The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [563]
“Ten thousand to ten million milligrams,” I murmured to myself. Recommended dosage of penicillin for bacteremia or sepsis, according to the Merck Manual, the physician’s basic desk reference. I glanced at Daniel Rawlings’ casebook, then back at the bottle. With no way of telling what concentration of penicillin I had, administration was likely still more efficacious than the combination of snakeroot and garlic Rawlings advised—but not enough to matter, I was afraid.
The amputation saw was still lying on the counter, where he had left it the day before. I’d given him my word—and he’d given it back.
I clenched my hands, a feeling of unutterable frustration washing over me, so strongly as almost to overwhelm my sense of despair. Why, why, why hadn’t I started more penicillin brewing at once? How could I have been so feckless, so careless—so bloody fucking stupid?
Why had I not insisted on going to Charleston, or at least Wilmington, in hopes of finding a glassblower who could make me the barrel and plunger for a hypodermic syringe? Surely I could have improvised something for a needle. All that difficulty, all that experimentation, to get the precious substance in the first place—and now that I desperately needed it . . .
A tentative movement at the open door made me turn round, struggling to get my face under control. I’d have to tell the household what was happening, and soon. But it would be better to choose my time, and tell them all together.
It was one of the Beardsleys. With their hair grown out and neatly trimmed to the same length by Lizzie, it was increasingly difficult to tell them apart—unless one was close enough to see their thumbs. Once they spoke, of course, it was simple.
“Ma’am?” It was Kezzie.
“Yes?” No doubt I sounded short, but it didn’t matter; Kezzie couldn’t distinguish nuances of speech.
He was carrying a cloth bag. As he came into the room, I saw the bag twitch and change shape, and a small shudder of revulsion came over me. He saw that, and smiled a little.
“This for Himself,” he said, in his loud, slightly flat voice, holding up the bag. “Him—old Aaron—said this works good. A big snake bite you, get you a little ’un, cut his head off, drink his blood.” He thrust out the bag, which I very gingerly accepted, holding it as far away from me as I could. The contents of the sack shifted again, making my skin crawl, and a faint buzzing noise issued through the cloth.
“Thank you,” I said faintly. “I’ll . . . ah . . . do something with it. Thank you.”
Keziah beamed and bowed his way out, leaving me in personal custody of a sack containing what appeared to be a small but highly annoyed rattlesnake. I looked round frantically for some place to put it. I didn’t dare throw it out of the window; Jemmy often played in the dooryard near the house.
Finally, I pulled the big clear glass jar of salt over to the edge of the counter, and—holding the bag at arm’s length—used my other hand to dump the salt out on the counter. I dropped the bag into the jar and slammed the lid on it, then rushed to the other side of the room and collapsed on a stool, the backs of my knees sweaty with dread.
I didn’t really mind snakes in theory; in practice, though . . .
Brianna poked her head through the door.
“Mama? How’s Da this morning?”
“Not all that well.” My face evidently told her just how serious it was, for she came into the room and stood beside me, frowning.
“Really bad?” she asked softly, and I nodded, unable to speak. She let her breath out in a deep sigh.
“Can I help?”
I let out an identical sigh, and made a helpless gesture. I had one vague glimmering of an idea—or rather, the return of an idea I’d had in the back of my mind for some time.
“The only thing I can think of doing is to open the leg—cut down deep through the muscle—and pour what penicillin I have left directly into the wounds. It’s much more effective against bacterial infections if you can inject it, rather than give it orally. Raw penicillin like this”—I nodded at the bottle—“is very unstable