PROLOGUE

Richmond, Virginia

January 1787

Some sort of pneumonia was sure to be the culprit at this point in the winter, Doctor James McClurg mused, as he bundled up warmly for the short walk that lay ahead of him. It had not been long since he had moved his medical practice to Richmond, but he was already one of the most sought after doctors in the bustling capital of the Commonwealth. The messenger boy had arrived before the sun, so he decided against waking his wife to tell her he was going out to tend to a patient. Closing the door as quietly as possible he was met by a blast of freezing air. Yesterday’s rain was sure to have turned to ice in many spots, so he stepped carefully in the early morning semi dark.

Not more than a few steps from his own front door, his thoughts drifted from the task at hand to the duties that faced him later that year. He had been just as surprised as anyone to be asked to represent Virginia at the upcoming convention in Philadelphia. Regardless of whether he felt as well-versed in political matters as some of the other men who would be at the convention, he felt a sense of duty toward Virginia, and so had accepted. Whether he would be ready to offer a significant contribution, however, was something that weighed heavily on his mind. “Medicine and the science that supports it are entirely different matters from the world of politics,” he had told his wife. She reassured him that the same intellect that equipped him to effectively treat the maladies of his patients could surely equip him to diagnose and treat the maladies of their fledgling nation.

It was at that point in his recollection of their conversation that he felt his left foot start to slip out from under him. Lost in thought, he had not been as careful about ice patches as he ought to have been and he gasped at what was sure to be a nasty fall.

“Watch out, sir!” cried a voice from just behind him. A strong hand gripped his arm, steadying him, and saving him from the serious injury that had only an instant before flashed in his mind’s eye.

Doctor McClurg turned to see his savior and thank him, but by the time he did so, the man was already on his way in the other direction. He offered nothing more than a flick of the wrist in acknowledgement when the doctor shouted “Thank you, young man!” At least, he had thought the man was young; it was hard to tell as he disappeared into one of the many early morning shadows.

He paused only briefly to reflect on just how fortunate he had been for someone to be within arm’s distance at that precise moment, but then continued his trek to see his ailing patient. Remembering at what point of his recollection he had left off, it occurred to him that in his haste, he had left his medical bag back in his office. He had told his wife that he wished that in the same way the helpful instruments he had for treating diseases could be packed in a small bag, that he could likewise take with him to Philadelphia a bag of instruments for treating the nation. He did not consider himself a poet by any means, but he had been proud of coming up with the metaphor on the spot. In any event, he would have to go back and get his bag.

Having once again become lost to his own thoughts, the doctor did not hear the crescendo of hoofbeats. He turned back in the direction of his own home and his vision--the last sight he remembered--was filled with a team of horses drawing a cart, furiously bearing down right on top of him. After that, all was dark.