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"...From May onwards everyone in the city slept on the roofs of their houses, while in the daytime all residents who could afford it would install serdabs (cellars) and have them fitted out as subterranean sitting rooms. Siroccos, the "poisonous winds" named by Dr. Grant, sometimes sprang up during the summer, and then "the air is so filled with fine sand, that, however one shuts himself up, it is deposited all around him, and sifts into every drawer, desk and trunk." Inside the stifling houses even "the very air seems lurid and dark, as if impervious to light."
In July, every dry object communicates the sensation of heat. Beds seem just scorched with a warming-pan, and even the stone floor is hot to the touch. A change of linen, instead of imparting the cooling sensation that it does in other climes, feels as if fresh from the mouth of a furnace; for perspiration keeps the body cooler than the dry substances around it. Such extreme heat deals most unmercifully with furniture. Solid mahogany desks are split; articles fastened with glue fall to pieces; miniatures painted on ivory curl like a shaving, and the ivory handles of knives and forks crack from end to end. An unfortunate piano, that had wandered from England to one of the consulates, was continually wrenched out of tune, and rendered useless.
--Fever and Thirst, Chapter 13
It is fitting that the last days of Asahel Grant should have been drawn out and difficult, a rough journey to a hidden place. But the mode of transport suited him as well. Indeed, the man deserved a death bed. This soft, clean place, where he could lie back and migrate at his ease, served him far better than the flashing knife, the sudden fall, the freezing mountain which might earlier have brought him to life's end. Here friends surrounded him and joined him in prayer. Sarah Hinsdale brought him towels and broth. An American physician whom he had known for two weeks did his best. But with each hour the sufferer drew further back from life. Visitors who came to see him received a warm handshake and greeting, yet seconds later the patient could not remember who they were. His thoughts migrated with the rest of him. Sometimes in his delirium he spoke Turkish; at other times Syriac. He conversed with his mother and his children. He spoke with his Savior. Often he was on a ship going home. But no matter where his mind took him, the kindly smile remained.
By now spring flowers had appeared in Mosul, on the mound of Nineveh, and in the surrounding wheatlands. The mountain rivers were swelling as April storms battered Hakkari with hail. It was time to begin again; time to go. On April 24, 1844, by the banks of the Tigris, the shattered tenement of Asahel Grant was vacant at last.
--Fever and Thirst, Chapter 21
