Open Wound: The Tragic Obsession of Dr. William Beaumont

by Jason Karlawish

  Alexis shrugged.

  Edgar turned away from the grating. “We were together all the night. After the drinking trick, Alexis and I were at the warehouse drinking.”

  Edouard cocked his head.

  “I'll vouch for that,” Edgar said.

  Edouard nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said tentatively.

  “And you came along too. Later, we heard shouting. So we went to see what was the matter. That's when we saw those Indians running. Seven of them. And then we found the wounded voyageur. The one who was stabbed.”

  Alexis was looking at Edgar. Etienne had risen up. The two men looked at Edouard, and Edouard looked at Edgar.

  “Well then,” Edouard said. “You saw what you saw.”

  Edgar nodded. He gestured to Alexis. “I'll take that sack of coins you made off the drinking game.”

  Edouard sneered, then smiled.

  “You crazy, crazy white nigger, you.” He signaled to Alexis. “Go on brother, pay up. Give him your purse.”

  SIXTEEN

  IN THE DAYS FOLLOWING THE MEETING in Captain Pearce's office, Beaumont was in a back-and-forth debate with himself about what to do with Alexis. Sometimes, he was determined to send him away. Others, he chided himself for his cowardice and lack of resolve. He opened his notebook to a clean page and drew a large capital T; on the one side of it he wrote, “Al. stays” and on the other “Al. leaves.” Under each heading, he wrote the reasons to support it, but he soon found the exercise futile. The same reasons fit on both sides of his balance sheet: reputation, promotion, Alexis's well-being. It seemed an offense to balance some reasons against others: Deborah's contentment versus income. Perhaps he should pray for guidance, but he had not done such a thing since he was a boy. He looked over Franklin's guide for moral perfection: useless. Perhaps Alexis would be found guilty, and he would have no choice but to send him off. Some days, he regretted he had taken the wounded man from the company store.

  A week later, Major Hardage Thompson called Beaumont to his office. He had concluded his investigation.

  “I wanted to be the first to tell you this, William. I know how much the lad means to you, so I thought it best I speak to you rather than let rumor or Captain Pearce deliver the news.”

  The blood was pounding in Beaumont's chest.

  The major took up his paper and slipped on his spectacles. He summarized the findings. Edouard St. Martin had indeed offered a bet that his brother could drink more than any other man. But no evidence supported Alexis's involvement in the stabbing. Edgar's testimony was key. He vouched that in the hours before and after the stabbing he and Alexis had been together drinking outside the warehouse. By the hour of the shooting, they were too drunk to stand. Alexis was exonerated of all involvement in the stabbing.

  “Perhaps they fixed their stories, but others corroborate it,” Thompson concluded. He removed his spectacles. “Honestly, William, I tried every which way to catch Edgar up, Edouard and Alexis as well, but they were consistent to every detail, even to the number of Indians. Seven, they insist. You know how these men are. Everyone speaks, but no one says anything. It's over. Alexis is a free man. You can take him home now. If you wish.”

  Beaumont sat expressionless.

  “What's wrong, William?”

  “I'm like Adam cast from Eden, so ashamed of what I've done.”

  Thompson lowered his eyes.

  “You think so too, don't you?” Beaumont insisted.

  The major coughed and smoothed his hands over his thighs. “That you feel simply means you're a man. I know you have a particular attachment to him, that he's become like a son to you. It's hard to see your child go astray, and yet his behavior this summer has been at times, to speak plainly, deplorable. I won't lie to you, friend. Others question the logic of your charity.”

  “Logic of charity,” Beaumont pronounced. “Does such a sentiment have logic? In the war, we would have so many patients, but from time to time, one or another captured our attention more than others. Something in their manner, their illness, the circumstances of their wound, made you pay extra attention. It's like that with Alexis.”

  Thompson nodded slowly.

  “Debbie finds the man crude. Perhaps I should just let him go, but I've invested so much in that lad. As has Sally. What should I do?”

  “Honestly, William, you've done your very best for him, and for that you should be proud. You truly have done your best, but now he's become a drain not only upon your charity but I fear also your reputation. Remember the malingering Lieutenant Griswold? Take away a man's reputation, and all that remains is positively bestial. Charity is a limited obligation. You mustn't let it overmaster you.”

  Beaumont chuckled. “What do you think Ramsay Crooks would do?”

  “Ramsay? I expect he'd figure out a way to make some cash off that drinking trick Alexis does.”

  THAT AFTERNOON BEAUMONT went to the brig to collect Alexis. Two soldiers, each armed with shouldered rifles, led the way. One carried the key ring with great ceremony. Beaumont waited at the edge of the parade ground for the soldiers to return with the freed prisoners.

  The three voyageurs walked out in a single file, shivering. Edgar followed behind, costumed in wrappings of furs and blankets sewed up about his thighs and shoulders so that he looked like a scarecrow outfitted for the freeze. His feet and legs were slipped into crude stockings fashioned from the length of some animal's leg fur turned inside out and cinched at the ends of his feet, creating the effect of a jester's fur-lined booties. Edgar hopped from one foot to the other, looked at Edouard, then turned and trotted across the parade grounds to the gates to the fort.

  The three voyageurs just stood there. Etienne scratched at his head, drew something out between his fingertips and inspected his discovery. Alexis gazed at his oversized shoes. Edouard, looking after Edgar, chuckled and announced that the man was a lunatic. Beaumont stood before them, his hands in his coat pockets.

  Alexis gestured shyly to his brother.

  “Doctor, this is my brother Edouard.”

  Beaumont extended his right hand.

  “Edouard. Good to meet you.”

  Edouard stepped forward, clasped Beaumont's hand between his and pumped it vigorously. “Dr. Beaumont. Alexis has told me all about you. You, sir, you are his savior. On behalf of the entire St. Martin family, we salute you, Doctor, and say that we are forever your humble servants.” He affected a small bow. “What you have done is nothing short of a miracle. A miracle. If ever we can repay you, you have only to ask.”

  Beaumont drew his hand away. “Thank you,” he said.

  Edouard continued. “Let me present our comrade Etienne Desauliers of Montreal, a fellow Blackfeather like Alexis and myself.”

  Etienne nodded civilly as he shook Beaumont's hand.

  “Well, gentlemen, you're all free men again,” Beaumont announced. “It's late, Alexis, and it's been a long week for us. Let's go home. Deborah and Sarah are worried about you. We'll change your dressings and get you in some warm clothes.” He made a gesture for Alexis to follow him.

  Alexis did not move. He looked to Edouard, then to Etienne, but both men stood poker faced. Alexis started to speak to them in French.

  Edouard cut him off. “Go on little brother, do as your doctor says. Your bandages need changing. But here, first.”

  Edouard held open his arms and embraced Alexis. He told Alexis he loved him and would see him in the spring. Etienne did the same. The four men crossed the parade ground to the gate together, and then the two voyageurs walked downhill to their crowded camp on the beach, and Alexis and Beaumont returned to their small house at the edge of the village. Halfway there, Beaumont draped his right arm over Alexis's shoulders and drew him close.

  SEVENTEEN

  FOR WEEKS, BEAUMONT IGNORED ALEXIS. He put away his notebook, shelved Brown's Elementa Medicinae and ceased gazing into the wound and collecting gastric liquor with his gum elastic tube. The mere sight of the Frenchman was enough to
incite him to a simmering, square-jawed anger.

  Some days, Beaumont wanted Alexis to leave. He wanted to beg Deborah's forgiveness for his selfishness and neglect of his duties to her and their family. He wanted to tell Captain Pearce that his sentiment of mercy for this wounded Gumbo had overcome his right reason. Other days, he imagined himself in Paris, at the center of an operating theater, demonstrating Alexis's wound, displaying the process of digestion, holding up a vial of the clear gastric liquor, explaining the action of the stomach to an assembly of physicians. This longing and the impossibility of ever achieving it, they drew him to despair.

  One afternoon, as he sat in his darkening office staring out the window, he decided Alexis must go. Deborah would be happy, he would write the case report as best he could, his reputation would be repaired.

  As he was convincing himself this was the proper course of action, a knock came at his door.

  “Enter,” he called.

  Captain Pearce and Brevet Major Hardage Thompson stepped into the room.

  “Pardon the disturbance, Doctor,” the captain announced. “I see you enjoying the darkness here. Interesting. But I bring a certain sort of light. News from Washington City.” He produced a packet of papers from his coat pocket and set them on the tabletop.

  Thompson sat. The captain looked over at him but said nothing. He took up the paper.

  “It's an order from Washington City. From President Monroe. Allow me, please.” The captain paused to scan the page. Thompson was staring blankly into the space of Beaumont's cluttered desk.

  “I, President James Monroe, Commander in Chief of the U.S. Army, restore Lieutenant Edmond B. Griswold to his rank of Second Lieutenant with all pay and privileges as appropriate to that rank and owed from the date of his arrest.”

  Beaumont was wide-eyed. “What in God's name?”

  “There's more, Doctor.” The captain looked at Thompson, then continued to read. “The evidence before the court did not warrant the decision it rendered. The conviction rests on testimony from one Assistant Surgeon William Beaumont whose evidence is more an expression of his professional opinion than a statement of facts. Moreover, this opinion is shaken by the testimony from fellow officers Lieutenants Russell and Morris who stated that Lieutenant Griswold could not perform his duties because he was ill. The testimony of Brevet-Major Thompson and that of Assistant Surgeon Beaumont both bear internal marks of excited feelings, impairing their credibility.

  “Assistant Surgeon Beaumont is to be especially singled out for making an experiment upon his patient of more than doubtful propriety in the relations of a medical advisor to his patient. A medicine of violent operation, administered by a physician to a man whom he believes to be in full health, but who is taking his professional advice, is a very improper test of the sincerity of the patient's complaints, and the avowal of it as a transaction justifiable in itself discloses a mind warped by ill will, or insensitive to its own relative duties.”

  The captain held the paper before him by his thumb and forefinger. “It's signed President James Monroe and dated the 3rd of September 1823,” he said flatly as he let it drop like a dry leaf on to the tabletop.

  Pearce's manner became unusually sympathetic. “I'll leave this with you to review. Good day.” The scrape and step of his boots came heavy upon the floorboards.

  THOMPSON WAS DEVASTATED. “What're we going to do?”

  Beaumont held the paper like some condemned man reviewing his warrant. His hands shook and then too his jaw. He said slowly, “If I had this case to do again and to do again a hundred times, I would do exactly as I have done.” He looked at Thompson. “We shall defend our honor.”

  “How?” Thompson had covered his face with his hands. “Challenge James Monroe to pistols at thirty paces?”

  “A court of inquiry into the matter. I shall demand a court of inquiry be formed and the matter reviewed by my peers. Medical peers. Hardage, look at me. Please.”

  Thompson lowered his hands.

  “This is my problem, not yours. I must take the weight of this. I'll speak with Captain Pearce straightaway to initiate the court.”

  “I think he wishes the thing be done and gone.”

  “The thing has just begun, Hardage.”

  Thompson wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I can't bear to walk about the garrison with this cloud over my name. I feel positively bestial.” He began sobbing.

  “Hardage, compose yourself. I share your disgust but not your shame. My reputation is dear to me too.”

  Thompson's face was tear stained. “If only you hadn't given the man that dose.”

  Beaumont slapped the tabletop. “And if only you had forced lieutenants Russell and Morris, your two fancy academy men, to submit their testimony, we'd not be sitting here like some pair of fools sharing a presidential rebuke.”

  “William Beaumont, are ambition and anger the only emotions you feel?”

  Beaumont's ears reddened. “Hardage, what the devil?”

  “You could have . . .”

  Beaumont interrupted him. “Could have what?” he yelled. “What precisely? What? You came to me distressed about the man, and I did my duty. Now you sit here and sob like a woman in a calico dress. Wipe your nose, and act like a man.”

  “For God's sake, William, the man's father's a judge out east.”

  Beaumont snapped. “That has nothing to do with it!”

  Thompson exploded. “Why is everything always such a matter of high-minded principle with you? Why? You said to me you felt doubt. That very day. You said you felt doubt about your so-called diagnosis.”

  Beaumont took in a great breath. He gazed at the ceiling, then looked at Hardage and spoke evenly. “Doubt? Then that's my third emotion. No, fourth. Disgust too. The truth shall win out and restore our reputations. This is a medical matter. Why the president of the United States chooses to involve himself I cannot fathom. I've copied out some fourteen pages in my notebook of cases of malingering. With all due respect to our commander in chief, just as I presume not to manage his practice as president, he cannot mine as physician.”

  Beaumont paused.

  “Hardage, look at me. Look at me, please. The only thing we can do is show some pluck and fight this, not each other. Do you have some other idea?”

  The major shook his head slowly, then rose and walked out of the office. Beaumont called after him, following him to the threshold of the hospital. He would have chased him down, but the sight of passersby watching caused him to retreat to his office. He closed the door and sat heavily in his chair. As he gazed upon the president's order, he considered the tiny initials of the clerk who had dutifully copied these devastating words: this document was one of many in that clerk's work committing other men's words to paper, a humble job, without tribulation, but with a steady income.

  LATE IN THE AFTERNOON, Beaumont called on Captain Pearce. The captain was at his desk, wiping the octagonal barrel of his gun with a soft oiled cloth. His uniform coat was slung over the back of his chair, and his shirt-sleeves were rolled up above his elbows. A glass of whiskey sat before him. He glanced at Beaumont, then returned to his gun.

  “I'm sorry about the order,” he said. “Reasonable people will disagree.”

  “Captain, my reputation is dear to me. It is truly all that I have. I should like to petition to the adjutant general for a court of inquiry into the matter.”

  The captain shrugged. He took up a rigid brass cleaning rod, wrapped a small square of green felt about the tip, then began to carefully pass the felt through the length of the barrel. “Go on then.”

  “A court of inquiry composed of medical men and candid judges who are equipped to properly review the facts of the matter and decide whether what was done was mere opinion or, as I submit, a statement of medical fact legitimately gathered.”

  “I'll not stop you from writing for such a hearing.”

  “But will you support it, Captain?”

  The captain set the gun
down, then looked directly at Beaumont. “No.”

  Beaumont did not remove his gaze from the captain, nor did the captain remove his from Beaumont.

  “Why, sir?”

  “Because the commander in chief has spoken, and I'll not protest against his orders.”

  “Captain, this is not a protest. It's a petition and . . .”