Don't Hang My Friend

by Raffensperger, John;

  “Red, what happened to Mary, the girl with the bad foot. Remember Mary who took care of baby Timothy?”

  His eyes were closed again and it looked like he passed. I felt powerful sad, like he was my own brother. Then his eyes opened. “I heard from another boy. There was trouble at the orphanage. The lady managers found out about the beatings and the bad food. They put Ned in charge. One of the ladies adopted little Timothy and took Mary to her home. Tom, kin I have water, I’m powerful thirsty.”

  He took a sip of water, but coughed blood, then lay back and whispered, “I wisht I had a mother.”

  Bessie heard that whisper and came and cradled his head on her lap just like he was her own child. She murmured comforting words and Red’s eyelids fluttered.

  “Did you know this boy?” Bessie asked.

  I blubbered some and pressed hard on the bullet holes to stop the air and blood from bubbling out of Red’s chest. It didn’t do no good. “He was my best friend in the orphanage and taught me to suck eggs to keep from starving and he bit Reverend Burns leg to save me. He had a hard life.”

  Bessie petted Red’s face but he was about gone. He tried to sit up and put out a hand toward the shadows, like he was having a vision, then he took another gurgling breath and fell back. “Ma, Ma,” he said, then he didn’t breath again.

  Bessie held him tight and cried like her heart would break. I rocked back and forth on my knees and kept trying to squeeze life into Red. His hand got cold and he didn’t come back to life. Bessie and I stayed by Red until it got full daylight. I never had no brother and hardly any family except Aunt Alice. Right then, it seemed as if Bessie and me and Red was a kind of a family. We talked a while and she told me how the periwinkle paste seemed to be helping Rachel’s mother.

  “I’ve been shaming that old man about marrying off the girl when she is so young and wants to teach school. Her ma is listening too,” Bessie said.

  Gosh, as bad as I felt about poor Red, that news about Rachel was the best ever.

  I dozed but Doc stayed up, fixing splints, tightening bandages and feeling pulses. He never got tired when there was work to do and was happiest when he was probing for a bullet or sewing wounds.

  It was near afternoon when the train came from Chicago with bandages and ether. There were newspaper reporters on the train too, but Doc wouldn’t talk with them. We took the patient with the busted head and two others that needed attention on the steamboat the next day.

  The trip back down the river was smooth as silk. The rain had brought the water up and at the Sister Islands, Captain Daniels blew the whistle. People from miles around knew a steamboat was comin’. When we slid over the Sandy Creek bar, there was a big crowd of people at the landing. Most people made a big fuss over us and helped unload the boat.

  Mr. Farnum was sittin’ in his buggy and looking madder’n thunder. His face was red and twitching like he had a nervous disorder. Folks said he had stock in the Eureka mines. When I walked close to his buggy, he reached out and tapped my shoulder with the tip of his whip. “Boy, watch your step. If you don’t stop hanging around with that doctor, you will wish you had stayed in that orphanage. He eggs on those miners and Negroes like an anarchist. He’s been in trouble before.”

  Chapter Twenty Six

  When country people called a doctor, it was serious, like an busted bone or a baby stuck in the birth canal. Doc went on those calls right away. When town folks needed a house call, they left notes in a box at the front door. I took in the notes every day and Aunt Alice wrote the names in a book. Every morning, Doc checked the book and made a list for his rounds. It was maybe a week or so after we took care of the miners that I found the note.

  “Yer life ain’t worth a plug nickel iffen you keep on with colored trash and miners and such. We knowed you kilt a man and will get you.” KKK

  It was written in pencil on a piece of smudgy lined paper. The same day the note arrived, I saw Murphy’s horse hitched in front of the bank. I gave Doc the note right after dinner. He looked at it for a full minute; his face lost color and his eyes got dark and gloomy. He crushed the paper in one hand and stuffed it in his pocket.

  “Did you kill a man?” I asked.

  “Tom, it is nothing for you to worry about.

  There were about a dozen townspeople on the list the next morning. I hitched up the buggy and Doc climbed up on the seat. “Come along, Tom, It’s time for you to learn the finer points of bedside medicine.” Doc said.

  We set off down the street in the new black buggy with yellow wheels and the big, high stepping gelding. Sometimes that horse got it in his head to kick the traces and run off like a bee had stung his tail, but now he was calm as anything.

  We stopped at the newspaper office to see what was going on in the world. “According to the Chicago papers the mining company crushed the Bolsheviks and Anarchists who started the strick. The paper even mentioned your name,” Mr. Birt said.

  Doc ran a hand across his face and it was like he had a bad shock. He held the desk and steadied himself. “Paul, what is the Klan doing?”

  “They are holed up in the hills but the sheriff deputized most of them.”

  It was a good thing we hardly ever had to go across the river to see sick people on account of the roads were dangerous with those Kluxers on the loose.

  Our next stop was the blacksmith shop where Caleb Barker had burned his arm on a hot horseshoe a week before. His arm was swollen and smeary with pus. Doc sat down on a bench next to the forge and lit up a stogie. “Tom, clean the dirt and grease of his arm with soap and water.” I washed away the pus and bits of dead skin, then Doc wrapped Caleb’s arm with bandages soaked in carbolic salve. I ain’t got no money, but I can shoe your horse,” Caleb said.

  Next we spent a half hour with Elmer Bailey who had heart failure. Doc listened to his ticker for a long time and gave him tincture of digitalis. Then we saw Mr. Loomis who had a touch of scarlet fever, then an old lady with a stroke and another with pneumonia. Doc gave them iron tonics and a box of big sugar pills. “It isn’t exactly honest, but if folks think it helps, then it might do them good. Then, too, if you don’t leave some medicine, folks don’t think they got their money’s worth,” he said.

  I appreciated that Doc was takin’ the time to teach me some of the finer points of medicine, things that you couldn’t get out of a book. Over the next few weeks, I would find out just how terrible much there was to learn, and how hard it was, too.

  The last patient was Miss Isabel Downey who had done her best with McGuffey Readers and chalkboards to teach us kids how to read, write and do numbers. She lived with an older sister and neither one had ever married because there was a shortage of men after the war. Her sister met us at the door. “Isabel has a sore throat and can’t swallow a thing,” she said.

  Miss Downey leaned forward and breathed like she was strangling. Her lips and face were blue and she had a look of pure fear, like she was seeing the Holy Spirit. She scratched the covers and tried to talk but the words wouldn’t come out. “Look here, Tom,” Doc said. The back of her throat was covered with a shiny, gray membrane. It bled when Doc scraped it with a spoon. “Oh God! Save us! It’s diphtheria,” he whispered.

  oc had me fix a kettle of steaming water with menthol to help loosen the membrane. We stayed about an hour, but he was in and out of her house all day and half the night. Despite everything, she died early the next morning.

  At home, Aunt Alice had the names of five children from Miss Downey’s classt. Every one had diphtheria. By the end of the week, three had died. The school closed and people were scared to go out on the streets. The gravedigger was the busiest man in town. On one day there were three new small holes in the ground for little kids. Some folks blamed bad air. The preachers said God was angry about sinfulness. Doc said someday scientists would find a germ that caused diphtheria. He was run ragged and usually slept in the buggy when he was out on calls.

  People developed different kinds of symptoms. The
kids usually had chills, a headache and trouble breathing; older folks died with heart failure. Most folks died when when swelling blocked the windpipe. According to the books, it was possible to make a hole in the throat so people could breathe. We studied anatomy and decided it wouldn’t be hard to cut into the windpipe below the voice box and put in a tube.

  That very night, a kid, not more than seven or eight years old banged on the door.

  “Ma said for the doctor to come. My little brother is awful sick.”

  The Fords lived in a shack down by the river. We got to the muddy yard about midnight and had to use the bulls-eye lantern to find our way down the path to the little house that smelled of fried fish. Children stood in the flickering light of an oil lantern like they were an audience for a show. Old man Ford was at the table, working on a jug and the mother was walking back and forth, wringing her hands.

  “Please, help Jimmy. He’s our youngest,” she said, then cried and carried on like he was her onliest child.

  “Shine that lantern on his face,” Doc said.

  The boy leaned forward, with his head tilted back, breathing hard and noisy. He looked to be about five years old and had blue lips. Death was hovering over that boy.

  “Tom, set out the instruments.”

  There wasn’t time to boil water, so I just wiped the bistoury, clamps and the silver tube with carbolic. Doc put a pillow behind the boy’s neck and put him down so his head fell back. He pointed to a girl who might have been fifteen years old. “You, girl, hold tight to his head. Don’t let him move.”

  She took hold of his head and didn’t let go, even when he bled all over the bed. There wasn’t much light, but Doc was as steady when he sliced down the middle of the boys neck. “It has to be exactly down the middle because the carotid arteries are on either side. If the incision is too high, you get into the voice box and if too low, there is a risk of cutting the thyroid gland,” he said. He clamped a vein then plunged the blade into the windpipe. He cut downward for about a half inch and shoved in a little metal tube. The boy had a fit of coughing. Blood and mucous gushed out of his lungs then he calmed down, breathed easy and his lips turned a healthy pink. The boy went right to sleep and Doc got a big grin on his face. It felt real good to save a life.

  After two weeks we took out the tube and the hole in his neck healed just fine. The Fords were mighty poor, but one of their kids brought us fresh fish every week.

  Most patients who had tracheotomies, as the operation was called, survived, but we had to keep a steam kettle going and clean mucous out of the tube or it would get clogged. I had that job for a while. When we got too busy, Bessie Pendleton took over and nursed people until they got well or died. When the epidemic spread from the town to the country, we had to ride as much as thirty miles a day to see all the sick folks.

  One day, a little after dinner, Doc was on calls west of town and left me to mix medicines and look after people who came to the office. Hooves clattered on the brick driveway and then someone pounded on the door.

  Obediah could hardly stand up, let alone talk. He was plumb winded and his eyes rolled back while he hung on to the door and caught his breath. I got a glass of water for him and he drank it straight down. He kept looking back over his shoulder, like he was being followed. “It’s Miz Trimmer. She was awful sick an helpless and couldn’t get out of bed. Those bad men came and beat her, but she wouldn’t give them the papers. Now, she’s near to strangling an’ can’t get no air. Old Isaiah says the doctor has got to come fast or she’s a gonna die.”

  “How long has she been sick?”

  “Two, three days. De Lord’s angels gonna get her if’n the doctor doan’ come soon. She is sick and those men with sheets over their heads tried to kill her. When Miz Trimmer is gone, they will git the papers an take our land.”

  “Doc ain’t here, probably won’t be back until supper or even later,” I said.

  “You gotta do something, she’s powerful sick, cain’t get her breath. Folks say you is almost as good as the doctor. You gotta come.”

  “I ain’t no doctor.”

  Aunt Alice bustled out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. “What’s he want?”

  “Miz Trimmer’s bad sick, but Doc is out in the country,” I said.

  “Tom, get on and do your best. I’ll send the doctor as soon as he comes back,” she said.

  Doc had taken the mare and buggy, but Sam was fresh. He wasn’t a good riding horse, but there wasn’t any better way to get across the river to Miz Trimmer’s place.

  “Put a saddle on the gelding,” I said.

  Obediah ran off to the barn, while I put the instruments and medicines and Mr. Birt’s little pistol in a bag. Sam snorted, rolled his eyes and tossed his head but Obediah held him until I got a foot in the stirrup. The damn horse bolted and I went down, flat on my back. It hurt, but I got up in the saddle. I wasn’t much for riding horses.

  We were across town and almost to the ferry, when I remembered what Obediah said about men with sheets over their heads. I went to the ice house and found Billy Malone chopping big chunks of ice into fifty pound blocks. “There’s bad trouble at Miz Trimmer’s place. Get your pa and the vigilante’s.”

  Obediah made the ferry wait for us. Once we got across the river on the bottom road, Sam lit out like there was a burr under the saddle. My backside was pretty raw when we came near the Trimmer place and saw a big column of smoke.

  “Oh, Lordy, they done come back. They been in the woods, looking for the woman and the boy,” Obediah moaned.

  “What woman, what boy?”

  “Dat woman what ain’t nigger or white. She claims she’s a Creole.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Dey is after dat woman and dey had a picture of her and writing that said she was wanted for robbery in N’Orleans. We hid her out in the woods.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “I don’ know her name. She brung down those men on us and dat’s how they found out Miz Trimmer was sick and they come to take her will and the deed. Miz Trimmer always say that if anything happens, we s’posed to take de papers to Judge Parsons. They is hid and we don’ know where to look, but those men tore up the house lookin’ for them papers. If’n they get those papers, the sheriff and the depities gonna drive us off our land. That banker man wants our place,” Obediah said.

  I got off the horse, took the instrument bag and ran throught the open door into Miz Trimmer’s house. Chairs were turned over, drawers were flung open and books were scattered about the parlor. They had taken bricks out of the fireplace and pulled up boards from the floor. Young Isaiah’s wife and her two young ones were crying and carrying on in the kitchen.

  “Miz Trimmer was sick in bed when those men came. She wouldn’t tell where the papers was hid and so they beat her something awful,” she wailed.

  I calmed her down and told her to boil a kettle of water. The oldest girl took me to Miz Trimmer. Medicine bottles were knocked off the table, a stuffed chair was all torn up and drawers pulled open. The mattress was cut open and feathers scattered over the room, like a whole flock of chickens had been plucked.

  She was on the floor beside the bed with her legs all tangled up with the sheets. There was a bruise across one eye and her gray hair was hanging loose and matted with blood. She was a big strong woman but was too weak to help herself. Her flannel nightgown was hiked up around her knees. “Who did this, where did they go?” I asked.

  The girl was scared and could hardly get out the words. “She been awful sick for two days, then those men come and found her and beat her something bad. They was three of them with sheets on their heads and they was mad because she wouldn’t tell them where to find the papers. They left ‘bout an hour ago and headed for the cabins to catch Old Isaiah. They think he got the papers. And they want that N’Orleans woman for the reward.”

  Miz Trimmer’s breathing was harsh and gurgly and her chest heaved like she had to work har
d to draw in air. She grabbed at her throat and her face was purple. It looked for sure like her throat was clogged with diphtheria. She took in a raspy wheezy breath and tried to talk, but couldn’t get out the words. We put what was left of the mattress back on the bed and got her settled. She kept picking at the quilt or reaching out in the air and trying to talk, but the words wouldn’t come.

  “Miz Trimmer, I ain’t the doctor, but I’ll try and help,” I said.

  Her eyes were glued shut with yellowish matter. When I wiped them with a cloth she looked in my face and blinked. “First, I gotta look down your throat and listen to your chest,” I said.

  She made gurgling noises in the back of her throat and tried to push me away when I pulled down her nightgown to listen to her chest. Her skin was hot with fever and her lungs sounded like they were underwater. She clamped her mouth shut, but I got a spoon between her teeth and had a glimpse of the phlegm in her throat. I was plumb confused. She had bad lick on the head and could have heart failure or diphtheria. I didn’t know whether to open her windpipe or try digitalis.

  She was all tuckered out. When Young Isaiah’s wife brought the tea kettle, I added menthol to the boiling water and fixed it so’s Miz Trimmer took in the steam. For a long time, I sat in the rocking chair, watched her struggle, and tried to think of what to do. After a while, she had a bad coughing fit and spit out a gob of phlegm. She looked some better and croaked out a few words. “It’s in the quilt.”

  After that she put her hands out like she was reaching for somethin’ she seen in the air. All the time, she threshed around and moaned like she was in pain. I walked around the room and looked out the window, hopin’ to see Doc. Right then, I wished I had studied more, instead of playing around, swimmin’ and moonin’ about a girl. The black folks expected me save her and I wanted to help Miz Trimmer more than anything in the world. There was a pleading look in her eyes when she had another fit of gropin’ in the air with her hands and breathing heavy. Then I remembered how Doc had given morphine to Rachel’s mother and how she settled right down and came out of her pain. I had to stop that pleading in her eyes that accused me for not knowing how to help. I drew up a dose of morphine in a syringe and stuck it in her shoulder. In a little while, she lay back against the pillow and seemed easier. I felt all good, like I had done right. Then her breathing got slower. The noise in her throat stopped and her chest didn’t move at all. After a half a minute, her chest started to move again.