toward Gunsan somehow."

Ah. Well, there was no small Japanese settlement in Busan, so of course the consul and the customs chief would have moved on quarantine. Still—Lee Ha-young had seen the port closures coming and rewritten the shipping lanes in advance? I had not expected that.

Still. He's got the basics of a businessman down.

I looked at him with something like approval.

"Well now. You've had a hard road of it."

"Thank you. But, you see. That is—actually..."

After talking at length, Lee Ha-young put on a troubled face, glanced around to make sure no one was listening, then pressed in close beside me and whispered in a voice no bigger than an ant.

"The truth is, when I came back to Joseon this time, I had two strange Westerners on the ship..."

"Westerners. Two of them, you said?"

"Yes."

"...Have you lost your mind?"

I whipped around at him, startled. He realized, a beat late, what he had done, shut his mouth tight, and only nodded.

We ran for home at once.

I will say this up front. Lee Ha-young's offhand remark—as if he were some cat lady who had stashed a pair of Westerners in our house—had sent me bolting home in a panic. But the moment I heard those two foreigners stumble through their self-introductions in clumsy Joseon speech, I seized both of Lee Ha-young's hands and spun him around the courtyard. I simply could not help myself.

Lee Ha-young was a walking blessing.

"Well. Looks like we've drawn a crowd."

I had run without rest from the quarantine station, come out through the front gate, and looked into the courtyard to find the entire household spilled outside, clustered around something and gawking for all they were worth. Westerners.

"Ahem."

"Ah, Unam—there you are."

"Aigoo, Teacher. A pair of Westerners barged in claiming you had invited them to the house, and they simply would not—"

The faces that turned toward me as I entered all wore the same look of relief, as if I had arrived in the nick of time. I asked their pardon and headed for the wooden hall. There, in awkward postures, two Westerners were waiting for me.

"How do you do!"

The fuss around them had apparently made it clear I was the master of the house. They sprang to their feet and offered their greetings.

"Horace Grant Underwood. Underwood, if you please."

"Newton Allen. In the Joseon tongue, I would be obliged if you called me Anryeon."

Grant Underwood?! Allen? That Allen?

The names were so familiar they drove every thought of courtesy out of my head. I stared at them with both eyes wide, looking them up and down without the slightest restraint.

"Wh—what!"

It was them. The faces I had only ever seen in newspapers and history books.

"H-how in the world did this...?"

Still dazed, I fixed a stare on Lee Ha-young, who had come puffing up behind me. He did not seem to have quite accepted the reality of it himself. He rubbed the back of his neck, avoided my eyes, and opened his mouth.

"I had gone to Nagasaki on account of Mitsui & Co.'s shipping, and I found a newspaper advertisement looking for a Joseon person. I had just finished my business with the Mitsui people, and there was quite a bit of time left before the ship sailed, so I went looking for them as a way to pass the hours, but..."

I heard the rest in more detail later. Allen had failed in his mission work in the Qing Empire, sick to death of local officials shaking him down for bribes, and while waiting for word from headquarters he had taken an interest in a Joseon mission and was in Japan awaiting a ship and a permit from home.

Underwood, beside him, had been in Japan from the start for mission work and medical ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠service, and had placed a newspaper advertisement seeking a Joseon person to teach him the language—which was how he had met Lee Ha-young.

"Dear God!"

But what mattered to me in that moment was not how these two had drifted into Joseon, or how they had been led to my door.

These two were the best possible card I could have been dealt—the kind that could overturn my entire situation in a single stroke.

They're both experienced physicians! Can a man's luck really break this cleanly...?

I had gone stiff for a moment under the sheer unreality of the fortune. Then I snapped myself together and welcomed them with everything I had.

"A pleasure! I am Unam."

"Ah—!"

"Come inside, let's talk! I'm sure we have a great many questions for each other."

"Yes."

I took Allen's hand and Underwood's in turn, Western-fashion, and shook each of them up and down with real heat. Then I ordered the people watching from the courtyard to bring the IV kits from the warehouse at once, and personally escorted the two slaves—no, the two medical missionaries, steadfast in their spirit of service and their faith—toward the reception room.

Wearing a kindly smile so gentle it might have moved a watcher to piety, I gestured them on.

"This way."

"Th-thank, you."

And at that same moment, the one person most likely to find this situation intolerable came bursting out of the reception room. Choe Ik-hyeon.

The door creaked.

"Ah. Elder Chan-gyeom."

Oh, shit. He was inside!?

I froze with the door half open. The two foreign workers trying to follow me in went rigid just as fast.

The household people who had been watching from the courtyard all bolted somewhere at a dead run. Woo Beom-seon was at the head of the pack.

"I trust you are in good health?"

Only Lee Ha-young, who had never been through this particular household crisis, stood below the hall with one shoe half off, staring up at Choe Ik-hyeon with a vacant look on his face.

Everyone held their breath and waited, staring, for Choe Ik-hyeon's reaction.

"Hrm."

He merely watched the scene with a calm, unhurried gaze, then opened his mouth, slow as anything.

That was all. A single sentence.

Then he sent me a look that said, I'm sure you'll handle it, and walked out.

What in the world? What on earth had just happened?

"What was that?"

I tugged at my own cheek with a finger, muttering at a reality I could scarcely believe.

"D-did we make it...?"

"Pardon? Make it? What do you mean, Teacher?"

"Tsk. Never mind."

I kept glancing toward the front gate, half expecting Choe Ik-hyeon to come charging back from the shed with an axe, and shoved the still-babbling Lee Ha-young into the room as I settled our guests in the reception chamber.

The little farce passed. I opened my mouth, barely managing to keep the delight out of my voice.

"So. What brings you looking for me?"

I rubbed my palms together as I asked. The missionaries hesitated, then answered.

"Ah. The reason we sought out the renowned Teacher Woo is—"

"Mr. Lee here told us a great deal. He said you are, at present, the most influential public man in Joseon."

"Famous? Renowned? Influential?"

"Yes. That Teacher Unam is currently the most respected scholar in Joseon. However..."

They broke off, shot Lee Ha-young—who had guided them here—a brief, resentful look, and then poured out their true feelings with unsparing honesty.

"We never thought Mr. Lee would lie to us."

"We had heard that the people of Joseon were simple and kind."

"Hm? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠What do you mean by that?"

I scratched my head, lost. Underwood answered.

"We never imagined the Teacher would be so young."

"...Ah."

"Mr. Lee promised us—"

As I listened more closely, it became clear that the decisive weapon Lee Ha-young had used to reel them in was none other than an inland travel permit for Joseon.

I cocked my head as I heard them out.

So in the end, Lee Ha-young swindled them?

Well. How would two missionaries still dark as to Joseon's affairs have known my name, when I had only just begun to stretch my limbs in the three southern provinces? The reason these two had washed up not in Busan or Hanyang but all the way from Gunsan in Jeolla to Namwon sat entirely with Lee Ha-young.

Underwood, too honest to hide his face, kept glancing at Lee Ha-young where he was trying to disappear behind me, and went on.

"He told us, over and over, that Teacher Unam was the most famous and influential elder of his acquaintance. He said you would exert yourself to have travel permits issued for us as well."

"..."

Lee Ha-young had taken their measure—they wanted into Joseon and had no other way—and the Japanese attendants at their side had mentioned that both Underwood and Allen were physicians. Hungry for the credit of presenting them to me, he had baited them with residence permits and thrown around blank checks.

"Nngh."

I listened as if I were hearing all of it for the first time. Allen, visibly disappointed, muttered in a gloomy voice. I was, after all, a child not even ten years old, and he seemed to have fully concluded that Lee Ha-young had swindled them.

"We should have just waited in Japan..."

What? Wait where? Japan? And go back, exactly, where?

You may come in as you please. Leaving is another matter.

I held out to them, in the same breath, a lifeline and a set of shackles.

"Well. Our comrade Lee here was not so very far off the mark."

"I beg your pardon?"

"A travel permit. A residence permit. That may not be so difficult."

At my murmur the two foreigners' eyes went round, and they leaned in toward me. I only smiled at them, saying nothing more.

And just then, the people I had sent to the warehouse arrived with the IV kits in hand.

Having even settled lodgings for the two foreigners for the time being, I turned and frowned at Lee Ha-young, who was trailing after me with the vacant look of a man who had seen a ghost.

Blessings or not, he was still the one who had caused the mess.

"What? Have I got something on the back of my head?"

"Ah—Teacher."

I scowled, and the light came back into his pupils. He stared at me with a look of genuine, literal stupefaction.

"Teacher. Since when have you spoken the American tongue?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Y-you were speaking with them only in their language, were you not?"

"...!?"

Ah, damn it. I had made that mistake.

I whipped around at him, startled, the moment I realized I had committed an error I could not talk my way out of. Lee Ha-young's face had gone stiff.

"Then—if it would not be too great a liberty."

"Yes?"

I had already, in the space of a breath, prepared myself to choose execution if he used this as a pretext for some unreasonable demand. Instead he hesitated, ducked his head as if ashamed, and spoke.

"Would you be willing to teach me English as well?"

English? The English I knew?

When I did not answer at once, Lee Ha-young kept talking.

"While I was staying in Japan this time, trying to converse with them was no small frustration."

"Ah—but of course! When a man asks to learn, how could I refuse?"

"Thank you, Teacher!"

I accepted his request without a moment's hesitation.

As the price of burying a secret, it was absurdly cheap.