Don't Hang My Friend

by Raffensperger, John;

  Chapter One

  We ran down Front Street by the town square and figured on goin’ fishin’ but it hadn’t rained since before the Fourth of July and the river was so low wagons could cross on the sandbar. Grasshoppers were sluggish and could hardly fly. “It’d be easy to catch those hoppers for bait,” I said.

  “Wouldn’t do no good, the fish ain’t bitin’. Lets cool off in the horse trough,” Billy said. Billy Malone was my best friend and the strongest boy in town. Pa had let me out of the store early on account of it was Saturday. I hoped Rachel, that girl with hair like corn shucks in October and eyes bluer than the sky had come to town. A line of wagons were by the trough. Horses were swishin’ their tails against the flies and slurpin’ up water. The water was ice cold and smelled like rotten eggs; some folks thought it cured rheumatism. I drank out of the trough once but didn’t feel any better. Farmers from as far as ten miles away came to town on Saturdays. to drink beer and gossip while their wives shopped in the stores. Kids could buy sody pop or an ice cream it they had a nickel. The saloons and shops were doing a lot of business and folks were lined up at the dentist to get teeth pulled.

  We finally got to soak our heads in the trough and let cold water ran over our shirts. I felt a heap better. The men were smokin’ or chawin’ tobacco and talkin’ politics. “Damn that Useless Grant! He’s givin’ all that gold to eastern bankers and he ain’t payin’ no attention to us folks,” one old farmer said.

  “That’s right, and the price of hogs is low and the crops are so dried up they won’t amount to a hill of beans this year,” another complained.

  That sort of talk was upsetting on account of General Grant was a hero who had just about licked the Rebs single-handed. It wasn’t his fault that it hadn’t rained.

  A steamboat let out a long mournful whistle. We went off at a run and got to the landing in time to see the Daisy Belle comin’ past Horseshoe Island. She was sure enough a daisy! Her hull was painted white with gold trim around the wheel-house and the big stern wheel and her smoke stacks were bright red. She made the roundtrip from Sandy Ford to St. Louis every two weeks, regular as clockwork. Sometimes she ran all the way to New Orleans. Usually she went on north, but with low water, steamboats couldn’t get past the sandbar at the mouth of Sandy Creek. The steam whistle blew again and echoed back from the hills across the river. That sound stirs the blood like bugles did in the war. The river sparkled in the hot sunlight and willow trees rustled in a little breeze. It was a pretty place. I would miss it when I went out west to fight Injuns.

  The Daisy Belle pushed into the landing and when two darkies let down the gangplank a tall lanky fellow in a slouch hat started off the boat. The captain grabbed his arm.

  “Damn it, Pay the two dollars or I’ll have the constable lock you up,” he said.

  “I won two dollars fair and square, but let you keep it for the fare,” the stranger said.

  “That was for your dinner. You still owe two dollars.” The captain cocked his fist.. “I’ll knock you in the water,” he said. “I only got a dollar and fifty cents,” the stranger said.

  The captain took the money but cursed and shook his fist. I thought that a man who wouldn’t fight when someone raised his fist against him didn’t amount to much. The stranger was close to six feet tall and well built but his shoulders sagged from carrying a leather valise and a carpet bag.

  “Mister, I kin take your bags for a nickel,” I said.

  “Sorry, son, I can carry the bags just fine.”

  Billy shucked of his clothes down to his drawers and waded out to go swimmin’. I wanted to go with him, but needed money to buy a horse and a saddle and a gun. I had only three dollars. I trotted alongside the stranger, figurin’ that when he got tired of climbin’ the hill he would let me carry a bag. He didn’t pay me no attention.

  Up on Main Street, horses and wagons were plodding along on the dusty street.. All of a sudden, I saw Rachel, riding a little bay mare not fifty yards away. I forgot about the stranger and decided to borrow a nickel from Pa and buy her an ice cream.

  Just then, a woman screamed, “MAD DOG, MAD DOG!”

  A big black and brown dog that was drooling spit and walkin’ stiff legged came out of an alley. People yelled and ran; Horses reared and pawed the air, with their eyes buggin’ out. The dog kept comin’ closer and closer to Rachel. Her horse side-stepped away from the dog. She pulled at the reins but the horse reared and pawed the air. He come down on all four feet and started to run, then went straight up on his hind legs with his ears laid back. She leaned forward with her arms wrapped around his neck. When the horse came down on his splayed-out front feet, she did a head-over-heels somersault and landed so hard you could hear the thump. She lay in the dust like she was dead. That dog ran in circles, chewin’ at the ground and frothin’ at the mouth and took off toward Rachel. If the spit from an animal with hydrophoby dripped on your skin, you were as good as dead.

  I froze in my tracks alongside the stranger. He put down his bags, and took a big cap and ball revolver out of the valise. He raised the gun, pulled back the hammer and fired, without taking aim. The blast just about busted my eardrums. When the smoke cleared, the dog was down, but still kickin’ and chawin’ at the dirt and pulling himself towards the girl. The stranger walked up to the dog, pulled back the hammer and put a ball in the dog’s head.

  Just then, another shot blasted the air. A bullet kicked dirt at the stranger’s feet. Up the street, by the feed store, Murphy worked the lever of his rifle. “Damn you, that’s my dog,” he yelled. Some folks said Murphy was the head Klansman and an outlaw but he worked for the sheriff. The stranger just stood there, the big revolver dangling from his hand.

  Isaiah, an ex slave who worked at the Camp house came up from the ferry landing driving a wagon, with two mules that still had the brands of the U.S. Army. Isaiah had brought Captain Trimmer’s body back from Gettysburg in the same wagon with the same mules..

  “I been a waitin’ to catch you thieving rascal,” shouted Murphy. He shifted the rifle and aimed at the old Negro but the stranger fired a shot that nicked Murphy’s hat. My mind went all a whirl, wondering why a man would not protect himself, but defended an ex-slave. Murphy ducked and shook his fist, “By God, I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I do,” he shouted. Isaiah flicked the reins and the mules got up to a slow trot. When he passed the stranger he touched the brim of his straw hat. “Thankee sah”, he said. He flicked the mules again and trotted off towards the Camp House.

  Before the gun-smoke cleared Rachel’s mother flung herself in the dirt next to the girl and bawled to beat the band. “Get Doc Evans,” I yelled. Meantime, the stranger knelt by Rachel and examined her leg. She was even prettier and had more curves than I remembered. Her eyes were squinched shut and her mouth was a tight white line. She hadn’t screamed or even moaned. Right then, my heart squeezed tight deep inside my chest. It was like a stomach ache or a knot that tied up my insides. For the last year, females had got to be a lot more interesting.

  For an old feller, Doc Evans didn’t waste any time. He ran down the street, in the same black frock coat he wore summer and winter. He knelt by the girl, adjusted his spectacles and stroked his beard. Doc had taken to whiskey after the war but it was still early in the day and he was pretty steady. He slit the girl’s riding skirt all the way above her knee with a little pen knife. The leg was twisted all out of kilter, and just below her knee, a splinter of white bone stuck out from her skin.

  “It is a compound fracture of the tibia and likely will turn into gangrene,” said Doc Evans.

  The girl’s eyes fluttered; she screamed and screamed. Her mother threw herself across the girl and they both moaned and hollered until the scre
ams echoed off the buildings along Main Street. Her father, Adam Bontrager stood there with his big hands hangin’ down at his sides. “What do you aim to do with her?”

  “The leg must come off or she will be dead in two-three days,” said Doc Evans.

  The mother buried her face in her hands and hollered even louder, but Adam Bontrager looked at Rachel. “If it’s the Lord’s will, but before, we must pray for her recovery.”

  The stranger was still on his knees next to Doc Evans. “I can save her leg,” he said.

  “The leg has to come off,” Doc Evans said.

  Doc Evans had been a surgeon in the Mexican war and went with the 47th Illinois to Shiloh and lots of other battles. He would go through floods, snowstorms or hellfire to see sick patients, had delivered about all the babies in Sandy Ford and treated every ailment known to mankind. Folks in town thought more of him than the mayor or even the preachers.

  Her mother wiped the tears with the back of her hand and pushed blonde hair under her bonnet. She sniffed and hiccupped, then looked the stranger straight in the eye.

  “How can you save my girl’s leg?”

  The stranger had fine wrinkles at the edges of his eye sockets, was clean shaven and had graying hair, which hadn’t felt a barber’s shears for a long time.

  “A surgeon in Edinburgh treats cases like this with carbolic acid and saves the leg every time,” he said. I was close enough to have touched Rachel and couldn’t take my eyes off that poor twisted broken leg. There were a lot of remedies in Pa’s store, but I had never heard of carbolic acid. I figured I would kill myself if Rachel died. I prayed for a miracle, but she didn’t rise up from the dirt good as new.

  Rachel’s four brothers wore identical broad-brimmed hats, white shirts, laced to the neck, and gray coats, held together with hooks and eyes on account of they didn’t use buttons. All of them except the youngest had long black beards. Her father, a big bellied, big chested man with a bright red, sweaty face turned his back on the girl and talked in German with his oldest son. He spit tobacco juice and with the toe of his boot smoothed dry dust over the brown wet spot. Most folks didn’t like the Amish on account of their boys never went in the army and they made a lot of money selling stock to the government during the war. Even so, folks turned out on the street for the excitement stayed out of sympathy for the girl.

  Mr. Paul Birt, who had lost an arm at Shiloh and published the Sandy Ford News Democrat hustled out of his office. “Who are you?” He asked.

  “Dr. Robert Steele.”

  “How can you save her leg?” Mr. Birt asked.

  “Lister, a surgeon in Edinburgh applies carbolic acid to wounds and prevents infection. Wounds like this can heal.” Dr. Steele said.

  “You ever done it?” Adam Bontrager asked.

  “No sir. I was in Edinburgh and studied under Dr. Lister.”

  The oldest son turned to Doc Evans. “You ever heard of this?”

  “No. It’s better to take the leg off and get it over with,” said Doc Evans.

  The crowd moved closer. Most folks didn’t trust strangers and there was talk against the new doctor.

  Adam Bontrager listened to the new doctor and maybe thought it would be hard to marry off a one legged daughter. “How much will you charge?” He asked.

  “That depends on whether I can save the leg.”

  Bontrager motioned to the sons. “Put her in the wagon. We’ll go on home and pray. The Lord will do his work,” he said.

  “No, you can’t do that. She will die for sure,” Doc Evans said.

  “That’s right, it’s either take it off or try and save it,” Dr. Steele said.

  The mother balled her fist and pushed against old Bontrager’s chest. He made a grab for her shoulder, but she stepped aside and stood over the girl, with her hands on her hips. “She’s my daughter! I ain’t going to let her die.”

  The boys made like they were going to put the girl on the wagon. “Don’t you touch her,” the mother screamed.

  “Go ahead, save my girl’s leg,” she said.

  “Ma’s right.” The youngest boy said.

  Old man Bontrager backed off and spit. “Go on, do your work,” he growled.

  People pushed and shoved to get near the girl and the doctors. “A man’s got a right to decide for his kids,” a man yelled. “She’s gonna die and it’s that stranger’s fault,” shouted another. Every one knew that legs turned to gangrene when a broken bone busted through the skin unless the leg was cut off. Most folks had a relative or at least knew a soldier who had an amputation during the war. While folks argued small boys poked at the dead dog and shooed away buzzing horseflies.

  “In the war, we amputated every leg with a compound fracture, but the new carbolic acid treatment works. I’m just passing through town and don’t want to take a case away from you. If my treatment doesn’t work, you can still take off her leg. I would be obliged if you would give the ether,” said Dr. Steele.

  Doc Evans looked like he was having second thoughts. It was not the same as sawing a leg off a poor soldier. Later, there might be whispers that if he had let the stranger have his way, the girl would still be walking and doing chores. He stuck out his hand to the new doctor.

  “I will give the ether,” he said.

  “I need a room with good light,” the new doctor said. “The back room of Pa’s store has a big window and plenty of light,” I said.

  Doc Steele steadied her leg while her brothers took her into the store. “Pa, the doctor is going to do an operation,” said I.

  They carried her past the marble counter where Pa ground up powders and then through an aisle lined with shelves for patent medicines and horse liniment. The back room was maybe twelve by fifteen feet and lit by a big window facing west over the alley.

  The brothers put her on the table we used to mix medicines.

  “Get two hand basins, clean water, two clean towels and a sheet,” said Dr. Steele. “Yes sir,” I said.

  I got two basins and showed one of the brothers how to get water out of the hand pump. The Widow Parker’s boarding house was just across the street; she was in the street so as not to miss anything.

  “A girl was hurt bad and the new doctor needs a clean sheet and towels,” I said.

  “It’s gonna cost fifty cents,” the widow said.

  “The doctor or old man Bontrager will pay.”

  She went off and came back with the towels and the sheet.

  Her brothers put her on the table, with the leg in sunlight. Farmers and townspeople came into the alley and crowded around the window. They grumbled about how this new fangled idea would kill the girl. More folks were in the store, trying to see through the door. Doctor Steele paid them no mind. He took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves and covered the girl with the sheet and spent a long time washing his hands and surgical tools in a basin of carbolic and water.

  “Give her the ether,” said he.

  Doc Evans folded a handkerchief into a neat square and covered her mouth and nose. She started to cry, but he stroked her cheek and poured a few drops of the ether on the handkerchief. Rachel made a strangling noise in the back of her throat and held her breath. Her arms came up and she tried to push the cloth away from her face. One of the brothers held her while Doc Evans poured ether onto the cloth. She breathed in the fumes and stopped struggling. It looked like she was dead or dying, except that I could see her chest moving up and down. I prayed, like I never did before.

  “Grab her ankle and pull hard,” said the doctor. The oldest brother pulled on her ankle while the doctor washed the girl’s leg and cleaned the bone with a cloth soaked in water and carbolic acid.

  “Better hurry up, I don’t like to keep her asleep for long,” Doc Evans said.

  Dr. Steele took a small curved knife out of the basin and cut the skin around the hole. When a rivulet of bright red blood flowed, her oldest brother, who was over six feet tall, keeled over and hit the floor so hard it shook. When the blood started, I
figured she was a goner.

  “Hurry up, she’s sinking, I would have had her leg off and all sewed up by this time,” Doc Evans said.

  “You, boy, grab her leg and pull,” Dr. Steele said.

  I took hold, but my hands were shaking like I had a chill. When I pulled, the bones made a grating sound and I got dizzy in the head.

  “Hold steady,” the doctor said.

  After cutting the skin and enlarging the jagged hole, he cleaned bits of dirt from deep around the bone. My arms were about to drop, but I gritted my teeth and hung on. When the wound was clean enough to suit him, Dr. Steele put both his hands around the girl’s leg and tried to push the broken bone back under the skin. The splintered end kept poking out, but he worked until the sweat dripped off his head.

  Out in the alley, more people were pushing against the window and trying to get through the door.

  “We oughta tar and feather the son a bitch,” someone said.

  Then the doctor levered the bone with the handle of his curved knife until the broken ends popped under the skin. He sighted down the leg. “This is the tibia bone that takes all the weight. If it ain’t straight, she will walk crooked.”

  “Her skin has turned blue and she ain’t breathing right. If she dies, it’s your fault for taking so long.” Doc Evans’ voice shook.

  “Let up on the ether,” Doc Steele yelled. The leg must have suited him because he stitched the skin with a common sewing needle and thread. It was so neat you could hardly see the wound. Then he wrapped more cloths soaked in the carbolic solution around her leg and strapped on narrow boards. The girl moaned and started to move. I was dizzy from the ether and carbolic fumes, but held the leg in a death grip.

  “You ain’t fixin to pass out, are you?” Dr. Steele asked.

  “No sir, I’m just fine, said I.

  His face was lined and gray and his nose was pinched, like the operation had aged him ten years. I held on to the girl’s leg while she moaned and twisted her head from side to side. Pretty soon, she quieted down and went back to sleep. Her lips and face was dead white and even her sun-burned nose was pale. I figured she was just about dead.