Skip to main content

A Post Mortem Adventure

 Even at the best of times, this is a dying season – I mean a season for dying...

Throw in Covid, with its ability to put daily death rates into the regular news headlines, not to mention the omnipresent fear of death deliberately amplified by a government that wants to produce behavioural change – stay at home and keep clear of others so you don't kill your Gran – and death is looming large right now.

More positively though, admiration for the NHS, with all its committed professionals, has never been more evident.

Death all around, with dedicated doctors desperately working to save lives...

I take you back to the Battle of Trafalgar and William Beatty, Surgeon on HMS Victory, who assessed each wounded man regardless of rank in turn as they were brought below decks, all the while working in dangerous and exceedingly difficult conditions. Of the eleven amputations he performed that day – mainly legs – five of his patients survived, which is remarkable.

Some he saved.

Others died, including this one, upon whom he declined to operate, but his care extended beyond death.

A Case of Preservation 1805

I used a Leaguer – the largest cask

to be found on board. As you know

he was slim and slight – just five feet four

so foetally he bundled in.

I sank the upturned hull of back

one fin arm and floating shirt.

Spirit of wine – not rum – works best

I know – I have experience.

And so it proved. It took a week

to reach Gibraltar, during which

we withdrew liquor and refilled

the cask. There was a deficit

but I was pleased when the time had come

to find the body well preserved –

the bowels however, much decayed

I removed, then wrapped the corpse

in fresh clean linen, when I was able

I added myrrh and camphor

to his familiar brandy

and laid him in a proper coffin.

No longer was his little body

compacted in a wooden vessel –

for now he lay in state – at length

preserved, ready for drawn-out pageantry.

Nelson was beloved not only by his sailors, but by the nation at large. Beatty's challenge was to preserve and bring the body back to England for what would turn out to be a massive state funeral.

The naval surgeon set about the task in a scientific manner as best he could, with such materials as were to hand. It must have been with a mixture of a surgeon's respectful care and simple practicality that he would have folded the damaged corpse with its absent arm into that brandy-filled barrel, pushing it deep down to make it sink.

The journey home was eventful, the battered Victory needing a tow, delayed by storms and the brandy vanishing – was it just evaporation, or wilful removal? – but eventually Beatty was able to cleanse and prepare the body appropriately.

As a doctor, Beatty commands my admiration. I've tried to communicate his sense of clinical curiosity combined with loving care, describing his interest in the technical processes (which happened on this occasion to be the preservation of a corpse), along with his diligent attention to a known and beloved individual.

Such a combination has to represent the aspiration of many of those of us who've followed in his professional footsteps.

My poem has an explanatory tone – the surgeon wants, needs, to tell us what he did, how he did it and what the results were. He sees the body as a vessel, using – as to be expected from a naval surgeon – both medical and nautical terms. He assumes we know certain basic facts, such as Nelson's physique. He uses no emotional words, apart from expressing his pleasure at finding his (post mortem) ministrations were successful, but I've tried to suggest a flavour of care, as he shares with us his concerns to perform his duties properly.

As this boils down to an apparently straightforward account from a practical professional, it may be asked why it should aspire to poetry.

My response is that I found the compactness of poetic form, with its opportunity to break the description and line of thought into small succinct pieces (the cleanly cut comments of a surgeon?), the chance to develop an appropriate voice for Beatty, scrupulously considering the words and phrases he chooses to use, the hidden emotion, and the rhythm of a clinical history carefully related (combined with so many gaps in the narrative) – all these contributed to my wanting to make this powerful story into a poem.

Whether the resulting poem about what happened to a particular corpse succeeds in interesting or even moving you, my wish is that you too may feel some warmth towards this exemplary surgeon, who'd worked his way up from Second Surgeon's Mate eventually to become Physician Extraordinary to King William IV, as I honour his memory.

All of which might not remove the fear of death as Covid and its variants blows near, but may reinforce the gratitude universally felt towards those who are prepared to look after us in the face of personal danger in these dark times now, should we need them.


Popular posts from this blog

The Signpost

Here’s a signpost – originally distinctive, being unique and handmade, and now even more so, with the evidence of ageing.   … numbers, distances, which way? While all signposts are interesting in their duty to inform, their presentation of choices and their simple declarative presence, I find this one special. It’s not just that it has much to say in terms of where you actually are, in which direction you might choose to go, how far your destination is (down to quarter mile accuracy) and even if your chosen method of transport is suitable. It’s also special in the simple elegance of its design, with the arms’ supports and the bevelled edges of the main post rising to that unexpected point. But the specialness goes further.  My friend James Ravilious took me there just at this time of year, over twenty years ago.  It was then upright and brilliant white, with crisp black letters. He certainly thought it was special, photographing it lovingly, in May 1988 ( Chawleigh Week Cross –

My blog this month isn't a poem – nor even several...

  My blog this month isn't a poem – nor even several. No, this time it's a set of little films of poems. After sharing them with several of you, I apologise straight away if you've already seen them, but you might be interested to hear some thoughts on the matter. And if you don't want to hear me thinking about making films of poems, just ignore what follows and go straight to the YouTube link.   I hope you enjoy the films. And please tell me what you think! You may remember a couple of the poems appearing in past blogs, with me writing about the possible presentation of poetry in this way. Time was when poetry existed solely as the spoken or sung word – it took some time for it to be written down.  Now, for the most part, it exists and flourishes in both these forms. Recently, and refreshingly, it seems to have been recovering more of its original orality. Now we liv

A plague on all these houses

It's a great poem, Lowell's For the Union Dead. I only recently came across it - at least, that's what I thought - but it's been grunting (I choose the word advisedly) away in my head ever since, especially that fourth verse. Behind their cage, yellow dinosaur steam shovels were grunting as they cropped up tone of mush and grass to gouge their underworld garage. It took a little while for me to realise why. Before (I thought) I'd read it, I wrote a poem about the new housing estates springing up round our little town. I was thinking about the various creatures that had lived on the field that was to be covered with houses - sheep primarily - and then those that were to follow. The first were, well, a sort of dinosaur. Here's my second verse: At first it was the one-armed monsters, set free within their caged arena to trundle round, and gently paw the ground, then pile up mounds of earth accompanied by Lego men. I was pleased