Open Wound: The Tragic Obsession of Dr. William Beaumont

by Jason Karlawish

  As Foote was slicing a squash into neat pieces, he asked those near him, “I understand you maintain a garden at this fort?”

  The assembly looked to Pearce.

  “We do,” Pearce announced.

  “Excellent,” said Foote. He continued chewing. “Secretary of War Calhoun shares our view that a soldier's diet needs a proper balance of vegetables as well as legumes. Simply subsisting on fried meats and bread debilitates a man's constitution.”

  Pearce was smiling. “We've heard.”

  “What about the whiskey ration?” asked Hardage Thompson.

  Foote gestured with his fork. “That's next. Though don't press me for the details, as I don't have them. I can assure you that there is a general recognition among the command that ardent spirits are not a necessary part of the ration, that it is the cause of a general debilitation of the soldier's constitution. Reputation, honor, health and even life are sacrificed to obtain the inebriating draught.”

  Several of the guests began remarking on the subject of the whiskey ration, but they stopped when Pearce spoke up.

  “What about fighting? What's the talk among the command about that?”

  “I beg your pardon, Captain?”

  Pearce was red faced, and the hair at his temples was damp with sweat. “Best way to maintain the Constitution, capital C on that too, is to keep an army fighting. The Sioux, the Fox, the Creek, Canada, La Republica de Mexico. Why isn't this army fighting?”

  Foote was visibly uncomfortable. “You've asked the wrong man, Captain. That's a query best put to Secretary Calhoun, I should think.”

  Pearce drained his glass and tapped its rim with his forefinger. A waiter stepped close with a decanter and began to refill it. Pearce watched the red wine rise to the rim. Then he looked at Foote.

  “I know,” he said dully. “I'll leave you all to your vegetables.” He gestured to Theodore Mathews. “You there, Teddy, why don't you pass that platter of stewed cabbage to our guest?”

  By the hour when the pudding laced with both white and red raisins was sent round, the rules of the officers' mess had been broken, and several officers were given the punishment of having to bring a bottle to the next mess, one man for spilling his wine on the table, two for leaving the table to void and a third who garbled his remarks on the report of an uprising among the Fox Indians near Fort Crawford. Theodore Mathews was heavy lidded and staring at his plate.

  Captain Pearce was animated, praising General Jackson's battles against the Seminole Indians and his rule of the Florida territory. Russell Stuart, the Indian agent, advanced the thesis that the Seminoles were among the least civilized of the Indians, owing to their tropical conditions. They seemed centuries behind the Indians of the Plains, who had built villages and farms.

  “Interbreeding with the African slave runaways did not help,” he asserted. “History shows us the pace of civilization. The nomad of the desert, the heathen of the Levant. Civilization comes slowly to those who wander, and the climate plays no small role in that.”

  Pearce looked to others at the table. “Doctor,” he said.

  Both Foote and Beaumont looked to Pearce.

  “You there.” Pearce gestured to Foote. “Yes, you. Flute. Have you seen our good Dr. Beaumont's Frenchman with the bunghole in his side?”

  Foote looked confused. “I'm sorry?” He was visibly tired. The pearl buttons of his vest strained, and his cravat was loosened and askew.

  “He's got a wounded voyageur with a lid on his stomach. You haven't told our guest of your Frenchman, Dr. Beaumont?”

  Beaumont cleared his throat. “Dr. Foote arrived just this afternoon, Captain. He's not had the opportunity to begin his inspection.”

  “What's this?” Foote asked Beaumont.

  Pearce was animated. “It's fantastic, Doctor. A preternatural wonder.” He looked about the table. “Isn't it, Russell? Hardage? Teddy?”

  The men said nothing. Beaumont searched the table for Ramsay Crooks. He was gone.

  Pearce carried on.

  “The man was good for dead. Dead, I tell you, but our Dr. Beaumont saved his life. Shotgun blast to his left side, right here.” Pearce placed his hand over the spot and made the sound of the discharge. “Right here, and it was a mess of food about, not to mention the blood and such. I saw living and breathing lung. Looked just like a turkey's egg. Days to follow they were picking out shot from the wall. And that was what, some two, three years ago, and now the lad walks about, eats and drinks, does he drink, and works as a common servant here for the doctor. How's that for charity?”

  “A lid?” Foote asked.

  “A lid,” Pearce bellowed as he flapped his hand up and down as if to demonstrate the action. “He's got some sort of lid right into his stomach. Blows out gas, I'd bet.”

  Foote looked to Beaumont. “Pray tell?”

  Beaumont cleared his throat. “The captain has well summarized the essential details,” he said. “Tomorrow you will see Alexis, that's his name. I shall explain the particulars of the case then. Surgeon General Lovell has been well apprised, and I have submitted a report to the Medical Recorder.”

  “But a lid?”

  “A gastrocutaneous fistula developed, and in time a fold of tissue has come to act as a sort of valve to prevent egress of the contents.”

  “And yet you can open it?” Foote asked.

  The soldiers, even some of the waiters and the barefoot boy with the water pitcher, were looking to Beaumont.

  “It can be opened, yes. I'll show you tomorrow.”

  Foote's attention was thoroughly restored. “And once opened, you have a kind of window into the process of digestion, correct? He's been alive for some two years now? He must have normal digestion, and yet, and yet, with the passage of air into the cavity that would limit the degree of fermentation.”

  Beaumont simply nodded.

  Pearce interrupted. “Bring him here, why not? Right here.”

  “Captain?” Beaumont looked visibly distressed.

  Pearce thumped the tabletop with his knuckles. “Bring. Him. Here. Here. There's plenty for him to eat. By God, look at that cheese.” He gestured to a plate with three rounds of cheese. “Why wait until the morrow to show our distinguished guest?” he insisted. “You've never made a proper display of the man, after all we've done for him. He's been a bit of a piece, I assure you, Dr. Flute. Last season there was a riot on the beach after he won a drinking bet. Poured it down and poured it out. Oh, how clever are those Frenchies.”

  Pearce rotated in his chair. He spied his corporal in the shadows beside the mantle.

  “Corporal, hurry over to the Beaumonts' cottage and fetch the Frenchman. Tell him he has a personal invitation from Captain Isaiah Ignatius Pearce to the officers' banquet.” Pearce held his right forefinger aloft. “A personal invitation.”

  Beaumont spoke up.

  “Captain, I should think the man is retired by now. Moreover, the inspection of his wound is a medical matter, not something for an officers' mess entertainment.”

  Foote was nodding in agreement.

  The corporal stood still and wide-eyed. He looked to the doctors. Then he looked to Pearce, who gestured casually to the corporal as he gazed at Beaumont and said with a delicate menace, “Why don't we let the lad decide that, Doctor? He's a free man, is he not? Corporal,” he barked, “you have your orders.”

  Beaumont sat rigid.

  “Captain, my wife and children. They're likely asleep.”

  “A doctor's wife should be well accustomed to interruptions.”

  CIGARS AND A WICK WERE PASSED and the brandies brought forth. Soon the room was a haze of blue smoke, and the assembly began to rise from the table. Pearce drained his glass and walked slowly to the window with a view to the lake. The dock was empty, the steamship having departed early in the evening.

  Foote leaned close to Beaumont. “Really, Doctor, this can wait until tomorrow. Now's not the proper time for an examination of any man. I shall talk with t
he captain.”

  Foote began to rise from his chair, but Beaumont checked him as he shook his head. “Don't. Not when he's in this sort of state. I assure you, I have every intention of showing you the case and the experiments I've undertaken.” He leaned close to the physician's ear. “I've begun to establish the chemical nature of digestion.”

  “Chemical?”

  “Yes. Chemical. Not a fermenting vat, not a grinding device, but a chemical process.”

  Beaumont explained his experiments. He concluded by describing the vial of whey-colored gastric juice. “Some three weeks later, and it retains its sweet aroma. Not even a whiff of putrefaction, and except for gentle agitation, it was not subjected to the slightest grinding.”

  Foote was silent for a moment. “Spallanzani has a theory of chemical digestion.”

  “And Beaumont has proved it,” Beaumont announced.

  In the months and years that followed this conversation, Beaumont would recall their exchange and recoil with shame over his pride. One experiment proved little. Dr. Lyman Foote knew that as well as any educated man. And yet he spoke those words. Beaumont has proved it.

  The corporal returned alone. He whispered to Pearce, who shrugged and nodded. The corporal turned quickly on his heel. As he was crossing the room, Beaumont caught his eye. The corporal stepped close to Beaumont.

  “He wasn't at home, sir,” he whispered.

  It was past midnight when Beaumont tapped a knuckle sharply on the door to Alexis's room. No answer came. He eased the door open.

  “Alexis.” He stood at the threshold to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The space felt empty, cold.

  A voice whispered behind him. “William?”

  Deborah reached for his shoulder but then set her hand down. “William, what's wrong? There was a soldier here asking for Alexis.”

  “And?”

  “I told him he wasn't here.”

  Beaumont stepped into the small room. The bed was empty. He slapped the thing.

  “William, what's happening?”

  He sat heavily on the edge of the narrow bed, his head in his hands.

  “I don't know.”

  “Why did a soldier come for him?” Her voice was scared.

  “Pearce,” he spat. “Pearce was drunk. He wanted him to come to the dinner, to have me show Alexis off. Show him off. Can you fathom that?”

  She held out her hand to her husband. “Come to bed, William.”

  “I'll be back within the hour.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “What do you think, woman? To find him.”

  “William, it's late. Late. Please,” she begged. “He's a young man, and it's a full moon. He could be anywhere among the tents along the lakeshore, in the barracks, in the woods. You'll not find him.”

  Beaumont just stood still before his wife.

  “Just come to bed,” she pleaded.

  DEPTH OF DAWN. Beaumont did not stop running until he reached the water's edge. His chest ached, and his legs burned. There were a few Indians and voyageurs moving slowly among the tents and lean-tos. They stared at Beaumont as he stood heaving at the water's edge, his shirttails loose. A corncob, a few animal bones, bits of firewood and a green bottle rolled in the gentle lapping of the waves. The dock was empty. The steamship had departed in the early evening.

  He turned. Two women wrapped in blankets squatted before a low cooking fire. One of them was old and toothless and gray. The other might have been her daughter. A small boy stood between them. He was dressed only in a pair of ragged buckskin trousers tied with a piece of rope, and he fingered his protuberant navel. His face was blemished with lesions. The three of them stared at him with unblinking ebony eyes. The old woman spoke in a guttural tongue.

  “Well,” he asked them, “I don't suppose you know where he is?”

  The boy hurried into the tent.

  Beaumont spat. He punched the air. He kicked the earth. He kicked it again so hard he nearly fell on his rump. Several soldiers were walking toward him. Major Hardage Thompson was in the lead. When they reached Beaumont, the major simply stood. He was not yet dressed for morning parade. The breeze tossed his thin gray hair.

  Beaumont held out a folded paper. “He left this,” he said plainly.

  Thompson unfolded it. One edge was jagged, as though it had been torn to fashion a puzzle piece. He looked at the paper, and then he looked at Beaumont.

  “It's his half of his indenture agreement with the company.” Beaumont explained. “That's all he left. That and two vials.”

  PART 2

  The Only Men Entitled to Happiness

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THE WINTER OF 1824 BEGAN with stories of hostile Indian activity in the territories around the northern waters of the Mississippi River. The Sioux, Sauk, Winnebago and Fox Indians were disputing their boundaries. The agents of the Department of Indian Affairs paid out more and more presents and compensations, but the disagreements only intensified.

  In time, anger among the tribes spilled over to the whites. In the early spring of 1825, at the end of maple-syrup-making season, the Methode family did not return to the village of Prairie du Chien on the banks of the Mississippi River in Wisconsin. A search party found them murdered and scalped in their camp near Painted Rock Creek. Mother, father, three children and dog. The camp was burned, the packed snow crimson.

  The governors of Illinois, Wisconsin and Michigan threatened to call up their militias. The army began to move troops and supplies about the Northern territories. Captain Pearce was assigned the command of Fort Snelling, but before he could depart for this duty, his aide found him dead at his desk. A bullet wound to his forehead. The implements of his gun-cleaning equipment were scattered; the whiskey bottle was empty. Brevet Major Hardage Thompson was transferred to Fort Edwards, and Surgeon General Lovell ordered Beaumont to assist in outfitting the hospitals of the Great Lakes region. His skills from the War of 1812 were most valued.

  When the order arrived, Deborah had begged her husband to leave the army and set up a private practice in St. Louis. She dreaded life on the road, the weeks of hot and dusty travel, the long days rocking in crowded, damp boats, living out of trunks.

  He rejected her plea. He told her that with the long shadow of the Griswold affair still darkening his name and his promotion to surgeon uncertain, to quit was to concede failure and surrender his reputation. Lovell needed him, and this service might restore his reputation.

  In time, they came to enjoy the journey. They wound through miles of woods and passed apple orchards heavy with fruit. They traveled between walls described by fields of tall corn or hay. They crossed narrow rivers drawn down by summer's heat, trout visible in the clear pools, their fins like tiny Japanese silk fans. They yielded the way for teamsters who drove wagons filled with sacks of grain and lumber.

  They rested beneath shade trees beside ponds. Beaumont carried Sarah piggyback and swung her round in fields of poppies and lupine. The two of them chased spooked rabbits. She delighted at the panicked shrieks of flushed quail. They watched thunderstorms gather in the afternoon, and at night, heat lightning cast the trees in silhouette. Sarah kept up a steady chatter of questions, and he obliged them with patient answers.

  They dined at inns where the clientele of well-to-do farmers clapped their thick hands as their wives sang songs in Old German. They watched children dance hand-in-hand in counter-turning circles. They fed Sarah her first peach, the golden juice dribbling off her chin. Several nights, they slept beneath a canvas tarp; little Sarah lay between them whimpering and kicking in her dreams like a puppy.

  The infant William had died the previous winter of fever that struck him on a Monday like a dart. Beaumont rubbed the child with spirits of camphor, bled him from a tiny vein, but by Wednesday the child would not take to his mother's breast, and around noon on Friday, just four weeks after his first birthday, the boy took his last breath in his mother's arms.

  In time, their grief became bear
able. The travels helped. But a different grief still preoccupied him: his loss of Alexis St. Martin. The savor of the days of experiments was gone. All that remained was a bitter anger. Beaumont calculated that by the day Alexis fled, he had spent some 360 dollars on his ungrateful Frenchman. He had spent hundreds of hours, hours when he could have been earning income. He came to despise the experiments, and he shuddered with shame over his dreams. He cringed when he recalled again and yet again his miscalculations with Alexis.