“We’ll need a stout splint,” he said between clenched teeth. “With the splint under a plaster, it might hold the arm secure if we cast from shoulder to wrist. But we’ll have to leave a significant opening in the cast so that we can tend the wound’s progress.”
Keeping the wound clean had become Thomas’ obsession from the first moments. The saw blade would have carried fragments of sawdust and who knew what else with it, as well as exploding bone chips throughout. Thomas had observed that nothing seemed to create sepsis quite as effectively as wood. Even a minor wooden splinter, let untended, festered. If Beautard’s wound wasn’t perfect in its cleanliness, all the clever surgery in the world would not save his life.
Beautard struggled again, a series of small jerks that appeared as if he was trying to flex his legs.
“Doctor,” Bertha said quickly, and Thomas looked up to see Beautard’s eyes wide open, although entirely unseeing. The man’s breath came in swift little stabs, his lips turning blue.
“The ventilator,” Thomas snapped, but before Bertha could prepare the rubber bag and bring it into position, Beautard had sucked in a great, shuddering breath, let it out, struggled again with a horrible gagging sound, and then the air in his lungs whistled out for the last time.
Thomas grabbed his stethoscope and heard the last feeble, struggling heartbeat and then profound silence. He looked across at Bertha in disbelief.
“A clot, maybe,” Thomas said helplessly. “My God, we had him.” He moved the bell of the stethoscope to a half dozen locations, as if a pulse might be hiding from him. Even at the side of the neck, the great vessels now felt as unresponsive as wood. Finally he straightened up, tossing the forceps that he had been cradling in his left hand toward the enameled pan. It missed and clattered on the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” Bertha said. “You did everything you could.” She picked up the forceps and then started to pull up a linen sheet to cover Beautard’s remains. Thomas held up a hand. He took the forceps and with a wrenching flick, withdrew the silver pin and dropped it into the pan.
“Perhaps someone else can benefit,” he muttered. Bertha drew up the sheet.
“Mr. Smith still waits,” she said softly.
“No one tended him? In all this time? How long has he waited?”
“Long enough, Doctor. And no…No one has looked at him.” She held the wheeled table with a hand on each side of the corpse’s feet. “I think that Dr. Haines had to return home. He wasn’t feeling well. Alvi mentioned that after she left the pin for you.”
“I didn’t hear her say that,” Thomas said.
“You were involved,” Bertha said, and favored him with a tender smile. “It will be thirty minutes or so until we have more sterile implements. Shall I have Mr. Smith come in?”
“Of course.” He collapsed back into his wheelchair, watching Bertha Auerbach wheel the table out of the room. If she struggled with the weight, it didn’t show. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to review each step of his procedures. In a few moments, Bertha’s voice startled him.
“Mr. Schmidt would like to speak with you,” she said. “Shall I show him in?”
“Certainly.”
The burly mill owner appeared in the doorway and stopped, regarding Thomas. “You look like hell,” he said.
“And feel like it,” Thomas said. He saw now that Bert Schmidt was well beyond middle-aged, his close-cropped hair a uniform salt-and-pepper. “Before today, I’d heard so much about you that I was sure we’d already met,” Thomas said. He held out a hand, then grimaced and started to pull back. “I should clean up.”
Schmidt moved quickly and grasped the physician’s gory hand with a powerful grip. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “That’s what I wanted to say.”
“Well, we lost him,” Thomas said. “For a few minutes there, I was hopeful. I’m sorry. I truly am.”
“We’ve lost a good man,” Schmidt said. “I valued Lawrence Beautard highly. But you did more than I could have asked of anyone.”
Thomas pushed himself up a little straighter in the chair. “Someone needs to tend to his widow,” he said. “She’s with child again. This will be a difficult time for her.”
“My wife, Carlotta, is with her now.”
Thomas sat for a moment with his face cradled in both hands, and Schmidt waited patiently for him. The young physician straightened and shook his head. “You know, I’ve heard that Seattle has an entire telephone system, Mr. Schmidt.”
“So it has.”
“We should have one. If the mill could have placed a connection here, how much time would that have saved? Twenty minutes at the very least? Half an hour? That might have been enough. That and a proper ambulance, ready and waiting.”
Schmidt watched Thomas in silence for a moment. “Your dejection is to be expected,” he said. “Bertha says that a successful result was tantalizingly close.”
“We’ll never know.”
“I’ve seen a good many injuries in a third of a century in the timber, Doctor. My guess was that Lawrence’s number had been called the instant that saw shattered.” He heaved a sigh. “When I saw you that first day, I would have guessed the same thing. And now maybe someday, we’ll have that dinner together.”
“I would hope so.”
Schmidt nodded quickly. “Have you looked at Melvin yet? I saw him sitting in the ward. He’s more afraid of you than that saw.”
“I’m on the way,” Thomas said, “and hope to God for no complications there. A fair amount of yelling, a few stitches, and a marked limp for some time. He’ll not be eager to lift anything heavier than a whiskey glass for the next week or ten days.”
“That will break his heart, I’m sure.”
“You’ll need someone to come by later this afternoon to fetch him,” Thomas said. “He won’t want to walk.”
“Done.”
“What caused the saw to explode, do you know?”
“Well,” Schmidt said, his face taking on a determined set, “I haven’t had time to look, but one of my men said that the blade struck something in the wood.”
“Really. I wouldn’t think a knot or whatever would make much of a difference to such a huge apparatus.”
Schmidt laughed without a trace of humor. “Knots don’t.”
Chapter Forty-six
“You’ll have to shed the trousers,” Thomas ordered, and predictably, the nineteen-year-old blanched and looked around toward Bertha, whose back was turned to him. “I can’t treat you through layers of filthy cloth,” Thomas said. “We’ll need the trousers off, the undergarments off, and you facedown on the table. We’ll clean out the wound and see what we have.” Bertha had the needle in Melvin Smith’s arm before he knew it was coming. The lad yelped and tried to jerk away, but Bertha was ready for him, and moved in concert.
“What’s that you’re doin’?” he bleated. “Burns like hell.”
“Some morphine,” Thomas said. “You need to relax.”
“I told you, it don’t hurt.”
“Well, of course it doesn’t,” Thomas agreed easily, “but it’s going to when I start stitching.”
“You can’t do that,” Melvin wailed, but the edge in his voice was beginning to dull. “Oh…,” he moaned, and shook his head.
“Off with the shirt first, darling,” Bertha said, and Melvin’s face lit up.
“She called me ‘darling,’” he said to Thomas, with a silly grin.
“You have her attention,” the young physician replied. Bertha peeled the woolen shirt off, managing the buttons that the morphine hid from the young man. In due course, the sawyer was shed of every stitch of clothing and lying facedown on the table, white skin changing at the wrists and neck to weathered brown. Bertha covered him with a clean linen except for the damaged leg, and Melvin’s left hand snagged a corner and drew it to his face, like a small ch
ild hugging his crib blanket.
Thomas stood for a moment, assessing the gash in the back of the man’s right thigh. With the capriciousness of fate, the exploding blade had spared young Melvin Smith. A fragment of steel had flicked out and slashed meat down to the bone, laying open a gash a full eight inches long. The bone lay untouched. Thomas leaned his own right hip firmly against the table, and began the tedious process of cleaning the wound. He had never seen the slash of a sharp cavalry sword, but imagined this to be nearly identical—clean and deep.
Even though Thomas and Bertha spread the wound wide, flushing the canyon in Smith’s thigh liberally, the sawyer felt no pain. Time stopped as Thomas became engrossed in the challenge of reassembly. Repairing first the deeper and then the surface musculature took patience and considerable force. Once again, Thomas was soaked with sweat by the time the wound was closed, leaving a neat, lazy-S railroad track of sutures across the back of the man’s leg.
“He can rest in the ward until he’s fully conscious,” Thomas said. “I’ll want to talk with him before he leaves.”
“Of course.” Bertha said. “Always. Jake Tate said that he would stop by later this afternoon. I’ll tell him to fetch Mr. Smith some clothing and a proper set of crutches.”
Thomas pulled out his watch. “Do you know what time it is?”
Bertha laughed. “As a matter of fact, I do, Doctor.” The laugh didn’t erase the melancholy in her eyes. Despite the whirlwind of the day, Thomas knew that Bertha Auerbach was running on sheer nerves after the loss of Constable Eastman, forcing herself to carry on like the good soldier that she was.
“Three fifteen. How did that happen? We missed lunch.” He wheeled to the doorway and pushed it open. The waiting room was empty. He started toward the ward, then changed his mind and turned to the office, opening that door just in time to see Prince bent in a horseshoe, his left leg lifted and nose embedding in his crotch.
The dog stopped his excavations and turned to watch Thomas, but otherwise remained frozen, left leg still high in the air.
“Stop it,” Thomas said. The long, ropelike tail thumped twice on the floor, but the left leg remained elevated until Thomas wheeled closer. With an enormous, heartfelt groan, the dog’s head sank to the floor. The leg lowered. He didn’t move as Thomas reached down and grasped his left foot, but the instant Thomas lifted the dog’s leg, Prince’s head snapped off the floor and, as if he’d been given permission, once more began investigating his surgery with tongue and nose.
“Stop it,” Thomas repeated sternly. Bertha appeared in the doorway. “He’s had food?” he asked, nodding at the enameled pan near the dog’s head.
“Miss Haines brought pot roast down from the house.” She smiled. “I would imagine that Gert meant it for you.”
“I would have enjoyed some,” he said. The pan was clean. “I think another quarter grain to keep him quiet for the afternoon. I’ll tend to that.” He pushed the dog’s head away gently and examined the surgery. The area around the stitches was reddish, but Thomas saw no undue swelling or drainage.
“It’s too soon to tell, but he’s tough enough,” he said, and dropped the dog’s foot. The tail thumped again.
At the same time, the chime by the front door rang, and Thomas looked past Bertha. The man who had entered appeared vaguely familiar. Short of stature, tending to paunch, his florid face appeared as if he’d jogged up the hill through the mud. Dressed entirely in a neatly cut brown woolen suit, he carried a small valise. Inside the door, he stopped, set his valise on the floor, and industriously polished the rain off his spectacles.
“May we help you, sir?” Bertha Auerbach greeted him, but it didn’t sound to Thomas as if she was greeting a complete stranger. The man beamed.
“I’m looking for Dr. Thomas Parks, Miss Auerbach,” the man announced. “I’m told that I might find him here.”
Thomas wheeled to the office door. “I’m Parks,” he said, still thinking hard to place the man.
“Well,” the fellow said heartily. “So you are. So you are. Some small misfortune, I’m told, but it appears you’re healing nicely.”
“Thank you. I fear you have me at a disadvantage, Mr.…”
“Carlisle,” the man said, thrusting out his hand. “Efrim Carlisle. Your cabin mate aboard the Alice some weeks ago. Seems a lifetime, no doubt.”
As the man’s surprisingly rough, calloused hand clamped his in a viselike grip, the memory came back in a flood, memories in particular of Carlisle’s snoring that had marked every night of the small schooner’s passage.
“I hope your travels have treated you with better fortune. Come in.” Thomas beckoned toward the office. “You look fit.”
“Thank you, thank you.” Carlisle entered the office with alacrity, valise in hand. Whether it was the bag swinging this way and that, or the new smell, or simply being taken by surprise, Prince’s head jerked up as a bellow erupted from deep within his scrawny frame. His hindquarters remained as if spiked to the floor, but he lurched up on his forelegs.
Thomas quickly wheeled his chair between Carlisle, who backpedaled to the far side of the office, and the dog. The physician reached out a hand and rested it on the dog’s wide head, but the animal’s dark eyes tracked Carlisle.
“Come now, beast,” Thomas said gently. “You’re in no condition to take on anyone or anything.” The dog gulped as if he’d tried to swallow something distasteful and glanced at Thomas. In a moment he collapsed back on the floor, eyes on the visitor.
“He’s had a bit of surgery this morning.”
“My word,” Carlisle said. He sat gently in a chair on the other end of the massive desk, well away from the dog. “Run out of human patients, have we?”
Thomas laughed and wheeled behind the desk. “I think not. What can I do for you?” He glanced at the clock again.
“But a moment or two of your time, sir,” Carlisle said. He opened the valise, withdrew a single sheet, and handed it to Thomas.
Let it be known to all and sundry, that the bearer, Efrim L. Carlisle, Esquire, is charged with conducting business on behalf of Pitt and Burgess Lumber and Mining Co, Ltd., headquartered in Denver, Colorado, with holdings represented in Bellingham, Washington State, Houston, Texas, and the Alaskan territories.
With this letter of introduction, we are pleased to present Mr. Carlisle to you, and assure you that any negotiations he may undertake with you and your firm are backed with the full confidence of Pitt and Burgess Lumber and Mining, Ltd. Our firm appreciates any courtesy extended.
The letter was signed by Richard Culhane, President.
Thomas laid the paper on the desk. “Most impressive,” he said. The elaborate engraving on the letterhead showed a collage of various industrial endeavors representing, presumably, the business of Pitt and Burgess.
“You may have heard of us,” Carlisle said.
Thomas shook his head. “I mean no disrespect,” he said, “but you must remember I’m an Easterner until just a few days ago.” He smiled. “In fact, I know little beyond the bounds of these four walls.”
“Yet, word of your accomplishments has spread up and down the coast,” Carlisle said.
“I find that hard to believe.”
“You’re too modest,” Carlisle allowed. He glanced at the dog. “It’s not every physician who willingly includes the veterinary sciences in his practice.”
“Medicine is medicine.” Thomas said. “But so…What may I do for you? Or”—he peered at the letter again—“do for Pitt and Burgess?”
“Shall I come right to the point?” He licked his lips as if hinting that an ounce or two of something might not go unappreciated.
“Please do,” Thomas replied.
“My firm would like to offer you employment, Doctor.”
Chapter Forty-seven
Carlisle folded his hands over the top of his valise in s
atisfaction and smiled indulgently at the surprise on Thomas’ face.
“My firm,” Carlisle said, leaning forward now and lowering his voice in confidence, “is in desperate need of a director of medical services.” He frowned. “Now, this is a complicated matter. We’re looking for a physician who can coordinate not only his own successful practice, but provide medical services to our company development on Coues Island.”
“I am not familiar with the country.”
“Oh, there’s no reason you should be, Doctor. But suffice it to say that our company operations in and around Coues Island, and Coues Inlet, produce more than most other lumbering operations in the area combined.”
“I see.”
“Our company clinic on Coues Island includes eighteen beds, with many more to come. A similar facility near Bartlesville has just expanded to thirty-two beds. We currently employ a nursing staff of twelve.” He raised an eyebrow. “I dare say you could use some assistance here in that regard.”
“Matters are in hand,” Thomas said.
“In addition,” Carlisle continued, a bit too smugly for Thomas’ liking, as if what he really meant to say was, Oh, I know that matters really aren’t in hand, sir. “we have perhaps the most comprehensive sanatorium in northern Washington, with particular emphasis on tuberculosis patients.”
“Also on Coues Island?” Thomas had never heard of Coues, but then again, the northwest was full of odd corners he had never heard of, and certainly never visited. If it wasn’t three blocks of Port McKinney or a narrow lane out to Schmidt’s sawmill, he hadn’t been there.
“Yes, indeed.”
“It’s surprising that with all the clinic work and expansion your firm has time remaining to cut wood,” Thomas said. “You’ve spoken with Dr. Haines, I assume?”
“Oh, I know John well, believe me. But no, I haven’t, at least not today. Strangely enough,” and he suddenly hesitated, biting his lower lip, “we find ourselves in a similar situation as yourselves. Dr. Willette—perhaps you’ve heard of him?” Thomas shook his head. “Well, Dr. Willette—Maurice Willette—has headed our efforts for years. Unfortunately, the good doctor recently suffered an attack of some sort and is partially incapacitated. Now, for some time, he has been our medical director, in charge of all our facilities. But regrettably, we find that he is no longer able to carry on.” Carlisle leaned forward again. “We are in desperate need, sir. The country is challenging, the task is in many ways daunting. The responsibilities are great. But,” and he lowered his voice another notch, “the opportunities are tremendous for the right man—a young man such as yourself with imagination, ambition, the finest training from a leading institution, someone who will take the reins and provide quality service.”
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