Adventures in The Wild West, 1878 , livre ebook

The Diary of Young Arthur Conan Doyle
Book 1
Adventures in the Wild West, 1878
Prof. Richard Krevolin
&
Dr. John Raffensperger




Published in the UK by
MX Publishing
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Digital edition converted and distributed by
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© Copyright 2017 Richard Krevolin and John Raffensperger
The rights of Richard Krevolin and John Raffensperger to be identified as the authors of this work have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious or used fictitiously. Except for certain historical personages, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed herein are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of MX Publishing or Andrews UK Limited.
Covers painted by Ewa Czarniecka, graphic design Kyra Dunn, compilation Brian Belanger.




To our esteemed editor, Nancy Cohen, our wonderful agent, Paula Munier, Renee Braeunig, Melanie Jappy, Kathy Copas, Colleen Sell, Dr. Wally Duff, Dr. Glenn Shepard, John Haslett, Penny Macleod, Steve Callender, Katja Bressette, Katia Haddidian, Coach Bob Orgovan, and the Sanibel writing group four.



Editor’s Note
I have always been a collector of Sherlockiana and a medical history scholar. As a result, when I heard that a trunk of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s personal effects - which had been willed to J.M. Barrie and held by his estate for almost eighty years - was finally coming up for auction at Sotheby’s, I eagerly placed a bid. Luck was on my side, and I was fortunate to win the old footlocker from the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s dear friend and classmate at the University of Edinburgh who created Peter Pan.
I hauled the heavy treasure home and opened it in the living room of my little apartment. But, all that was inside was a smelly bunch of old, heavy wool blankets and rusted medical instruments. I felt like a fool for spending so much money on a bunch of trash.
As I was about to close up the chest on yet another disappointing purchase related to my obsession with Sherlock Holmes, I took time for a closer look, just to be sure. It was then that I noticed a little compartment on the inside of the lid of the footlocker. I slipped my hand in and, to my astonishment, pulled out three leather-bound, hand-written journals.
Stunned, I sat down in my kitchen and cracked open the first one. A folded piece of paper and a lock of red hair fell out. I smoothed out the yellowing paper and was shocked when I read:
It is July 7, 1930. I am gravely ill and do not think I will live through the night. And so, it has become incumbent upon me to deal with these treasured journals from my medical-school days that reveal the most personal details of the formative moments of my young life.
Due to their private nature, I thought it would be unseemly if they outlived me. An hour ago I walked them over to the fireplace in my library determined to burn them. But, when the heat of the flames licked their spines, I rescued them, like a mother hen grabbing her ducklings just before a waterfall.
Instead, despite some reluctance, I will place these journals in my old footlocker and ensure they are well-hidden. A message in a bottle that, perhaps, will someday be discovered by one who has learned the powers of careful observation . . . Or will be left, unnoticed, to disintegrate over the years.
~ Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
And so, almost one hundred years later, with the publication of this volume, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s dying choice to recover his journals so that they might one day see light is now being justified in these pages. You, dear reader, hold the first of the “lost” diaries of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, written in 1878 while he was a nineteen-year-old student at the University of Edinburgh Medical School.
This volume details the story of Doyle’s first year of service as the clerk for Dr. Joseph Bell, as well as shedding light on the origin of many of Robert Louis Stevenson and J. M. Barrie’s most famous characters.
I now entrust this diary to you, my dear reader. I hope you gain as much pleasure perusing its pages as I did when I first discovered it buried deep within the wooden confines of that ancient treasure chest...
~ Dr. John Raffensperger
Sanibel Island, Florida
7:56 a.m. February 29, 2016.



25 September, 1878
“Mr. Doyle, for heaven’s sake, open your eyes and mind! Observe, deduce, and connect. Employ your faculties of reason, however limited they may be. The tiniest of details might be the key to reaching a proper diagnosis and saving a life. Otherwise, abandon a career in medicine, try your hand at writing and see how well that goes.”
I squeezed my hands into fists and tried to blot out the professor’s taunts from my mind. Dr. Bell is utterly maddening. He was riding me hard just because earlier in the day I had misdiagnosed a hernia in a squalling baby. There are many times I would gladly plunge a scalpel into his heart - that is if he had one.
I didn’t think it was humorous, but, as Bell’s pretentious, willowy voice subsided, my classmate’s giggles grew into howls of laughter and the stomping of feet. Damn them all for having fun at my expense!
Let me explain. It was late afternoon and uncomfortably hot in the amphitheatre of the Royal Edinburgh Infirmary - too hot for my wool suit. Ah, if I only owned another lighter one I would be wearing it, but alas, as a poor medical student it was all I had...
I was fulfilling my responsibilities as Dr. Joseph Bell’s outpatient clerk, tasked with examining his patients to arrive at a tentative diagnosis before he discussed the case in front of a class of medical students. I had been chosen to replace his former student clerk, my mate John Watson, when he decided to leave university and enter the military.
The great amphitheatre was packed with students and still had the stench of carbolic and chloroform from the morning’s operations. I was in the anteroom with the last of the day’s nearly fifty patients. He was a huge brute of a man around forty with a long, red beard that barely hid a hard, pocked face. His shoulders and muscular biceps bulged through a thick woolen shirt, and his black, homespun pants were stuck into mud-stained, cowhide, knee-high boots. He slurred his words and walked with a shuffling gait.
“Your name, please,” I asked.
“MacLure.”
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s me fingers,” he said.
“Well, what about your fingers?”
“See for yourself.”
Before my very eyes, he held up his right hand. The fourth and fifth fingers turned from a deathly white to blue and then to a dull red color. I had never before seen, nor read about, anything like that dramatic color change.
“Mr. Doyle, my next patient, if you please,” Dr. Bell called.
I led Mr. MacLure into the amphitheatre, fully expecting Dr. Bell to ridicule my findings.
Dr. Bell cleared his throat. “Mr. Doyle, you have examined the patient, aye?” he asked.
“Aye.”
“We eagerly await your diagnosis.”
“From the patient’s shuffling gait and slurred speech, he appears to be under the influence of strong drink.”
“You observe nothing else?”
“Um, well, well... It’s his fingers. They change color.”
“Is that all?”
“That is quite serious, is it not, sir?”
“You noted nothing else?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“What about the tobacco stains on his beard and the ulcer on the top of his right ear?” Bell asked.
I looked at my feet while a classmate chortled. “I don’t know, but can’t see that they have any connection to his illness.”
And this was the moment he made that oh so humiliating statement, “Mr. Doyle, for heaven’s sake, open your eyes and mind! Observe, deduce, and connect. Employ your faculties of reason, however limited they may be. The tiniest of details might be the key to reaching a proper diagnosis and saving a life. Otherwise, abandon a career in medicine, try your hand at writing and see how well that goes.”
Dammit all! How can I be so dense? Dr. Bell and I can gaze at the same patient and yet, somehow, he always seems to notice minute details that I miss and draw conclusions that I can never reach.
“I don’t see how a tobacco stain can-” I countered. Before I could finish Dr. Bell cleared his throat. “Laddie, sometimes I wonder if you have the cerebral facility for a future in the medical arts.”
His words stung. I blushed, but did not defend myself. My job as clerk is to make an initial appraisal of the patients. Once again, I had failed miserably...
“Please tell us, sir. How do the ulcer and tobacco stains relate to his medical condition?” I asked.
“The ulcer is undoubtedly the result of an old case of frostbite, and tobacco aggravates this disease.” Bell rose from his chair. “Doyle, please return to your seat and let me question this man further.”
I hung my head and stumbled to my place in the front row of students.
Dr. Bell circled the man, peering intently, first at his hands, then his face, and, finally, his gaze fell on a slender leather holster hanging from the patient’s belt, flat