singillatim | 2. Well, I might call you Doctor.

Who: Harry Goodsir and OPEN
What: Doctor's hours
Where: Harry's cabin, around town
When: Anytime during October, early November
Warnings: TBD

It's taken some weeks—including the awful voices and even, ironically, the words of Cornelius Hickey—for Goodsir to finally act on advice he'd given to Edward Little when they'd first arrived.

He starts by placing a notice on the board. Then he starts scavenging the town for all the medical supplies he can find, consolidating a store of them in his cabin. What he does manage to find, in combination with the contents of his surgeon's chest, isn't nearly as much as he would like, but it will do.

He has learned much, these last few weeks. That disease and infection is caused not by miasma, by tiny animalcules that may be spread by various forms of contact, and that wounds must be kept clean—disinfected—thus averting festering and gangrene. That there are compounds in food that keep the body healthy, and that not all foods contain those compounds. He tries not to dwell on the lives he might have saved with that knowledge on the expedition, and to focus on the here and now. As he said to Little: to live, and do what good he can.

And to try not to let his hatred of Cornelius Hickey consume him.

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"I have never fired a pistol or gun of any kind," he admits ruefully. "I should be afraid of blowing my own hand off. I have my scalpels and saws, of course, but ... were I to find myself in danger, I don't suppose they would do very much, would they?"

"Eh," says Edward, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "No matter, I can teach you how to use a pistol. We'll start without the gunpowder and ball, I don't have very much in the way of ammunition and you need your fingers intact." He'll have to figure out how to make his own bullets somehow, in the meantime.

He pauses a moment, thinking. "A scalpel could do a great deal of damage with enough force," he says, with the voice of someone who has experience ramming sharp objects into a body with enough force to do significant damage. "It's a matter of knowing where and how much." This is a very disturbing thing to say very casually, and judging from the rather rueful smile, Edward's aware of it.

"But here I am talking weapons," he says, "when I simply wanted to say hello and check on the only man of medicine in the town."

Goodsir has been listening with a kind of horrified fascination—and the comment about the scalpel prods at a memory—we do not know which parts. He has to take a moment before he can respond.

"Well—" he begins, awkward, "thank you, and, ah, I am grateful for your concern. I suppose I've taken on a large responsibility, but I couldn't very well stand by. And there is much that I've had to learn, and quickly."

At least Edward has the grace to look somewhat sheepish. "I'm sorry," he says. "It's...a lot, I know." Maybe too much, he thinks. If he keeps going on like this someone will figure out some of the things he's been keeping quiet about for good reason, and then things will be very, very awkward around here. Even moreso than they are right now.

"What did you learn?" he asks, perching now on a nearby uncluttered surface. It might not escape Goodsir's attention that in doing so, he keeps the exits in sight. "I'm no surgeon myself, but I'd like to know a few things, if only to lighten your burden whenever possible."

Oh Edward. You have inadvertently opened yourself to an information dump, because Goodsir is nothing if not excited about some of the brilliant new science that he has ... gotten in no small part from Kate Marsh's science textbook. His demeanour instantly brightens.

"Well—where to begin? Ah, well, as you're a sailor, you're no doubt acquainted with the ravages of scurvy. I have come to learn about the mechanisms of antiscorbutics. We knew that lemon juice was a remedy, but it seems that its healthful benefits are due to a compound of which doctors in my time hadn't an inkling—something called a vitamin, present in many fresh fruit and vegetables. And in rose hips, of which Miss Marsh has been making preserves..."

He will go on in this vein for entirely too long if permitted.

Oh, this definitely piques Edward's interest. He's not too familiar with the science of his time beyond what's needed to steer a ship and keep her from sinking to the bottom of the ocean floor, or to kill a man in a variety of ways, so this has certainly gotten his attention. Especially at the mention of scurvy—an old and terrible foe that Edward knows all too well, from the very first weeks of his privateering days.

"Aye, scurvy and I have a passing acquaintance with each other," he says. "And we didn't always have lemon juice on hand. Now—a vitamin, you say?"

At the mention of Kate's name, he perks up. "I know of her," he says. "We've met, Miss Kate Marsh and I. She's a friendly sort, of a kinder heart than most." She cried over rabbits.

"She is a good and gentle soul," Goodsir says, his fondness for her obvious. "And yes, she explained to me what's been learned since my time about the nutrients in the food we eat, and how the lack thereof affects a man's health. Imagine. We'd guessed, back then, but did not understand. Some of us thought that it was enough for a compound merely to be acidic to prevent scurvy." He smiles ruefully. "Almost correct ... but not quite. Much as it seems that the theory of miasma has been discredited in favour of micro-organisms that spread disease."

"I worry for her, while she's here," says Edward, the cheer dropping for a minute to show his concern. "This ain't a place for anyone to live, let alone a young girl like her. She's smart, and I trust that she can survive when she puts her mind to it, but I just..." He hesitates for a moment, then: "She reminds me of my daughter."

He can only hope that his family back in London has made it safely through the night. Can only hope they're all right.

"What, really?" There's a surprise. Edward thinks back to Nassau, the stinking pit of disease it had been near the end. "I'd thought...so then, do we have enough fruits and vegetables, to keep scurvy at bay? Kate's got her rosehips but there must be more." He's thinking of how to grow fruits and vegetables, in such an inhospitable land as this. More inhospitable than most, anyway.

There's a moment during which Edward seems to digest this. Then: "So you're saying it's not the foul airs, but—tiny little things we don't even see, that could lead to such terrible outbreaks." A beat. "That's...quite a lot to digest," Edward says, a little weakly. He recognizes that it's a much better theory than the miasma one, but it's hard to shake something that's so ingrained, and with experience seemingly backing him up, too. "How do these little things get on and inside us, to be so devastating?"

Goodsir feels a pang of sympathy. "I hope she's well. Your daughter, I mean."

But there is science to discuss, and Goodsir is actually quite delighted to have an attentive ear.

"I've heard that one can grow seedlings under sufficiently bright lights—if there are any seeds to be found here, we might test that," he says. "As to disease—yes, these organisms—barely worthy of the name, but alive in some manner nonetheless—they spread through close contact, whether that be an infected person's breath, unwashed hands, contaminated linens, and they are able to disrupt the operations of our bodies—the very cells, in fact—the microscopic units of which all life is formed. My brother would have been amazed—he was convinced that the structures of the cells were critical to life, and this proves that he was right!"

2. Well, I might call you Doctor.

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