Don't Hang My Friend

by Raffensperger, John;

  He turned the reins over to me. I got the sulks and figured he was a coward. If it wasn’t for the chance to see Rachel again, I shouldn’t have come with him. In a few minutes we come to a rail fence marking the Bontrager property.

  The crops and the grass were green because there was a big spring about halfway up the hill. I opened the gate while Dr. Steele guided the horse up the lane past a stand of oak trees to the house in a grove of cottonwood trees. A big red barn, chicken houses and pens for cattle and hogs were out back. The square two story house was built out of clapboards and extra rooms had been tacked on one side. There were three brick chimneys and a windmill with an iron pipe running from a spring into the back of the house. Dr. Steele stopped the buggy under a tree, got down and tipped his hat to Mrs. Bontrager who had come out on the front porch.

  “Good morning, I come to see your daughter,” he said.

  “That’s kind of you. Mr. Bontrager and the boys are at the meeting house,” she said.

  “How is she?” Dr. Steel asked.

  “She was sick all night and couldn’t hold nothing in her stomach, but is better now. She is in the parlor.”

  “Bring my bag,” said Dr. Steele.

  I got down from the buggy, took the black bag and followed him to the house. The curtains were closed and parlor was dark and cool. The room had a pinewood floor with hand made rugs, straight backed chairs and a hard wooden bench. Rachel was on a pallet made up by the window with her hair spread out on a pillow that took on a buttery yellow color when Doc opened the curtains. She wore a right fetching clinging nightgown. I got a strange feeling like being underwater a long time and comin’ up and seeing the bright sun. She pulled a quilt up around her neck, then lay real still like she was about to die. Her face was white and her lips were clenched and her eyes were squeezed shut from pain. Dr. Steele timed her pulse with his watch and felt her forehead with the back of his hand. “Normal,” said he. His face lit up with a big smile, like a cloud had been lifted off his shoulders. “Please boil enough water for two basins,” he said.

  He gave Rachel a big spoon of laudanum. While the water was boiling, Mrs. Bontrager gave us coffee and buttermilk.

  When the water was ready, Rachel had closed her eyes and the pain left. I added carbolic acid to the boiled water and soaked towels and a pair of scissors.

  “Scrub your hands,,” said he.

  Dr. Steele cut the bandage on top of her leg. “Not a sign of infection,” he said. I helped wrap on fresh bandages and felt real proud and important.

  “It looks fine, but we can’t be sure for another few days.”

  Rachel was still asleep when Mr. Bontrager and his returned from the meeting house. Except for Walter, the youngest boy, they were all big with round faces and high foreheads. Dr. Steele explained that Rachel’s leg looked just fine but it would take another week before he could be sure it had healed. The Bontrager men didn’t seem any more interested if we were talking about a sick animal.

  I went with Walter, the youngest brother to lead Pepper to the trough behind the barn.. While the horse ate the oats, he kicked the dirt. “ I am sure grateful to you for helping with Rachel,” he said. The dinner bell rang, We went to a long table with platters of beefsteaks, chicken, ham, mashed potatoes, gravy and sweet corn. I had never seen so much food all in one place, even at the Friday night church suppers. Mr. Bontrager said a prayer in German that seemed to go most all afternoon.. Finally, we ate until the platters were clean and I was filled to near busting. Then there was peach pie, cherry cobbler and pudding, all covered with thick sweet cream. The men washed it down with homemade beer. By the time we finished and hitched Pepper to the buggy, the sun was well past noon. I was in a big hurry to get the horse and buggy back to the livery stable in time for the afternoon train.

  Just before we left, Dr. Steele stepped back into the parlor to take Rachel’s pulse one more time. I followed and stood just inside the door. Her eyes were wide open. “Thank you,” she said.

  I stood there, grinning like an idjut and all flustered. I wanted to hold her hand and tell her how beautiful she was. Instead, I backed away towards the porch and almost tripped over my own feet.

  Mr. Bontrager had his leather purse in hand. “How much?”

  “The horse and buggy cost a dollar,” I said.

  “And a dollar for my assistant, a dollar for the medicine and bandages and a dollar for my time,” Dr. Steele said.

  Mr.Bontrager clutched his purse and his face went pale under his sunburn.

  “That’s pretty high and I suppose you got to come back again.”

  “Yes, I’ll be back at least three more times and like I said yesterday, if your girl walks, you can decide how much it’s worth to you.”

  Mr. Bontrager clinked four silver dollars into Dr. Steele’s hand.

  “That makes seven dollars. I didn’t figure you was going to charge so much. Money don’t grow on trees,” he said.

  Dr. Steele nodded his head and didn’t argue.

  I was plumb confused. Dr. Steele didn’t talk back or stand up for his rights but he sure knew doctoring.

  Pepper was tired and wouldn’t trot. Pete Stiles would be mad and Aunt Alice would have a fit if I didn’t go to the church with her. Except for seeing Rachel again, it looked like the whole day was a mistake.

  “You think her leg will heal?” I asked.

  “It’s got a better than even chance. If there is no pus and no fever on the first day, it’s unlikely that gangrene will set in.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The worst germs cause trouble right away. If pus forms after a few days it isn’t so bad and wounds usually heal. That’s why it’s called laudable pus, but any kind of pus is bad for wounds. Dr. Lister in Edinburgh found that carbolic acid kills germs, so wounds heal without infection but most doctors don’t believe in the germ theory.

  “Being a doctor is fine but Pa says we ain’t got the money for college. I figure on going out west to fight Indians and outlaws.”

  “Why?”

  “We gotta kill the Indians, just like the Rebs,” I said.

  “The Indians haven’t hurt you and neither did the Rebs. Wars start the same as when two boys get into a scrap. Neither one wants to fight because they both know that even the winner will most likely get a bloody nose or a black eye. They fight because all the other kids sick them on at each other,” Dr. Steele said.

  I knew that was true for a fact.

  “Men have been killing each other ever since Bible times but it isn’t right,” he said.

  “What about if someone insults you or starts the fight? Were you afraid to draw on Murphy on account of you couldn’t have hit him?”

  “Whoa now, stop right here.”

  He reached into his black bag and pulled out that big old Navy Colt. “See that crow sittin’ on that tree limb over yonder?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You take this pistol and shoot that crow. Let’s see if you are good enough to kill Indians and outlaws.”

  “I ain’t never shot a pistol before,” I said.

  “Go on, let’s see if you are one of those natural gunfighters.”

  I aimed but my hand wobbled. It was hard to line up the sights, but I finally yanked on the trigger. The crow didn’t even move.

  “Now give me that pistol.” Quick as anything, he fired. Feathers flew and the crow fell off the limb.

  Pepper was hardly moving, but when the gun went off the second time, she went off like greased lightning. After he shot that crow, I decided there was something to what he said. Sometimes Pa said how important it was to relieve human misery.

  “How do I go about being a doctor?”

  “Study Latin and chemistry, and go to medical school for couple years. After that, if you want to learn the new scientific medicine, travel to Edinburgh or Paris. I can loan you some books.”

  I did some serious thinking while we trotted along.

  “Hold up, look over there,” Do
ctor Steele said.

  A mother quail, with a half dozen chicks, no bigger than bumblebees, were catching grasshoppers in the dust. “This is right pretty country, reminds me of the farm in Indiana,” he said.

  We got back to the livery stable in time, mainly on account of the afternoon train was late. Doc paid Pete Stickle the dollar and we walked along for a spell.

  “Tom, thanks for your help. If you change your mind about going out west and decide to study medicine, I’ll be glad to help.”

  When I got home, Aunt Alice was getting supper and was dressed for the evening church service.

  “I ain’t much hungry,” said I.

  “Hurry up and get ready for church,” she said.

  “Aunty, I’m awful tired. It’s been a long day. Do I really hafta go?”

  “You are too big for me to whip and there ain’t no way I can make you go. Maybe you just better stay with your pa anyway. He’s been awful sick today.”

  Aunty got on her hat and left for church. I felt bad about talking back on account of she was such a good person.

  Pa was covered with a quilt, because he felt cold, even on hot summer days. The pint jar at his bedside was about a quarter full of the greenish-yellow phlegm that he coughed up, day and night. He looked like he was asleep, but when I came into the room his eyes opened and he sat up in bed.

  “Tom, I been asleep and was afraid I missed you.”

  His skin was hot, there were black circles under his deep sunk eyes and his pale, blue veined hand was dry and cold and felt like it was made out of bare bones.

  “Have you been away all day?” He asked.

  “Yes sir, I went with the new doctor to see the girl with the broken leg. He paid me a dollar.”

  “How is she?”

  “She was alright. That doctor sure has funny ideas. He thinks we should have just talked to the Rebs instead of fightin’ the war.”

  “He ain’t the only one who thinks that,” pa said.

  “Shouldn’t we Americans stand up and fight for what’s right?”

  “There’s better things in life than going away and fighting. Doctoring is a high calling. I wish we had money for your schooling.”

  He lay back on the pillow, looking old and tired. I patted his hand and went away more confused than ever. It got worse when I thought about Rachel and her people who didn’t believe in wars or fighting. I had a terrible nightmare about men in white robes coming to get me and woke up in a cold sweat.

  Chapter Four

  There’s no good reason why things should look worse in the morning. I felt bad about talking back to the doctor and not going to church. It got worse when Aunt Alice banged the dishes and didn’t say a word. I wanted to head out west, but didn’t have an outfit, couldn’t aim a pistol and even Little Ike was braver than me. I said my prayers over breakfast and vowed to do better.

  As soon as I dried the dishes, I ran to the store and swept and mopped the floor by the time Pa came at nine o’clock, just like always. He looked better after a day of rest. “Tom, label the bottles,” he said

  The dime novels and penny thrillers on the rack by the front door told stories of high adventure, fighting Indians, killing desperados and finding gold nuggets. I had read every one of them before they were sold. According to the dime novels, lots of swooning maidens needed rescuing from blood thirsty savages. Afterwards the girl couldn’t get enough of kissin’ and huggin’. I didn’t have no experience along those lines but it sounded like a fine life.

  The labels of bottles of Ginseng had a picture of an Indian in full headdress that reminded me of those blood thirsty savages.

  ELIXER OF GINSENG

  Warms the blood and revives the mind

  Strengthens the stomach and comforts the bowels

  Gently relieves all female ailments

  Frisks the manly spirits in all ages.

  RECOMMENDED BY INDIAN AND CHINESE PHYSICIANS

  Ginseng roots in alcohol was our most popular remedy; old men paid as much as fifty cents a bottle. I drank some, once, and got swimmy in the head, but It didn’t grow hair on my chest or build muscles.

  After a while, Pa shuffled into the back room and spotted four bottles with crooked labels. “Fix those labels then mix the horehound and whisky,” he said.

  I measured the ingredients and filled a couple dozen bottles, then went to work on mixing eucalyptus oil and camphor for whooping cough. His grandmother in Maine gave Pa all these recipes. They worked too. There was nothing as good for pneumonia as ground up lobelia roots in lard rubbed on the chest.

  “Whoa, whoa there.” It was Miz Trimmer, hollering at her good for nothing old gray horse,that was half deaf. I opened the back door when Sarah, Little Ike’s mother stepped down from the four wheeled surrey. I helped Miz Trimmer on account of she had the rheumatics and breathed hard. She was a fine, up-standing lady who always wore a white bonnet and a long black dress with a white collar. “Thank you, Tom. Now, get those sacks from the back of the buggy”, she said.

  “Sarah and the children found everything in the woods,” said Miz Trimmer. Pa sorted out the ginseng roots, Echinacea, Sassafras, hepatica and lobelia roots and leaves, while I ran to the front of the store for two bottles of strawberry soda pop for the ladies.

  When I came back, Sarah held a hanky over her face with tears running down her cheeks. “Little Ike ain’t come home. He been away since Sattidy, I’se feared he drowned in the river,” said she. I got a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach and the picture of Ike running away from Murphy flashed through my mind. I didn’t say nothin’ so’s not to worry Sarah. “That ain’t all,” She sobbed for a while. “What else?” Pa asked. “Those men in white were back last night. This time, they burned a cross and shot off guns,” Sarah said.

  Miz Trimmer sat on the straight back chair by Pa’s desk. She breathed hard and made a wheezing noise in her throat. “They want the land we gave to Isaiah when we come from Virginia. It is their land and when I pass on, they get my two hundred acres. It is in the deed and I’m going to put it in my will,” said she.

  “Have you made the will?” Pa asked. “Why no,” said she.

  Pa weighed the roots on a balance scale and counted out dollar bills and silver coins to pay Miz Trimmer. “No, give it to Sarah.” Miz Trimmer had a bad spell of coughing.

  “I feel poorly. Maybe it is time to make the will,” said she.

  Pa pushed paper and a pen across the desk. “What is the date? She asked. “August 25, 1871”, Pa said. She wrote a while. “There, the farm, the house, the barn and all the animals go to Isaiah and his family,” she said.

  “You need two witnesses. Mr. Birt would do fine” said Pa.

  Mr. Birt wasn’t in his office. “Well, try Mr. Farnum at the bank,” pa said. The banker came right away when I told him it was about a will.

  Mr. Farnum adjusted his glasses and read the will. “This is an outrage. You can’t give property to those negroes,” said he.

  “They are good people. Isaiah and his family cleared the land for wages just like any white man. Captain Trimmer deeded a piece of bottom land to Isaiah and I aim to give his family the rest of my property,” said Miz Trimmer.

  “There is no deed recorded in the courthouse,” said Mr. Farnum. “I have not gotten around to it but all the papers are in a safe place,” said Miz Trimmer.

  Mr. Farnum signed the will and stamped out the back door. “I’se feared of that man,” said Sarah.

  The next day, Doc Evans came into the store to get some arnica ointment for rheumatism. He had been with Dr. Steele to see Rachel.

  “It’s a damn miracle. That leg is healing and there isn’t a bit of infection. I asked Dr. Steele to see Mr. Birt’s bad arm,” Doc Evans said.

  Mr. Birt had tried most everything to heal the wound in the stump of his arm. . Laudanum was the only thing that relieved the pain after a cannon ball mashed his elbow. “You can come along, if you want,” Doc Evans said.

  Doc Evans office was
untidy and smelled of whisky. Most folks didn’t mind because he took good care of the sick. When we came up the stairs, Mr. Birt and Dr. Steele were already there. The stump of Mr. Birt’s arm that dull red and leaked green pus that smelled like a dead mouse. Mr. Birt jerked and his face twitched every time Dr. Steele ran his fingers over a sore place partway up the arm.

  “There’s probably a piece of shrapnel next to the bone pressing on a nerve. An operation might help,” Dr. Steele said.

  “Can you relieve the pain? It’s got so bad I can’t sleep or scarcely work,” said Mr. Birt. “An operation might help if you survive but chances are you will be better,” said Dr. Steele

  “At least you are honest. When can you do it?”

  “Any time you want.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Mr. Birt.

  “Is there a room with good light in your house?” Dr. Steele asked.

  “Sunlight comes in the dining room about noon,” said Mr. Birt.

  “Tom, Can you help with the operation?” Dr. Steele asked.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Come around the Camp House tonight.”

  Things weren’t right. Mr. Camp served drinks to the doctors and brought a lemonade for me. “Where is Isaiah,” I asked.

  “He hasn’t been here since last Saturday. The whole family is out looking for little Ike,” Mr. Camp said.

  It was just like a mule had kicked me in the stomach and I hardly noticed when Dr. Steele gave a big book to me..

  “This is Gray’s Anatomy. Study the part about the upper arm before the operation,” said Dr. Steele.

  The first page had a picture of a grinnin’ death’s head that reminded me of little Ike. I shivered and closed the book.

  “This book is scary; I ain’t lookin’ at it no more.”

  “Every doctor has to learn anatomy,” said Dr. Steele. “This is your chance to get ahead in the world,” Doc Evans said.

  I opened it again and looked at pictures of muscles and nerves. “How come it ain’t in English?” I asked.