Triumphant Homecoming (1)

Unexpectedly, Underwood and Allen showed little surprise when I pulled the Ringer's bottles and IV bags from the warehouse.

"Ringer's."

"Ringer's, indeed."

"That's right—this is Ringer's... You gentlemen already know it well?"

When I stiffened at their unforeseen reaction, it was Pastor Underwood who changed the subject.

"Hmm. The finish on the bottle and the rubber tubing is rather crude. Was this handmade here in Joseon?"

"Ah—these were ordered from Japan as a preventive measure, before the cholera spread."

"Oh, I see."

Beside him, Allen unscrewed the cap of a bottle whose contents sloshed within, gave it a sniff, and handed it back to me.

"Mm. But what's the liquid in this bottle? There's a slightly sweet smell. And a sour note ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as well."

"You'll likely never have seen this medicine before. This is the cholera treatment discovered in Joseon."

At my explanation, Underwood nodded along readily.

"Aha, so it's a cholera treatment... A treatment!?"

"W-what did you just say, sir?! A cholera treatment!?"

The two men, who had at first merely gone oh and moved on, realized a few seconds later the true meaning of my answer. Their eyes flew wide. They shot to their feet. Then, as if to determine whether this was dream or waking life, they stared into each other's faces and cried out in one voice.

"That's right."

Perhaps because the information was so shocking, Underwood and Allen seemed more bewildered by my calm in the face of a discovery of the century than by the discovery itself. It was as if their faces asked, Do the people of Joseon not understand how terrifying a disease cholera is? Or, if not that, they briefly showed me a look tinged with the same greed as the Spanish missionaries who found quinine, the cure for malaria.

"Huff—huff!"

A moment later, the emotionally forthright Underwood sat back down and barely managed to open his mouth.

"S-sir. Cholera is a dreadful, truly horrific epidemic for which even European medicine has yet to establish a proper treatment or countermeasure."

"I know that."

"But if you suddenly tell us, out of nowhere, that Joseon has a cholera treatment, it's rather difficult for us to simply... believe..."

Kind-hearted Underwood could not quite bring himself to ask how a treatment for cholera could exist in uncivilized Joseon. He looked at Allen with an awkward expression, but Allen, catching his gaze, merely shrugged and looked away.

Watching them, I laughed inwardly to my heart's content.

Ha. This is a treatment that won't even exist for another hundred years.

And so I resolved to instruct these two Western barbarians, who still could not get their bearings, while making a show of how cholera was nothing of consequence compared to Joseon's medical arts.

The price, of course, would be a life sentence of labor.

"To be precise, rather than a cure, it is a method of slowly restoring the patient from the unrelenting diarrhea and abdominal pain that are among cholera's symptoms. In other words, it keeps the patient from wasting away from the dehydration and malnutrition the disease brings on."

"From dehydration and malnutrition, you say?"

"That's right."

"Then... it doesn't actually treat the cholera?"

"Yes. It's not a cure. It's a way of holding on."

"?"

When I confidently declared it a treatment that was not a treatment, the two men suffered a bout of cognitive dissonance. I nodded lightly at Allen's reaction, then stretched out both hands to display the needle and rubber tubing connected to the IV bottle.

"Simply put, we administer a nutritional tonic, prepared according to a traditional Joseon secret formula, directly into the human body."

Allen, watching that crude yet uncompromisingly sharp needle, replied.

"Don't tell me—intravenous injection?"

"Yes. The arm, the back of the hand, even below the thigh will do."

"Ohh."

Then Underwood, a devout Protestant, gazed at the bottle of sloshing, transparent liquid with eyes full of emotion. Judging by his expression, he was truly moved to have discovered, in a place he never expected, through a connection he never imagined, a way to defeat the White Horseman's servant that had so long plagued mankind.

Allen was the same, though his expression was somewhat more restrained. I made them a discreet proposal.

"Would you like to know the formula?"

"Th-the formula. You would share the formula with us?"

I answered with a bright smile to Underwood, whose Adam's apple bobbed with utter disbelief.

"That's right. In the name of humanity."

"Humanity—humanity! Good heavens. Hallelujah!"

When I responded favorably, Underwood sprang from his seat, pulled the rosary from his wrist, clasped his hands, and began reciting a prayer toward the ceiling. If someone happened to glance in and catch that scene, it might even have looked pious.

"Ahem. But not for nothing, I take it."

By contrast, Allen—who, as the history books record, was personally a friend of King Gojong, but whose temperament ran more toward businessman and diplomat than devout missionary—saw through my intentions and took a step back. Toward that Allen I leaned away with an arrogant look, as if it were only natural, and lightly rubbed my palms together like a merchant.

"Of course not. Spreading the cholera treatment and the IV manufacturing method can be dressed up in the grand cause of humanity—liberating this world from pestilence. But it would be a rotten thing to do to the Joseon physicians and hospitals that have been benefiting from this treatment."

"Ahem. I understand."

"And so."

When I let the sentence trail off, Allen, sitting beside Underwood who was still lost in prayer, swallowed hard.

In truth, their residence permits had been granted on the condition that they would work at the hospital I intended to establish in Joseon, so the IV manufacturing method required a separate price. Moreover, working at the hospital automatically meant they would have to transmit their medical knowledge to Joseon physicians as well.

They'll have a lot to think about.

True to the Protestant ideal of a life of poverty, both men were close to penniless, so buying a patent with money was out of the question. Allen had botched his missionary enterprise in Qing China and was in beggar's rags—but anyway.

And what Joseon needs now is people, not money.

I didn't need that paltry sum either. So I spoke to Allen, who was waiting for the terms of the deal with a sour expression.

"You have quite a few friends in the Presbyterian Church, don't you? Henry Appenzeller, for instance."

"!"

When I mentioned Appenzeller, Allen shot to his feet in shock.

"Ah, and Homer Hulbert as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠well. He translated the Gospels together with Pastor Underwood, didn't he? And you received pastoral support from Henry?"

"H-how do you know those men's names...!"

"Ah, and the Presbyterian headquarters is dispatching volunteers—"

Allen seemed to have completely forgotten, in the face of this conversation, all the countless memories of astonishment from his previous visit to Joseon. As I began listing the events and personal connections he had experienced on his way here, he was beside himself.

"You—what the hell are you?!"

"I am merely a scholar of Joseon."

"That's a lie!"

I smiled at Allen, who was glancing at me with fearful eyes as if the genre had suddenly shifted to horror, and casually offered an explanation with what I considered reasonable grounds. It was useless, of course.

"Humble as I may appear, I have many people around me who volunteer their help. So I have eyes and ears even beyond Joseon. Every foreigner curious about this country is a friend of mine."

"O Lord."

"Oh, and sometimes I have friends who try to help me with rather too much enthusiasm. So enthusiastic it occasionally becomes a problem."

"..."

"Well? You could write letters of introduction telling your new friends that Joseon is a fine place, couldn't you?"

And so, with terms that were halfway to a threat, a new contract was sealed.

The only person in the room who maintained his composure was Underwood.

As the seasons turned once more and the world was painted white, as the smoke from the quarantine station's hearths gradually faded, the pestilence that had made Joseon tremble in terror—cholera—began to lose its ferocity, as if the White Horseman of Conquest had briefly let slip the reins.

Around that time, Han Gyu-seol, Commander of the Jeolla Left Naval Station, came to see me.

"I've come."

"Ah, Commander."

When I, floundering in a sea of documents, offered my greetings, he looked at me with an expression of horror.

"Heavens. You seem to have even more work to process than our entire naval station."

"Haha. If it's not too much trouble, please wait just a moment. I have some urgent matters to attend to."

"Then I'll take a look around your place of exile—ah, your office."

"As you please."

With the master's permission, Han Gyu-seol at last began slowly scanning the reports and documents piled in the office, wandering about the room.

How much time passed? Han Gyu-seol carefully set down the papers he was holding on the writing desk and spoke in a voice filled with genuine, unguarded admiration.

"Remarkable. I'd heard early on the rumor that Dongmaenghoe branches numbered over a hundred in the three southern provinces alone, but it's even more than that now. I hear organizers have set out on expeditions to establish branches in Gangwon and southern Gyeonggi as well."

"Ah, that? The yangban who went up as far as Giho recruiting for the Dongmaenghoe—that's already a year old. And these days the organizers don't operate separately. The Youth Association, perhaps, but not them."

"It's all the same thing. Aren't they all Dongmaenghoe members who share your cause? Besides, when a man as inflexible as Elder Choe Ik-hyeon himself comes forward to urge the Confucian literati to join, they have no grounds to refuse."

At Han Gyu-seol's words, which carried a faintly uncomfortable undertone, I answered without even lifting my head, buried in the mountain of overdue work—reports and newsletters pouring in from forty-six branches in Jeolla and seventy-two more from Gyeongsang and Chungcheong combined.

"And you yourself joined the Dongmaenghoe some time ago, did you not, Commander?"

"Ahem."

"And the ships at your naval station, so dilapidated they were on the verge of being scrapped—our Dongmaenghoe and the Great Economic League stepped in and disposed of them at a fine price. That's what they call a win-win, isn't it?"

"Did I say anything?"

At my pointed remark, Han Gyu-seol's face flushed. He cleared his throat, pulled out a chair, and sat down.

Selling off the existing panokseon warships—those galleys that had become relics of a bygone age—at a proper price had been enormously reflected in Han Gyu-seol's service record. The Tongni Gimmu Amun, which had appointed him commander, and the Three Offices had cited his results in a cabinet meeting.

There's already a rumor he'll be promoted back to Hanyang soon.

How else to explain that Sim I-taek, the Jeolla Provincial Governor, came to me to complain that he had joined the Dongmaenghoe before Han Gyu-seol, so why hadn't he received the same help?

In any case, to summarize: local officials who had formed ties with the Dongmaenghoe, or become members, were receiving our assistance whether they knew it or not. Tax collection, the suppression of the Donghak, cholera prevention measures, and so on.

"So. What brings you all this way to see me in person today? Normally you'd just send a single letter."

"There—if anyone overheard, they'd think I'd been stingy only with you."

"To be honest, last time I was a bit hurt."

"Ahem. I'm sorry about that. But the reason I came to see you today is none other than..."

Han Gyu-seol, who had paused, straightened his previously stooped ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠back and began.

"About those inland travel permits for the Western missionaries you asked for last time. I'm not sure they're even necessary."

"Pardon?"

"Do they really need to go up to Hanyang right now through Gyeonggi and Chungcheong, where the roads are still rough and the pestilence hasn't completely vanished? As you know, they could just go by ship, couldn't they?"

"Aha."

When I showed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠interest, he leaned forward, growing animated.

"There's a widespread rumor that the court looks very favorably on the local officials and superintendents of Jeolla who dealt with the pestilence most effectively. And they already seem to know that the American missionaries and doctors in your charge are at the center of it."

"Is that so?"

"The Japanese consul and the customs commissioner who came up from Busan and Wonsan this time saw Jeolla's epidemic measures and offered the court the customary praise. Said it was the response of a truly civilized government."

"Hmm."

"There'll be good news soon. You'll surely be a free man. Don't you think?"

"That's the most welcome news I've heard."

At Han Gyu-seol's expectation that my exile might soon be lifted, I stopped what I was doing, walked over, and sat down across from him.

Indeed, once Pastor Underwood and Allen took the helm of the quarantine and treatment stations and began IV therapy, cholera patients started to decrease markedly. The arrival of winter, reducing the movement of people and livestock, played a part—but the decline in pestilence cases was welcome news.

Allen's adapting better than I expected, too.

Moreover, Allen, who had surgical experience, was soon taking a long list of reserved patients and had, before anyone quite noticed, become someone who received remarkably positive evaluations even within the Dongmaenghoe and the Confucian literati—for a "Western barbarian." Surgical skill, after all, commands respect across every border and every age, does it not?

Perhaps the most surprising change of all was that of Choe Ik-hyeon, grand elder of the Confucian literati and the very definition of pigheaded obstinacy. Watching Allen at work, he seemed of late to have undergone a change of heart.

Choe Ik-hyeon even asked me in all seriousness how I felt about the Dongmaenghoe accepting foreigners.

It must have been the night of this year's first snow. Choe Ik-hyeon, requesting a private audience with a thoroughly serious expression, asked in a low, settled voice:

I had long since forgotten, but he seemed truly sincere about the globalization of Joseon Confucianism I had so boldly proclaimed before Gwanghwamun. Recalling those two eyes that held such a burning fire, I found myself wearing a father's smile.

He has a surprisingly pure side.

Compared to Pastor Underwood, who occasionally displayed a slightly fanatical streak, Allen—endlessly susceptible to the praise of Joseon's people, and equally uninterested in wealth—apparently struck Choe Ik-hyeon as more human.

Ah, of course, they were the same people. Merely different in the color of their skin.

It was then.

"Ah, yes."

As if he had forgotten while making small talk, Han Gyu-seol rummaged in his coat with a rustling sound and presently produced a crumpled envelope, holding it out to me. The official seal stamped on the cover was one I had never seen before.

"It's a letter the Vice Minister of Foreign Affairs of the Tongni Gimmu Amun sent addressed to you. I don't know why he sent it to me by courier instead of to you, but I thought I ought to deliver it in person."

At Han Gyu-seol's words, I tilted my head. The Vice Minister of Foreign Affairs—Kim Ok-gyun? Why would Kim Ok-gyun...?

"The Vice Minister of Foreign Affairs, to me?"

"Yes, strange, isn't it? I found it suspicious too and considered opening it, but I didn't want to cause you any unnecessary trouble."

I expressed my agreement with Han Gyu-seol's concern and reached for the envelope containing the letter.

Hong Yeong-sik or Park Yung-hyo, maybe. But Kim Ok-gyun of our Gaehwadang, who's been busy making a name for himself in Hanyang of late...

And so, as I soon tore open the envelope and took in the news from Hanyang, I found myself utterly unable to still my fingers, which trembled violently beneath my gaze as they traveled down the page.

This was no mere letter.

It was my pardon.