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CHAPTER 12

A Hard Winter

      LUCKILY, PETER took no harm from his drenching, but the snowy rain brought illness to many others in Mainz. Several of the workmen fell sick and were away from the printing shop for many days. And by the end of that week, Johann Gutenberg began complaining of a headache. The following morning, he developed a racking cough, and by nightfall he was consumed by fever.

      He was no better in the morning. His face looked gray and old, and when anyone spoke to him, he seemed hardly to notice them.

      Peter and John Mentelin conferred together and decided to send for a physician. "Dr. Konrad Humery is our Master's good friend — and the best doctor in the city," Mentelin said, after some thought. "He loses fewer patients than any of the others."

      "We'll send someone to fetch him at once," Peter agreed.

      Doctor Humery had other patients to see, and they waited impatiently for him all day. At last, late in the evening, the bell clanged at the outer door, and Old Beildeck, who had served Gutenberg all his life, went to answer it. He returned with a small man who was muffled in a dark, thick cloak. Behind the doctor came two young boys, his apprentices. One looked about twelve years old, and the other was somewhat younger, and they were loaded down with a variety of boxes and baskets.

      Peter, John Mentelin, and Ulrich Zell had waited up to meet him.

      "Where is my friend Johann," Humery demanded, removing his cloak and unwinding the woolen scarf that was looped around his neck and shoulders. "I hope he's not the one who's sick!"

      "But he is! This way — he's in his room," Zell answered quickly, and he led the way to Gutenberg's tiny bedroom, still warmed by a bright fire on the hearth.

      Doctor Humery went at once to the bed and leaned over the sick man. He put a hand on Gutenberg's forehead and then opened his robe and laid a palm against his chest to feel his heartbeat. He leaned close to examine the color and texture of his skin, and after that, he ran a practiced hand up and down the old man's ribs, from his waist up to his armpits. Through it all, Gutenberg hardly stirred.

      "How long has he been ill and what were his symptoms," the doctor asked.

      "First an aching head, then a cough — then this," Mentelin answered tersely.

      "As I thought. It's the same fever that has struck the whole town," Humery nodded. "Many older people have already died of it, especially those who were already in poor health."

      Zell bit his lip. "You mean it might be fatal?"

      "I hope not," Doctor Humery answered soothingly. "Johann's a strong man, and the fever is not far advanced. I'll give him a draught of medicine and bleed him, and we'll hope for the best." He turned to the elder of his two apprentices. "Bernhard, set up my black box!"

      The youngster set the box on the floor close to the bed and opened it. He took out a tarnished copper basin and a long, sharp knife, which he wiped carefully against his sleeve and laid it beside the basin. Then he took out a small bottle of dark green glass and gave it to Humery.

      The doctor offered the bottle to Mentelin. "Give him six drops of this in a cup of broth — once tonight and once again in the morning."

      "I'll go and rouse the cook," Mentelin nodded. As he left the room, he unstoppered the bottle and sniffed at it. His face twisted into a grimace at the smell. "Ugh," he muttered. "I'd better tell her to make the broth strong!"

      Meanwhile, with the help of the younger apprentice, Humery rolled back the sleeve of Gutenberg's robe. Then he took up the knife.

      "Sir — " Peter could not help himself.

      The knife paused in midair. "Yes?"

      "Must you do that? Surely the loss of blood will weaken him . . . and he's already old and sick."

      Humery shook his head. "You're quite mistaken, young man. Your master, here, is ill because his blood is filled with dark, bad humors. By removing some of the blood, we remove the cause of his sickness. When his body makes new, healthy blood, that helps him to recover."

      "Let the doctor work in peace," Zell put in crossly. "You're not the doctor, Peter!"

      With practiced skill, the physician made a small cut in the Gutenberg's bare arm. At once, blood began to flow from the cut, and the younger apprentice held out the basin to catch it and keep it from staining the bed.

      Peter looked away.

      "Don't be squeamish," Humery ordered sharply. "As the blood flows out, it is taking his illness with it!"

      With a soft moan, Gutenberg opened his eyes. Seeing the strange faces, the dancing shadows cast by the fire, and his own blood flowing, he struggled to sit up. "Who . . . what's happening!"

      Ulrich Zell flew to the old man's side. "You were sick, Boss. We called for the doctor!"

      "Ah — yes, I see you now, Konrad . . ." Gutenberg looked at the doctor for a moment and then lay back against his pillows. His eyes closed again. "My arm hurts."

      Doctor Humery spoke to the elder apprentice, "Bernhard, have you prepared the other knife?"

      The boy had been kneeling at the hearth, heating the blade of a second knife in the flames. "It's ready now, Sir." He got up and brought it to Dr. Humery.

      Quickly, the doctor took the knife and laid it flat against the deep cut, pressing it hard against the vein. He held it in place for several minutes, and when he removed the blade, a red mark remained, but the bleeding had stopped.

      Seeing this, Humery straightened up and turned to Peter and Zell, who were still watching him anxiously. "His life is in God's hands, now. Keep him warm, feed him the medicine in nourishing broth, and hope for the best."

      "I'll send for more fire wood right now," Zell said eagerly, and he hurried out.

      The first apprentice began packing up the doctor's tools, and the second smoothed the covers on the old man's bed. Humery watched them for a moment. Then he turned to Peter and said thoughtfully, "Young man, I understand your concern for your Master. It's true that some doctors do bleed the sick too often and too much — and the results of that can be fatal. But I've studied medicine all my life, and I know of no other way treat such fevers. Physicians in France, and Germany, and Italy, and even in far-off England use this method. Perhaps there will be a better cure someday, but until that happens . . . " he shrugged.

      On the bed, Johann Gutenberg opened his eyes. He looked white and drawn, but when he spoke, his voice was clear. "When that day comes, Konrad, our printed books will make it easier to learn that better cure."

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