Her eyes rolled back, she went limp and fell forward on the table. She was stone cold dead.
Doc looked at the hole in her belly and shook his head. The knife had gone clean through her. Later, the bartender, Dirty Dick Olsen said Captain Daniels tied up the boat just after sundown because of boiler trouble. Later, it come out that there wasn’t no trouble with the boiler. He had done this before and every time, he and the red haired woman spent the night in one of the upstairs rooms. A passenger who said he was from Chicago also got off the boat. After he watched her for a while, he claimed he was a Pinkerton detective, hired by the woman’s husband. The Pinkerton drank some of the rotgut whiskey and tried to take the woman away from the saloon. Captain Daniels hit the Pinkerton and the detective slashed at the captain with a Bowie knife. He missed and the knife went through the woman. The captain tried to draw a pistol, but the Pinkerton man came near to cutting Bart’s head off. I never knew if that story was right, but it got in all the newspapers. They never found the passenger and some folks claim that Dirty Dick didn’t exactly tell the whole story.
There wasn’t anything we could do for the woman and the steamboat crew had skedaddled away in a rowboat.
We carried the captain to the buggy and got him arranged so that only his feet hung out over the side and headed for home. The horse plodded along without me giving him any direction. I was excited and sort of broody, too, wondering why anyone could hurt such a pretty woman.
“Doc, was that was just about the hardest operation you ever did?”
“It wasn’t a hard operation, it was mostly knowing the anatomy. Mainly, he was lucky. If he would have been cut a half inch deeper, he would be dead. Did you learn anything?” Doc asked.
“I see now how important it is to study anatomy. There’s something I been a wondering about. Are the muscles and such the same in Indians and Negroes as white folks?”
“We are all the same under the skin. You can’t tell the insides of one man from another,” said Doc.
I pondered that for a while. It was surprising, but if Doc said it was so it must be true.
“How come a man would want to hurt a pretty woman like that?”
Doc didn’t answer for a spell. The buggy went over a rut and our patient let out a gargling sort of cry. Leastwise, we knew he was still alive.
“That isn’t a medical question and it doesn’t have any good answer. Some men just naturally go crazy over women. Maybe it’s on account of the full moon. Then again some doctors claim everything is related to how we got along with our mothers.”
I pondered that one all the way back to town. There might be something to that, on account of my mother sometimes got tangled up with Rachel in my dreams. I just couldn’t even think about hurting a hair on Rachel’s head, no matter what happened.
When we drove up Main Street, people were stirring around and before we knew it, the news was all over town. The town marshal and the vigilante committee went to the saloon and after a while, the sheriff came with his deputies. News of the “Sandy Ford Massacre” went out on the telegraph and pretty soon reporters were all over town. Captain Daniels woke up later that day but couldn’t talk because of the hole in his windpipe. The next morning, he sat up and took some of Aunt Alice’s soup.
Mr. Birt came up to the house and tried to get a story, but the captain couldn’t talk.
Later, it came out that the woman was the wife of a big shot state politician from Peoria. She was supposed to have been visiting her sister in Chicago. Big city reporters tramped all over the saloon and took pictures of the blood and the bar and the exact spot where the woman died. They tried to see the captain, but Doc wouldn’t let them in the house. Some said that the whole thing was done by Indians that still lived in the swamps. Sheriff Brewer blamed the colored folks. The case fizzled out until the telegram came from General Grant. Bart Daniels was the captain of a steamboat that sneaked up the Yazoo River and helped defeat the Rebs at Vicksburg. He was a genuine war hero and one of Grant’s drinking buddies. Reporters from as far away as Chicago swarmed all over the house, trying to get a story. You would think Doc would want the publicity, but every time one of those reporters came around, he went out to the stable, or in his room. Never once did he show his face to the newspaper people.
Even so Doc was famous in Sandy Ford all of a sudden folks developed imaginary ailments just to get in to see him and maybe see Captain Daniels, a war hero. Doc listened, gave advice and sometimes prescribed a tonic or stimulant or some other nostrum. The quarters clinked in the cash box and even the church people stopped talking about his drinking and gambling. Pretty soon every one called him “Doc” just like they had old Dr. Evans. The captain and the Doc got to be pretty good friends and when his voice came back, they spent a lot of time talking about the war. Nothing much was said about how he had come to have his throat cut.
Doctors all over the country told the newspapers that the captain would surely die from all the bad air that got into his body through the hole in his windpipe. Doc Steele said the hole would close by itself, and durned if he wasn’t right. After about two weeks, the skin over the hole just gradually closed up until the captain was just as good as new. He went back to steam-boating and told everybody up and down the river that Doc Steele had saved his life. The captain paid enough that we didn’t have to worry about money. That case made a big impression on me. What we did or what Doc did was about as close to raising someone from the dead as you could ever see. I studied harder than ever.
Chapter Fourteen
Doctor Jones an old-time homeopathic doctor in Columbia sent word for Doc to consult on one of his patients. Doc made out of the trip. He hired a steam launch to take us down the river and Aunt Alice fixed a nice lunch. We sat on comfortable chairs and watched leaves coming out on the trees and turtles basking in the sun. Ducks and geese were flying north and fish were jumping. It only took about an hour to get to Columbia; Doctor Jones met us with a four- horse carriage. Columbia was a prosperous town on account of the courthouse and jail were there. We drove through shady streets to a big brick house, set back in a grove of oak trees. It was the grandest house I ever saw. “I think the girl is pregnant, but she claims she has never been with a man. Her father Judge Parsons thinks highly of his daughter and asked for a consultation,” said Dr. Jones. Soonest we got to the big brick house a woman in a white apron ushered us into the sitting room with thick carpets and spindly furniture. The girl’s mother took the doctors up a winding staircase. I sat on a nice plush chair and looked at all the fine furniture and pictures on the wall. Judge Parsons must have been about the richest man in the whole state.
The woman with a little white apron brought me cookies and a glass of milk. “Boys are always hungry.”
“Yes ma’am, that’s sure right. Thank you.”
It was right comfortable, even though I was afraid to move for fear of breaking the chair. After almost an hour the doctors and Judge Parsons came down the stairs. They all had long worried faces and were arguing something awful.
“Are you certain she needs this operation?” the judge asked.
“Yes sir, she has a tumor on the ovary and can’t possibly get better without an operation,” Doc Steele said.
Old Doctor Jones shook his head. “No, an operation would kill her. It’s certainly a delayed pregnancy.”
The judge got pretty red in the face and didn’t like that idea at all, although that was what everyone in town suspected. After a while he came around to Doc Steele’s way of thinking, probably because an operation might prove that his daughter wasn’t going to have a baby. “If we decide on the operation, can you do it here?”
None of the windows in the Judges house let in enough light on account of all the trees. Then, with all that furniture and thick rugs, it would be hard to make things real clean. When rich people were sick, they stayed at home, while poor folks went to a hospital. Not many came back because hospitals were mainly a place to go when people were ready to
die. I guess the Doc had to show people his new treatment would make a difference.
“No sir, it would be better to do the operation in my new hospital. There is a special room for surgical cases and her maid can take care of her afterwards,” Doc said.
The judge wasn’t too happy with that idea; I figured he would find another doctor. I was itchin’ to find out about the patient, but Doc didn’t say anything until we were on the steam launch going back upriver.
“Are you going to tell me about the patient, or is it a secret,” I asked.
“She is the judge’s youngest daughter. When her belly commenced to swell, everyone thought she was going to have a baby but it has gone on longer than nine months. She has a cyst of her ovary,” said Doc.
“Can you treat her with medicine?”
“Lord no, there isn’t any medicine that will dissolve a tumor. I watched surgeons in Edinburgh do the operation. We can do it,” he said.
Two days later, Judge Parsons sent word they would come to our place for the operation. Doc said we would do it the next Monday. Aunt Alice scrubbed and cleaned the big room with the bay windows and we fixed a mirror to reflect light down on the operating table.
The sponges, sutures and instruments soaked all night in water mixed with carbolic acid. Doc made me take a bath on Sunday so’s I would be extra clean.
An old darky drove the carriage to our front door. The judge and his wife stepped down and then helped their daughter, who wore a black dress and a long hooded coat. You couldn’t see her face, but even with all the clothes, you could tell her belly was big as a balloon. That night, he made me read about internal female anatomy. Course, I had already studied that section.
Her maid and mother stayed with the girl. Doc ordered her to have a bath and a light supper the night before the operation. The two women brought her to the operating room just after ten in the morning when the best light came through the window. The girl wore only a clean, new shift and after they got her settled on the table, Doctor Jones started to give the ether. She took it better than most people and didn’t hardly struggle.
If this girl dies, I’ll see you all in jail for murder,” said Dr. Jones.
“You be careful with the ether,” Doc said.
I was real rattled and didn’t like the idea of going to jail just after I got out of the orphanage. Doc was just as cool as could be and looked after the instruments in the carbolic solution.
When the girl stopped moving, Doc pulled up her shift and washed the skin over her swollen belly with carbolic acid and water. We rolled up our sleeves and rinsed both hands.
He cut the skin down the middle of her belly. The girl pulled up her legs and would have kicked Doc in the face, if I hadn’t held her down.
“She isn’t asleep. Give more ether,” Doc said.
When she settled down, I pressed on her skin with a carbolic soaked cloth to stop the bleeding.
“Press down harder and hold the skin apart,” he said.
The middle of the belly, where the muscles come together, was just like the picture in the book. It was a spot, where there were no big arteries or veins, so in about a minute, Doc cut into the abdominal cavity. The ovary was big and bluish-grey, just under the belly wall.
“That’s the cyst,” doc said.
He spent a few minutes trying to work it out of the belly, but it was too big to come through the incision, so cool as can be, he stuck his knife into the cyst and out poured a gallon or so of yellow fluid that splashed onto the floor. The cyst deflated like an empty balloon. Old Dr. Jones didn’t say a word. When it was empty, Doc pulled it out of the belly and had me hold it up, so he could tie ligatures around the fallopian tube and a big vein. About that time, she gave a big groan and pushed her guts out of the wound. Doctor Jones had watched the operation instead of giving ether. Doc Steele cussed out loud and used both hands to push the guts back into her belly. If there hadn’t been so much room after he took out the cyst, I don’t believe the guts would have gone back in. When she took more ether and settled down, Doc closed her belly with linen stitches. After letting her nearly wake up, Doctor. Jones poured the ether too fast so her breathing got real shallow and her skin turned blue.
“Damn, now you gave her too much anesthetic and she isn’t getting enough air. You better stick to pushing pills,” Doc said.
He cussed again and pressed on her chest until she breathed better. Dr. Jones backed off into a corner like a beat dog. I thought sure the girl was going to die, but Doc pulled her through. All that study and work was important after all.
“That’s the most remarkable thing I ever saw. My humble apologies, sir. I was wrong and will explain everything to the judge. Why, that operation was worth a thousand dollars,” Doc Jones said.
It was well after noon before she was strong enough for us to carry her to her room. Her mother and the maid put her to bed and Aunt Alice scurried around making sure that everything was perfect. The girl threw up everything, even water, until the next morning. Doc was real worried when she had a fever and a fast pulse. He listened to her lungs with his stethoscope but didn’t find any signs of pneumonia. Two days after the operation, Aunt Alice gave her broth and then soft-boiled eggs. You could tell the girl was getting better because she ordered Aunt Alice and the maid around like they were slaves. That woman musta been spoilt real bad on account of the judge was rich.
Doc didn’t pay no attention to any of that, but every day, when she got better, he just seemed tickled pink. Old Doc Jones came by every day or so, scratched his beard, chuckled and then told everyone in the county about the miracle operation. He made sure folks knew that she wasn’t pregnant. She stayed in bed until Doc took off the carbolic dressings and two weeks after the operation, he took out her stitches. There was a big crowd of relatives and just curious people on the street to see the girl when she left for home. The judge paid a handsome fee and that night, Doc and Mr. Birt smoked real Havana seegars and got tipsy.
Chapter Fifteen
One night, about a week after the excitement calmed down, Doc and Mr. Birt were in their easy chairs, lapping up baked apples, drinking toddies and smoking. They weren’t too careful about where they dropped the ashes and the room was downright untidy. Aunt Alice stomped around the kitchen banged dishes and talked to herself. She breathed fire when she brought second helpings. “I don’t mind hard work and can do all the cooking and cleaning, but it is not right when folks order me around like I was some black slave. I cook and nurse and do the housekeeping. Look at this room! Ashes and books and papers scattered around like you were living in a saloon. It’s time, you worthless men found wives.”
She took off her apron, slammed the door and went to read a book. Mr. Birt put down his seegar and took a healthy swig of his toddy. “God almighty, what was that all about?”
It wasn’t surprising when Aunt Alice mentioned the business about a wife because she got around town and heard folks say it was a scandal that an unmarried doctor looked after women. Their men folks were uneasy. It didn’t help people’s opinion when Doc drank hard liquor and skinned money out of the drummers, playing cards at the Camp House.
Doc looked hurt, like he had been bitten by a rattlesnake. “Hm, I haven’t been paying much attention to what’s going on around here. Maybe she needs another woman to help out.”
“She does have a point. It looks better if a doctor is married because folks think that there is less chance for a married man to fool around with women patients. With all your traveling around, you must have met some likely candidates,” Mr. Birt said.
I made out like I was reading “System of Surgery” by Samuel Gross, but perked up on account of talk about women was powerfully interesting. I wasn’t doing so good in that line. Some of the boys claimed they took girls back in the woods, but it was just talk.
Doc settled lower into his chair and snubbed out his seegar in an empty dish. “There were some ladies in Chicago, but they weren’t exactly respectable. The women in Pa
ris and Edinburgh didn’t have time for a country boy like me.”
“There’s widows around these parts that would like nothin’ better than to hitch up with a man that has fine prospects. There’s Bessie, the preachers daughter,” Mr. Birt said.
“I did meet a fine woman in New Orleans, when I got off the boat from Edinburgh.”
“You been keeping secrets? Come, let’s hear about your New Orleans lady,” Mr. Birt said.
Doc closed the door to the upstairs so Aunt Alice couldn’t listen. I expected he would send me to bed, but I scrunched down and pretended to read. He turned his back to the fire and a sorrowful look came over his face. “I made enough money playing poker on the boat from England to spend a few days at the St. James hotel. One afternoon, I was having a drink with a Confederate officer I had met in Richmond. The planters promenaded with their fancy women when a ramrod straight older man limped though the lobby with his hand on the arm of a young, pouty-faced girl. The girl was no more than fifteen years old but was dressed in the latest frippery and her hair was done up in tight curls. The man was slim, tall, with a scarred, ravaged face, partly hidden by a mustache and a goatee. His grey suit with a big cravat was elegant, but threadbare. Confederate officer was written all over him, but he had fallen on hard times. A girl who looked to be in her early twenties and walked with willowy grace followed behind the pair. Even though she wore a simple brown dress she was every bit as proud as the old man. That girl, or woman, I should say, was easily the best-looking female in the room. Every man followed her with his eyes and when they passed our table, there was snickery laughter from the bar. The planter or colonel or general for that matter, turned and silenced them with a look of absolute rage.
“Confederate officers could do that,” Mr. Birt said.
“I asked my Southern friend why they laughed at the old man. He said it was something us Yankees could never understand. It was most perplexing. Later, the pair returned; the woman carrying a load of packages stumbled and dropped a hat box.. The girl with the pouty face cussed like a soldier and hit the woman with her parasol. I rushed to help. When I knelt to retrieve the box our hands touched and for a moment. “mercie,” said she. Her voice was soft and lilting. I mumbled something about it being a pleasure to help a lovely lady. Her smile would have melted the heart of a bronze statue, but the pouty girl shouted and the woman scurried away, loaded with bundles. The next afternoon I was having a drink when the same pair went off through the lobby again. An hour or so later, people screamed and scattered before a run-away carriage in the street in front of the hotel. The mulatto driver sawed the reins and hollered, but a back wheel came off and the carriage overturned. I ran to help, still carrying a julep. The pouty girl hit the driver with her parasol. “You damn nigger,” said she. The beautiful lady was out cold, face down on the cobblestones, with blood running down her forehead. People consoled the hysterical girl who wasn’t the least bit hurt until the old man came out of the hotel and held the pouty girl in his arms. I knelt down by the injured woman, felt her pulse and touched the gash on the side of her head.
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