He took a deep breath. ‘I’m a doctor,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘Let me through.’
Thirteen
The crowd’s murmuring grew as did the knot of fear and nausea rising in Caleb’s throat. What did he think he was doing? It had been seven years since he had called himself a doctor and yet he felt the call as a powerful, palpable hand on his shoulder, driving him on. The words of the long forgotten Hippocratic Oath, the reminder of the special obligation he owed all people, tugged at his conscience.
A crowd had already gathered at the gate to the mine and as he limped towards them, they parted and he climbed the steep track alone, the eyes of the town on his back. The track ended at a flat cobbled courtyard surrounded by buildings: offices, workshops and a shack with a sign saying ‘Crib’ over the door. A small knot of workers gathered around the entrance to the mine’s adit.
Penrose saw him and came forward, a frown creasing his brow. ‘Hunt? What are you doing here?’
Caleb swallowed. ‘Bowen is incapable. I’ve come to see what help I can be.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’m a doctor, Penrose … or at least, I was.’
Penrose’s mouth fell open. ‘You? I—’
‘Where’s the bloody doctor?’ a man called out from the mine entrance.
Caleb laid a hand on his friend’s forearm. ‘Are you going to trust me, Penrose?’
‘Not sure I have a choice. Come with me.’
Penrose grabbed a lantern from a man at the entrance and as they ducked their heads to enter the mine, Caleb asked for details of the accident.
‘We have a team of three on the face of the mine, drilling holes for the explosives. One of them holds the drill bit while the other strikes it with a mallet. The mallet slipped. It’s nasty,’ Penrose told him.
Puddles of water lay between what looked like rail tracks and Caleb’s boots were mired in mud before the tunnel opened out into a sizeable cavern. Hand-driven winching equipment stood over a massive hole that had been dug in the floor.
‘The men were working on the far face. This way,’ Penrose said.
A crowd of miners were gathered at the mouth of a tunnel on the far side of the cavern. They turned as the sound of footsteps echoed around the cavern.
‘Doc’s here,’ someone said. ‘You lay quiet.’
The miners let Caleb through and held up lanterns to illuminate a slight man who lay in the mud, his face twisted in pain, his hand clutched to his chest. Two men knelt beside him talking in soft tones, trying to keep the injured man calm. Even from where he stood, Caleb could see the man’s hand was badly broken, blood dripping from the shattered fingers through which shards of bone protruded.
One of the two men looked up, his face ashen in the lantern light. His eyes shone wetly. ‘I was on the mallet, Mr Penrose.’ He pointed at the massive hammer beside a long piece of iron and Caleb shuddered. To be hit on the hand by such a heavy instrument driven at full force … he was surprised there were not more such accidents. The men had to be skilled to do this job.
‘Me grip slipped.’ The man’s voice shuddered. ‘I—doc you’ve got to save him.’
Caleb hunkered down beside the injured man, who clutched at his jacket with his uninjured hand and began to sob.
‘I’ve a wife and bairns …’
Caleb laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘You’ll see them again.’
A lesser man would have screamed as Caleb gave the injury a cursory examination, but Geordie set his teeth, only whimpering at Caleb’s touch.
Caleb patted the man on the shoulder to reassure him as best he could, but he had dealt with similar injuries in the long years of the war and knew the prognosis.
‘I can’t treat him here,’ he said to Penrose. ‘Carry him out into the daylight.’
With as much gentleness as they could manage, the man’s comrades lifted him on to a stretcher.
Out of the mine, Penrose took charge, directing the men to carry the stretcher through to the crib room. They set the stretcher down on a long table and pulled the benches to one side. Caleb glanced around. It would have to do.
‘What are you going to do?’ Penrose asked.
Caleb looked at his friend. ‘His wrist and hand are shattered,’ he said quietly. ‘I can’t save it.’
The colour drained from Penrose’s face. ‘Does that mean—’
‘Amputation is the only way to save his life.’ Caleb turned to the miners. ‘Get some water boiling, and I need towels or sheets.’
As the men busied themselves, Caleb walked out into the yard to steady his nerves and think through what needed to be done. Adelaide toiled up the hill towards him, her skirts bunched in one hand and a basket in the other. Beside her, Amos Burrell carried the familiar oaken box and a large Gladstone bag. A sweating Bowen trailed in their wake. Caleb swore softly under his breath. The last thing he needed was an indignant, drunken doctor asserting his authority.
Amos’s normally cheerful face was set and grim and as he reached Caleb, he jerked his head at the doctor, who had stopped to catch his breath.
‘Insisted on coming,’ he said in a low voice.
Bowen mopped his face with a large handkerchief. His red-rimmed eyes met Caleb’s. ‘Where’s the patient?’ he asked.
‘In the crib room,’ Caleb said but as the doctor took a step towards the cabin, he stood in front of him.
‘Sorry, Bowen, I can’t let you deal with this matter,’ Caleb said.
Bowen straightened. ‘I’m the doctor.’
‘Hold out your hand,’ Caleb demanded.
Bowen narrowed his eyes but complied, holding out his right hand. It shook despite the effort Bowen made to control it.
‘There’s your answer,’ Caleb said.
‘And what are your qualifications to tell me what I may or may not do?’ Bowen responded, his colour high with anger.
‘I’m a doctor,’ Caleb said. ‘A field surgeon in the Army of the South.’
Bowen did not respond, his eyes searching Caleb’s face. All anger and indignation drained from him and he nodded. ‘Very well, doctor. Burrell here has everything you need.’
Inside the crib room, Caleb allowed Bowen to inspect the man’s injury as Amos set the Gladstone bag and oak box down on the bench. The crib room smelled of unwashed bodies, blood and fear. A fire had been lit in the hearth and a large pot of water had been set to boil. The injured man’s two companions crouched beside the fire, stoking it into life. Caleb wiped his forehead, as the heat in the room began to rise.
Adelaide pointed to the box. ‘Is that what you wanted?’
He nodded. ‘Thank you, Mrs Greaves.’
She did not move. ‘I’ve also brought bandages and cloths. Can I help?’
He studied her face, noting the fierce set of her chin and the determined light in her eyes. ‘Do you faint at the sight of blood?’
‘No.’
He slipped the catches on the box and opened the lid, revealing the gleaming instruments laid out on dark blue velvet, like fine jewellery.
Adelaide drew in an audible breath and he cast her a warning glance. ‘You can go now,’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘You can start by seeing to the instruments’ sterilisation. Put them in the boiling water.’
Sterilisation of medical equipment before operations had been a new concept during the war—and not one he’d had time to adhere to in the fury of battle—but here and now he had time and he needed to make sure he did everything right. If he failed …
He turned to Bowen. ‘Doctor, what is your opinion?’
Bowen glanced at the shining knife in Adelaide’s hand. ‘You have no alternative,’ he said.
Relieved to have his diagnosis confirmed, Caleb nodded. ‘Despite what I said before, I would appreciate your advice.’
‘But—’ Bowen began then nodded. ‘Thank you. You’ll find what you need in my bag.’
Caleb
opened the Gladstone bag and did a quick inventory of the contents. Chloroform and morphine. Thank God. The man didn’t need to suffer.
He turned to the man on the table, who looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes.
‘What’s your name?’ Caleb asked, although he knew the answer. He needed to distract the man as he prepared the syringe of morphine.
‘Geordie. I’m from Newcastle,’ he said. ‘That’s what they call us all. Me name’s George Holdway.’ He screwed up his face and looked at Caleb. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Caleb Hunt.’
‘You’re that Yankee they’re all talkin’ about.’
Caleb smiled. ‘Call me a Yankee again, friend, and you’re not getting any of this morphine.’
A glimmer of a smile caught the man’s dry lips.
Thank God for morphine, Caleb thought as he watched the pain in the man’s eyes dull. It had been in short supply in the war and he had had to become adept at amputating limbs from fully conscious men. Not a skill any doctor would wish to master.
‘I’m going to look at your hand again, Geordie. I’ll be as gentle as I can but …’
‘Do what you have to, doc,’ Geordie mumbled.
The miner must have had nerves of steel. Despite the pain relief, his body tensed and he grimaced during the examination but he did not utter a sound.
Caleb straightened and shook his head. His first diagnosis had been correct. The miner’s hand was shattered beyond repair.
‘You’ve got to do something to save his hand.’ The man who swung the mallet looked wretched.
‘Too many small bones,’ Caleb said and laid a hand on the stricken man’s shoulder. ‘It wasn’t your fault. It’s a dangerous job.’
The miner flinched under Caleb’s touch. ‘We know the risks, but we’ve been working as a team for five years. We prided ourselves on being the fastest and the best …’ He looked away, ashamed of the tears that ran in rivulets down his dusty face.
Caleb turned to Bowen. ‘Are you sober enough to administer the chloroform?’
Bowen met his hard gaze. ‘I am.’
‘And you two?’ He turned to Geordie’s comrades. ‘I need a couple of men with stout stomachs.’
‘He’s our mate, we ain’t going anywhere.’
Caleb looked into the faces of the two nuggety miners and understood. Miners, like soldiers, formed strong bonds. They introduced themselves as Len and Alf. If they had surnames, they could wait.
Silence fell over the room as Caleb completed his preparations. No one questioned him, and the miners moved without comment to obey his commands. Adelaide settled herself beside Geordie with a damp cloth, wiping the mud and sweat from the man’s face and talking to him as Bowen administered the chloroform.
Satisfied the patient was unconscious, Caleb set Bowen to watch Geordie’s breathing and directed the two miners to hold him still. Even unconscious, a patient could still move.
He rolled up his shirt sleeves, scrubbed his hands with carbolic soap and, taking a deep breath, applied the tourniquet. Then he picked up the first instrument—the curved amputation knife. The handle felt warm and familiar and he stilled his nerves, once more back in a blood-stained tent at the rear of the Confederate lines, the ground shaking beneath his feet at each cannon shot, the smell of blood, gore and powder mingling.
For a long moment, the breath stopped in his throat and he had to force his hand to become steady. A good field surgeon could amputate a limb in a few minutes and Caleb had been a good field surgeon.
Oh Shenandoah, I long to see you … The words of the song echoed in the back of his mind, calming him. He took a breath and set to work, his hands moving almost automatically with the skills he had long since locked away as belonging to a past he did not want to remember.
He had the damaged hand off with practised skill and, with the patient unconscious, had the luxury of allowing skin flaps to be sewn across the stump, making for a neater, more rounded finish.
As he straightened to look for a blanket to cover the patient, the two miners who had helped stood back, faces ashen, neither of them daring to look at the bloodied hand that had been wrapped in a cloth and put in the fire bucket.
For the first time, Caleb allowed himself to look at Adelaide. Like the miners, her face was pale, her lips no more than a slash, but her brown eyes met his without hesitation. She gave him a shaky smile and he let himself breathe again.
Only now did he venture to look at his own arms, red to the elbow with the man’s blood, which also spattered his clothes and face. He knew what was coming but he couldn’t show his weakness in front of the men. With as much calm as he could muster, he plunged his hands into a bucket of warm water and scrubbed at them with the carbolic soap as the water turned pink.
With a sharp order to Bowen to watch the patient, he walked to the door of the shed and out into the last of the daylight. Skirting behind the mine buildings he found a patch of bush away from sight and sound of the mine and was violently ill. He sat, shaking from head to toe, for as long as he dared allow himself, mindful he had a patient that needed him.
When he returned to the crib hut, Geordie was awake but groggy. Caleb checked the man’s pulse and breathing, relieved to find both were strong.
Leaning on the table, he looked down at the miner. ‘I had to take your hand, Geordie,’ he said.
The man closed his eyes, and a tear welled from beneath his lashes. ‘What’ll become of me?’
‘You’ll be alive,’ Caleb said. ‘I’ve seen many men make good lives for themselves.’
‘I only know mining.’
Caleb had no answer for that. ‘Shall I send for your wife?’ he asked.
Geordie shook his head and Len spoke up. ‘She’s in Melbourne, works as a navvy at one of the hotels down there. Geordie lodges with us. We’ll take him back to our place.’
The door opened and Cowper stomped in, Penrose hovering in his wake. ‘Shift’s not over yet. The two of you can finish up or your pay’ll be docked. We’ve lost enough time. Back to it.’
The men looked from the mine manager to Caleb.
‘Surely—’ Caleb began but Cowper cut him short.
‘This is not your concern, Hunt. I can’t afford to lose time over an accident.’
With mutinous glances at their employer, the two miners left the room. Caleb faced the mine manager across the body of the injured miner, who had lapsed into sleep or unconsciousness or something in between. At least his pulse was still strong and his breathing steady.
‘What now, Cowper?’
‘When he’s well enough we’ll pay him what he’s owed, his fare to Melbourne and a bit extra for his trouble and send him on his way. He’s no use to me without a hand.’
‘And what becomes of him back in Melbourne?’
‘That’s his business. Thank you for your trouble, doctor. Please send me your account and I will see it is paid.’ Cowper paused, his eyes narrowing. ‘This is a hard job, Hunt. There is no room for sentimentality. If you’ve plans to get into it, then you’d better learn that lesson here and now.’
Caleb shrugged. ‘I served for four years in the Army of the Confederacy, Cowper. I lost my sentimentality a long time ago.’
Cowper studied him. ‘I don’t believe that for a moment, Hunt.’
‘Who’s going to care for this man during his recovery?’
‘I have an arrangement with the Australis Hotel. The mine’ll pay for him to lodge there and Mrs Chauncey can tend him until he’s strong enough to travel.’
‘Is she a nurse?’
‘She does nursing and generally nobody dies,’ Cowper said.
Adelaide coughed and Cowper shot her a sharp glance.
‘This town needs a proper hospital with qualified staff,’ Caleb said, looking at Bowen for support.
Cowper shrugged. ‘And who’ll pay for that?’
‘The mine—’
‘It’s been months since we’ve hit a paying seam. The shareholders are
getting impatient. Until we can find the main seam, I am hard put to pay the men’s wages. Until then, it’s Mrs Chauncey.’
‘No!’ Adelaide came around the table to face the mine manager. ‘I will not permit you to send this man to Chauncey. You know what happened last time.’ She turned to Bowen. ‘That boy who got his foot caught in a trolley? He died, Cowper.’
Bowen shuffled his feet. ‘He did. Wound turned gangrenous, and I told you then that alternative arrangements should be made.’
Caleb glared at Cowper. ‘What price is a man’s life?’
Cowper met his eyes without blinking. ‘Do you really want to know? These men are skilled workers. Without a hand, he’s worth nothing. If he was foolish enough to get injured, that’s his look out.’ He turned to Adelaide. ‘I pay two pounds for the man’s care. That’s it. Not a penny more.’
‘Two pounds? We would do it for nothing,’ Adelaide replied.
Cowper’s mouth tightened. ‘Very well if you want the care of him, you can have it. Get this man out of here. I have work to do. Penrose!’
But Penrose lingered after the door slammed shut.
Caleb rounded on his friend. ‘You just take that from him, Penrose? I thought better of you than that.’
Penrose swallowed. ‘I don’t always approve of my uncle’s decisions, but he is my uncle and I am dependent on him. Let me know if there is anything else you need.’
‘Just a couple of sturdy men to take him down to the post office.’ Caleb turned to Adelaide. ‘Bowen and I will clean up here. You see him settled. Just throw anything of mine in my box and I’ll find a bed elsewhere. I have imposed on you long enough.’
‘Where will you go?’ Adelaide asked.
Caleb shrugged. ‘This town isn’t short of accommodation. That’s my concern, not yours.’
On the table, Geordie moaned and tried to sit up. Caleb hurried to the man’s side, stilling him with a hand on the shoulder. Two burly men entered the room without knocking.
‘You need him carried somewhere?’
‘Yes, the post office.’
Adelaide tucked the blanket around the injured man and the men lifted Geordie onto the stretcher without much gentleness. Caleb stood at the door, watching as they loaded him onto a handcart and trundled him down the hill in a grim procession. He turned back to the crib room where he found Bowen washing the surgical instruments in hot water.
The Postmistress Page 11
