Don't Hang My Friend

by Raffensperger, John;

  “The body parts have Latin names.” He flipped the pages until he came to a picture of the arm. “Study the nerves and arteries in the upper arm,” he said. He pinched my arm. “This is the biceps muscle and in back of the bone, is the triceps. The artery, the veins, the ulnar and median nerves are in this groove. The radial nerve winds around the bone.”

  “Do you think shrapnel is pressing on that nerve?” Doc Evans said.

  “Most likely,” Dr. Steele replied.

  They got to talking about nerves and bones and injuries they had seen in the war. It seemed like this whole business of being a doctor was complicated and harder than just learning about Pa’s medicines.

  I read Latin names like Arteria Brachialis or Venae Comites and how one of the nerves sort of twisted around the humerus bone.

  Tim Morton, the night watchman dashed up the driveway in his buggy. “Dr. Evans, you are needed at the landing.”

  We all piled into Tim’s buggy and made it the landing in no time. Isaiah and his son, Young Isaiah stood over the body of Little Ike. Tears rolled down their cheeks.

  “Where did you find him?” Doc Evans asked.

  “He was caught on willow branches ‘bout a mile down the river,” Young Isaiah said.

  The whole family gathered around the little swollen up body, hollerin’ and screaming. His mother threw herself down. “Lord, Lord, mercy, please.” News traveled fast in Sandy Ford and pretty soon a large crowd gathered in the torchlight. Calvin Brewer the sheriff arrived a while later. His eyes were gone and there was a hole in Ike’s stomach.

  “Looks like he drowned and a big Gar fish chewed on his stomach. “It’s death by natural causes. If I’da knowed it was a darkie, I never would a bothered,” the sheriff said.

  It was a cruel thing to say; someone in the crowd laughed. “Ha, Ha, ain’t that right.” The sheriff was popular on account of he was all for running the ex slaves back south.

  Dr. Steele got down on his knees. “Shine a light here.”

  He studied the face and then poked and prodded at the guts sticking out the belly. “The hole in his stomach is cut clean, like a knife,” said he. He rolled the body onto his face.

  There was another clean cut gash about an inch and a half long in his back. “Somebody stabbed the boy in the back,” Dr. Steele said.

  “You got no business interfering. That hole coulda been made by a branch or a stick.” the sheriff said.

  “Maybe you should look for the truth,” Doc Steele said.

  I was about to tell about Ike and the man on horseback, when Billy Malone grabbed me. “Don’t say nothin’, less you want a heap of trouble,” he hissed.

  Folks drifted home. Dr. Steele lit up a seegar and we walked together, toward the Camp House.

  “Do you think Ike suffered much before he died?” I asked.

  “I reckon he died pretty sudden,”

  “I’ll study the book tonight and help with the operation,” said I.

  “Good,” he said.

  When I got home, Pa and Aunt Alice were already in bed but she had left a lamp in the kitchen. I studied and memorized the Latin names until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer.

  The bay window of Mr. Birt’s house faced south and let in plenty of light. Mrs. Dewey, the housekeeper, had boiled a whole washtub of water. I dipped out two basins, added carbolic acid and soaked the instruments. When everything was ready, Mr. Birt took off his coat and shirt and let his underwear down to his waist. His flesh had wasted away and his ribs stuck out under the skin. Dr. Steele helped him up on the walnut dining room table with the stump of his arm facing the window. He laid down, put his head on a pillow, settled his good left arm down alongside his body, then took a deep breath and sort of sighed.

  Dr. Evans folded a cloth into a cone and put it over Mr. Birt’s face. “It smells bad, but breathe deep,” he said.

  After two or three breaths, he coughed and tried to get up, but we held him until he settled down. I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Dewey in the kitchen, down on her knees praying. We scrubbed our hands in the carbolic solution. Dr. Steele put the bistoury, probes, curettes and little curved clamps on a clean towel. There were two shiny metal instruments with hooks on the end that I hadn’t seen before. Dr. Steele said they were retractors to hold the skin open when he probed deep inside the wound.

  Dr. Steele put a clean, folded towel under the stump and cut where the two folds of skin came together at the end of the stump. At first, there was only a trickle of blood, about what you would expect if you cut yourself with a pocket knife.

  “Now, hold these retractors and pull the skin apart,” he said.

  Bright red blood poured from deep in the wound.

  “Tom, put your thumb on the artery just below his arm pit and squeeze with both hands, tight as you can.”

  I held tight, but the blood squirted out just as fast.

  “The artery, Tom, find the artery,” Dr. Steele said.

  I remembered the picture of the artery on the inside of the arm right next to the bone and grabbed hard as I could. The blood slowed to a trickle. “Good work,” he said.

  He swabbed the blood with a cloth soaked in carbolic acid.

  “He’s sinking,” Doc Evans said in a sort of strangled voice.

  “Let up on the ether,” Dr. Steele said. “The artery was weak and gave away.” He poked one of those curved-nosed clamps into the wound and clamped the artery. “Now let loose of the arm and hold these retractors.”

  I held the instruments and peeked into the wound while he tied a thread under the clamp around the artery. When the knot was tied, he took off the clamp. It didn’t bleed. “Ah, the hard part is over, now let’s look for shrapnel.” He probed until there was a ‘clink’. Doc pulled out a chunk of shrapnel and a tablespoonful of green pus. “It was next to the humerus,” said he. Next, he removed pieces of bone with bits of blue cloth, stuffed a carbolic-soaked rag into the wound and wrapped the stump with bandages. Dr. Steele slumped on a chair, like he was pretty beat.

  “Tom, you must learn how to give ether. The trick is to watch the breathing. If you give too much, the breathing slows and then the heart stops. Give too little and patients wake up.”

  Mr. Birt’s lips and face were pretty blue and it took all afternoon for him to wake up. After he got to breathing better, the blue color left but he was just as pale as the belly of a dead fish. We carried him to a bed in a little room just off the front corridor. Mrs. Dewey piled hot bricks wrapped in towels around him while Dr. Steele counted his pulse for about the hundredth time..

  “I could do with a drink,” he said.

  Doc Evans opened a cabinet and took out a bottle and three glasses. “Get a pitcher of water,” he said.

  When I come back with the pitcher, he had half filled two glasses with whiskey and poured about a tablespoonful for me and added some water, I took a little sip, then another and drank the whole glass. It warmed my belly and after a while, I was a little dizzy.

  The doctors took turns staying with Mr. Birt. Pa’s fixed ginseng and iron tonic and Mrs. Dewey made a punch with brandy, rum, milk and sugar that he took at bedtime. The first few days he was weak as a kitten but he came around, commenced to eat and pretty soon, sat up in a chair. Did Pa’s tonic, the milk punch or Mrs. Dewey’s prayers that made Mr. Birt better? Dr. Steele made him eat beefsteak and eggs and a few days later he went back to work. I took his usual bottle of laudanum to the newspaper office.

  “Papa sent this,” I said.

  “I don’t hurt anymore.”

  “Gee, sir, that’s just fine.”

  “Dr. Steele says you have a talent for surgery. Have you thought of going to school and learning how to be a doctor?” Mr. Birt asked.

  “I ain’t much interested in schooling, but operations are interesting.”

  “You are a bright young fellow and should get serious about your future,” Mr. Birt said.

  Chapter Five

  “She’s gonna be buck nekkid on top
of that elephant,”

  Billy Malone said.

  She ain’t either, it’s aginst the law to go around without clothes,” Steve Holt replied. “She didn’t have no clothes on when my brother seen her in Peoria. They change the laws when the circus comes to town,” Billy said. We ran around back of the stock barns to sneak in the County fair grounds. Folks came to the fair from miles away to see the horse races and show off their best animals and home produce to win a ribbon. It was the best time of the year and a week long holiday. “It’s just like Christmas and the Fourth of July,” Billy said.

  I was taller and skinnier than the others and slipped under the wooden picket fence like a snake. We had already dug a hole under the fence so we could sneak in and save a nickel so’s, we could spend more on the shooting gallery and the baseball throwing contests. Just as Steve wriggled under the fence, Murphy was takin’ a leak behind a tree. He was so close, you could see tin deputy badge. He spied us kids even before he got his pecker back in his pants. “Hey! You can’t sneak in the fair. I’m gonna catch you little bastids and whip your ass.” He grabbed a handful of Steve’s hair before he got through the fence and was twistin’ his head back. We paid up our nickels but I smoldered with hate for that man.

  “Don’t let me ketch you little bastids agin. The next time one of you will get a slug in the seat of your pants,” he said.

  We lit out for the main fairgrounds. “Someday, I’m going to get even with that sumbitch,” I said.

  The crowd milled around, waiting for the circus parade, but the exhibits, the shooting gallery and the circus tents were already open. In a few minutes, the calliope and the big drum started a rousing tune. People waiting outside the gate yelled. “It’s a comin’, it’s a comin’, the circus is a comin’.”

  She was ridin’ on top of an elerphant but wore spangly tights with an American flag draped around her shoulders. Every so often, the flag dropped to show a little bare skin. We were all powerful disappointed.

  “Dang, din’t I tell ya, she would be wearing clothes,” Steve said.

  “Don’t make no difference, she’s gonna take it all off on the last night of the show,” Billy said.

  A team of black horses pulled a wagon with a fellow dressed in black clothes and a top hat follered the elerphant. Next came the clowns and a juggler, the fat lady, a two-headed goat and a wagon with a caged lion He was supposed to roar and show his teeth, but he just laid on his belly like he was bored. The circus folks went to their tents, which the roustabouts had set up the night before. We loafed around while farmers took hogs and cattle to the livestock pens for judging. I hoped to see Rachel, but there was no sign of the Amish folks. I guess they thought the fair was wicked or something.

  “Let’s go to the food tent,” Billy said.

  The Episcopal ladies wouldn’t give us a sample of pie so we ran to the big Presbyterians tent. “Aunt Alice, kin we boys have a piece of pie or one of those choklit cakes?” I asked.

  “Shoo, get on out of here, less’n you got money,” she said.

  Grooms lead horses around the track getting ready for the races and the stands selling cotton candy and popcorn were open. Everyone was excited and happy. The farmers didn’t even complain about low prices or the weather.

  We drifted into the crowd to hear speeches in front of a big tent with a sign.

  MARSHALL COUNTY REPUBLICANS

  PARTY OF LINCOLN AND GRANT.

  Murphy was inside the tent with a bunch of deputies and Sheriff Calvin Brewer. . Mr. Farnum inside at a table, looking out over the grounds with a satisfied expression on his face. Two wagons filled with darkies came through the gate and kept on toward the stock barns. No one said a word until Mr. Farnum pointed a pudgy finger.

  “They don’t belong here,” he said. Murphy with his Henry rifle and the deputies swaggered toward the wagons.

  Young Isaiah drove the first wagon. His wife wore a big yellow hat and in the back, there was a fat, good looking hog that would for sure win the first prize. Folks said Young Isaiah was uppity on account of he had his own land and a gold tooth. Isaiah’s other sons, Jebediah and Obadiah, were in the second wagon with their wives and kids. One of the girls held a big green watermelon that was about a yard long that be in the running for a blue ribbon.

  Sheriff Brewer and the deputies surrounded the two wagons. The sheriff spit a stream of tobacco juice at the front wheel of the first wagon and stood with his coat open and his hands under his suspenders. He had a cold, mean hatchet face and didn’t like for people to give him sass. Most folks paid no attention to the darkies, but a few men surged forward around the sheriff.

  “We don’t allow no niggers on the fair grounds,” he said.

  “We been comin’ to the fair last every year and there ain’t never been no trouble. We got as much right to be here as anyone,” said Young Isaiah

  “Boy, don’t give me no mouth. Turn the damn wagon around and skedaddle back where you belong. We don’t want you or those damn pickaninnies on this side of the river,” the sheriff said.

  “We own land and pay taxes just like everyone else. We got rights.”

  “You ain’t got nothin’. You just squattin’ on Miz Trimmer’s land.”

  “We worked fur it and Captain Trimmer give it to us. We got papers that says the land is our’n,” Young Isaiah said.

  “Trimmer was a damn fool and he’s dead. Those papers don’t count fer nothin’.” Time you niggers went back south and squat on that plantation land. I ain’t got time for no talk. Now git your black ass outen of here.”

  The sheriff dropped his right hand to the butt of his pistol. A rock sailed out of the crowd and hit the lead mule on the flank. The gang of men around the sheriff threw more rocks and rotten tomatoes. It was like, they had been waiting to cause trouble. “Git the damn niggers, kill the bastids,” they yelled

  Young Isaiah and his brothers sat very straight with their heads held high as if to say they were above the white trash. When Young Isaiah opened his mouth and flashed the gold tooth, the crowd got madder and madder. The darkies didn’t flinch. Young Isaiah flicked the reins and the mules started forward toward the stock barns.

  The sheriff pulled his Colt pistol, cocked the hammer and aimed at the slicked-up fat hog. Young Isaiah stood up from the wagon seat and flung himself toward the sheriff, but was in mid-air, when the sheriff shot the hog in the gut. The black man let out a terrible cry and the hog screamed like a human. The sheriff cracked Young Isaiah on the head with the butt of his pistol. The black man crumpled in the dirt. The hog screamed and screamed and bled all over the back of the wagon. Murphy slammed his Henry rifle into the big watermelon. Juice, seeds and the pink flesh flew all over the little girl who held the broken melon in her arms.

  More men surged toward the wagons, like they were going to grab the women and children. “Lynch the bastards.”

  Young Isaiah with a bloody head got back on the wagon and tried to turn the mules but the rowdies wouldn’t let him go. I got close enough to kick Murphy in the behind hard enough that he sprawled forward and fell down. I ran zig zag through the crowd.

  “Get that kid,” the sheriff yelled.

  Billy flung a rock with his sling shot that hit the sheriff on the back. We ducked and ran to the circus tents on the other side of the grandstand. The deputies followed and fired two shots. I tripped over a tent peg and went flat on the ground. In about a second, I was up and running again, sobbing real tears and even praying. The fence was a million miles away. The crowd around the wagons broke up but Murphy gained on us at every step.. We musta thought about it at the same time cause us boys dove under a tent.

  We tumbled into the tent like a bunch of baby rabbits in a hole. The lady who rode the elerphant was on a chair in the middle of the tent with a bottle of whisky.

  “You boys get your tail ends out of here. You can’t sneak in and have a peek before the show,” she said.

  I got up on my knees, like praying in church. “Please, ma�
�am, those men will kill us.”

  She was wearing a big, flowing purple skirt and a loose shawl. She wasn’t all that young, but was purty as a picture. Her titties were perky and looked soft as melting butter. She took a healthy swig from the bottle and belched. “What you boys doin’ here?”

  “The sheriff and deputies are chasin’ us. We din’t know you was in here,” Billy said.

  “A likely story, run home to your mothers,” she said.

  “Please, I ain’t got no mother, she died when I was little,” I said.

  “How old are you?”

  “Fifteen. Please, you gotta help us,”

  Her face softened and she took a closer look.

  “My boy would be about that age now. He died of typhoid.”

  A gruff voice came from the front of the tent. “We are comin’ in.”

  “One of you boys climb inside that trunk and another crawl behind it. You get under this chair and hide behind my skirt,” the lady said.

  I scrunched down and she adjusted the skirt so I was all covered. When deputies came trompin’ into the tent, I peaked under her skirt and seen three pairs of boots covered with horse-shit.

  “Well, now, what can I do for you handsome law men. It’s a little early for the show,” she said.

  “We seen boys come in here.”

  “I don’t allow boys in my tent.”

  “They are hell-raisin’ little bastids standin’ up for the niggers. The sheriff told us to beat the livin’ shit outten of them.”

  I thought sure they would hear my heart beating and I had to stuff a hand in my mouth to keep from breathing loud. A strangling sound came from the trunk.

  “Sheriffs deppities always like a drink,” the lady said.

  “Well, as a matter of fact, chasin’ those boys did raise a thirst.”

  The bottle gurgled three times. Billy Malone sneezed.

  “Hey, what’s in that trunk?”

  “Ain’t nothin’ in that trunk but clothes for my show.”

  “You ain’t s’posed to wear no clothes.”

  “Them’s my teasin’ clothes. Men always like to imagine what’s under all that frilly lace and ribbons and garters. I learned about teasin’ in Gay Paree.”