Open Wound: The Tragic Obsession of Dr. William Beaumont

by Jason Karlawish

  Emerson held his hand to shade his eyes as he looked back at the whitewashed fort, glowing in the morning sun. “You think they'd put me up in the fort? Seems the best place with all these savages about.”

  “There's quarters there.”

  Emerson called over his shoulder. “Dred, this here is Dr. William Beaumont.”

  The man nodded and smiled.

  “Dr. Beaumont, this is Dred Scott. He's a good and loyal boy, and I've taught him some of the skills of a surgeon's mate. Dred, why don't you wheel our belongings to the fort, and don't leave them until I return in a few hours. Dr. Beaumont and I have some work here.”

  “Yes sir.” The man began to move away with the cart.

  “Dred,” he called. “You got some change for a meal?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Right then, off with you.”

  Emerson turned and stepped past Beaumont into the hospital.

  “Well then, Doctor, let's get to work. Hotter than Hades here, and more flies swirling than round a latrine. Here then.” He had unbuttoned his uniform coat and handed it to Badger. “What's your name, boy?”

  “Badger, sir.”

  THE GREAT COUNCIL carried on for some two weeks, and in that time the doctors worked day and night, some days tending to as many as six new cases of swamp fever and an assortment of injuries. With the end of the council in August, their work began to lessen enough that Emerson was able to enjoy a day of bird hunting upon the prairie. One afternoon, the doctors sat in the shade of the hospital, drinking tea and eating cold beef sandwiches. Emerson sat with the back of his chair tilted against the side of the hospital, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the boots.

  “Why do you bother with that Frenchman of yours? I see how you get frustrated with him. The man's near useless. You ought to get yourself a proper Negro like Dred.”

  Beaumont stared at the riverbank, where several herons made slow progress among the reeds.

  “How long have you had Dred?”

  “I've owned him outright now for two years. Got the title in my bag. Bought him off a family in St. Louis. Fellow named Peter Blow, a Virginian come to St. Louis a few years back, died, and then his children sold off the lot of slaves. Dred's traveled with me through the free state of Illinois and the Iowa territory for at least a year now. Fact, I left him in Rock Island for a spell when I had to make it back quick to Jefferson Barracks. And not once did he make a petition for his freedom or so much as take a step to flee. You know why?”

  Beaumont shook his head slowly.

  Emerson was enjoying his disquisition.

  “He's on his own with charge of my luggage. He could run away with a handsome set of belongings. But he won't, and he won't petition for his freedom. That's because I'm good and loyal to him, and I take care of him. I trust him like my son. Ours is a relationship of mutual benefit. I'm not like one of those plantation owners I expect you've read about in the abolitionist pamphlets. You know Taylor's got a plantation?”

  “The colonel?”

  “That's right. Colonel Zachary Taylor has himself a handsome plantation in Louisiana with some two score or more slaves.”

  Beaumont considered the point. “I'm sure he's a kind master.”

  “He may be. But what of his overseer? So, you didn't answer my question. Why do you bother with that Alexis fellow? He's as lazy as an Indian and clever as a fox. All those Gumbos are. And never mind that wife of his.”

  “I don't disagree with you about her.”

  “Well?” Emerson insisted.

  “It's complicated with Alexis. Many years ago, he was a patient of mine. I expended a considerable effort to heal his wound, a gunshot blast to the lower chest. He owes me a considerable sum for some three years of support I provided as he healed.”

  “Never paid his fee then?”

  Beaumont nodded. “In a manner of speaking, that's right.”

  “I suppose that's a fair arrangement between men. A kind of an indenture, though I've come to see those as problematical agreements. Owners tend to work the fellow to death seeing as the time is limited. Mind you, William, I ain't implying you're doing that. It's just a general observation. He doesn't seem very good at what he does. I just do not see why you put up with him.”

  “The wound he sustained healed in a most interesting manner.” Beaumont began to explain the wound and the plans for experiments and the book. When he finished, Emerson whistled.

  “Now I can see why you're hangin' on to him. You might make a handsome profit with a book like that. People love to chatter about their bowels and their various pains and hypochondriacal lamentations. It's a pity he's not a Negro 'cause when you own the man outright, it's a kind of investment you got to protect and nurture, and he just follows the orders. That's in their simple nature. 'Course you can't own him. He may be a Gumbo, but he ain't Negro.” Emerson snapped his finger and laughed. “Say then, why not get him enlisted in the army? Treat him like a soldier. Hell, he drinks like one. Dred saw him at the grog shop the other week put away some seven whiskeys, and then he stood up from the table with barely a sway to his step. I'd a been on the floor. Flat out like a board.”

  Beaumont laughed.

  “What's wrong?” Emerson asked. “You never seen him do that?”

  “Oh, I have. I have heard of it. But that's not the cause of my laughter. I'm the cause. Me. Several times I've thought of resigning the army. My wife pleads with me to do so, but you've given me the idea I've needed. This plan of employing him as a servant is nonsense. He doesn't want to be a servant. More to the point, he can't be a servant. And I actually had this sentimental notion that having his family here with him would kindle his sense of responsibility. That is as much a folly as what the Indian agents like Burnett dream for the Indian. He's a wildflower. It's simply not in his nature to be an industrious citizen. The trick will be to get him away from his family. Far away and in uniform.”

  BY SEPTEMBER, the Indians had departed. The daily affairs at Fort Crawford and Prairie du Chien soon settled into their usual routines. The foundation and walls of the new fort on the highlands overlooking the village were completed. The roof would wait until the spring. Colonel Taylor ordered the work crews to cease construction and focus on laying in firewood for the winter. The commodity was growing increasingly scarce, with work crews needing to travel as far as ten miles to locate adequate timbers. The garrison of soldiers was reduced by half. Dr. Emerson was among those transferred to Fort Snelling. On the day Emerson departed, Beaumont embraced him and thanked him.

  THIRTY-THREE

  BEAUMONT WAS INSPIRED WITH THE IDEA of enlisting Alexis and moving with him to a posting where Beaumont would have only light military duties, if any at all, away from their families, where he would have complete control over Alexis. He would sketch out the considerations and negotiations necessary for such a posting along the frontier, in St. Louis, or back east, but none of his ideas could fulfill all his desires and plans. He felt the frustration of his years when he was a schoolteacher and he was struggling to advance to a greater profession. Each day, he grew more despondent.

  By November, he was quarreling with Deborah about Alexis. Alexis's work was shoddy, he was often drunk, and Beaumont had not yet done a single experiment. When Beaumont discovered that Deborah had given Marie two of her old dresses, he flew into a rage.

  “They're short on money,” she explained.

  “You haven't given her money as well, have you?” he snapped.

  “Of course not, William. They're just old dresses. Juliet Roulette says they fight constantly.”

  He stared at his wife.

  “Do not look at me like that. I gave her some old clothes that I haven't worn in years. Dresses that don't fit me proper.”

  It was late in the evening, and they were seated at their kitchen table.

  “I don't doubt Alexis has run though his money. The man spends and drinks like an Indian. But that is no reason we should turn him and his fami
ly into our charity cases as well. You see how the Indians just take and take. There's no bottom to their desire. It's a game for them. That's just how Alexis and his kind are.”

  “William, they were my clothes that don't fit me.”

  “I paid for those clothes. We can get fair value for them. The company buys such things.”

  “To sell to the Indians.”

  “To sell to whoever buys them. Who cares? We could use them for rags as well.”

  “William, we've plenty of rags. Plenty. I'm not going to quarrel with you over the value of some old dresses that do not fit me.”

  Beaumont slapped the tabletop.

  “I should never have consented to him bringing his family along! The man's an ungrateful patient and a clever manipulator. They play at poverty, mind you. Play at it. God only knows what money he's got stuffed in a shoe somewhere, and yet his children walk about barefoot and in rags. I get so frustrated with him needling me for money, complaining that garden tools break, doing nothing to solve a problem but only presenting it to me like some lazy steward during the war. They are like Indians. Worse even. You mustn't encourage this behavior.”

  Deborah gasped. “William Beaumont, what has possessed you? You are the one who said that the man is an investment. Should those dresses manage to placate Marie, all the better, what with the quarrels you've had with her. You wanted them all here, and now you have them. And if he's an Indian, well then, why don't you shoot him if he disobeys his treaty!”

  They stared at each other. She was red faced. His nostrils flared. He made to speak, a kind of low noise from deep in his throat, but instead he stood and walked out of the room.

  BY DECEMBER, the winter sun hung low and dull in the Northern sky, and the days stayed well below freezing. Wolves were about. Prairie du Chien was winter locked. Six months had passed since Alexis had arrived, and Beaumont had not managed one experiment. He feared that to start the experiments would only anger Marie and provoke Alexis to leave. To take such a chance was foolish. But he could not think of a plan to take Alexis away from his family, and yet he was still paying the man. Finally, after a week of sleepless nights, he decided to start with experiments that required little of Alexis's time.

  He drew a firm line in his notebook and wrote beneath that line, To Ascertain the Relative Difference between Natural and Artificial Digestion. Just after seven on a Saturday morning, Alexis St. Martin lay on his back on the cot in the barn with his green flannel shirt unbuttoned and pulled open to expose the aperture to his gastric cavity. In addition to the lamp, Beaumont had set out in a neat row several clear glass vials and their corks and his gum elastic tube.

  “Nothing to eat yet?”

  “No, Doctor. Nothing.” He held his right hand over his heart.

  “Good then. I'll have a look in a bit.” He fussed with the vials and the tubing.

  “You recall the gum elastic tube? I used it before to gather the juice.”

  Alexis nodded.

  “This will only take a few minutes, and then you can get to your breakfast and back to your chores. You hungry?”

  Alexis nodded.

  “Good then.” He reached for the tube and eased its tip and the tip of his forefinger against the pink tissue at the perforation. It slid in easily.

  Alexis winced.

  “The tender cuticle,” Beaumont announced.

  Beaumont slid the tube as far as it could pass, and then he drew it slightly back. He kept the ball of his right thumb sealed over the end of the tube. In his left hand he held one of the empty vials.

  “Now then,” he said, “onto your left side.”

  He held the vial under the end of the tube and removed his right thumb from the end. Nothing came. He jiggled the tube. Nothing. He passed it in and out with short strokes. Several clear drops passed into the vial, then a few more. After five minutes, Alexis moaned. Beaumont had gathered only a drachm or two.

  “That sinking feeling?”

  Alexis swallowed hard. He nodded.

  “Well, that's it.” Beaumont corked the vial, slid the tube out and lay tube and vial neatly on the tabletop. “Why don't you fix yourself up and get to breakfast?”

  Alexis lay for a moment with his eyes still closed. “You're done?”

  “Yes.”

  Alexis sat up. “Is it all well? I felt like I was falling and sick.”

  “Everything is fine. That's just the effect of the gathering of the juice. You've had it before. Can I see you back tomorrow morning, before your breakfast, please? That will be Sunday, so then it's not a problem as you fast before the church.”

  After Alexis left, Beaumont stared at the meager sample of gastric juice he had gathered. It was not sufficient to study artificial digestion. It would take several days to gather more. For the next four days, Beaumont simply measured the temperature of the cavity when Alexis was fasting. These measurements took all of six or eight minutes, and as he kept the tube entirely still, they caused Alexis no distress.

  The data on the temperature were interesting, but of greater value was the effect these simple measurements had on Alexis. He was now comfortable with the simple penetration of the cavity. Seven days after the first effort with the elastic tube, he set to work upon Alexis. After considerable irritation of the cavity with the tube, he gathered just two or three drachms, but by Monday evening he had managed to gather one and one-half ounces. He now possessed nearly a vial full of the juice. That afternoon, he added twelve drachms of recently salted and boiled beef to the vial of gastric juice, and he recommenced his sand bath experiments.

  For twenty-four hours he tended to his sand bath, keeping it as close to blood heat as possible and gently agitating the vial. After the first six hours, the solvent action seemed to cease upon the beef, and it was nearly half dissolved. He used his scalpel to dissect the piece with as much precision as possible to separate the undigested from the chymous portions. Then he squeezed the chymous portion through a thin muslin cloth until it was dry. He weighed it. Five drachms, two scruples and eight grains. He worked the simple math out in his notebook. Some six drachms and twelve grains of the beef had been digested. A ratio of two to one. For every drachm of aliment, some two drachms of gastric juice are needed.

  He wrote furiously of the implications of this ratio. A meal of too great a weight would overwhelm the production of gastric juice and consequently, as evidenced by the beef in the vial, produce the symptoms of indigestion. That failure of the system could lead to putrefaction of the aliment. Natural digestion was chemical. Putrefaction and fermentation were pathological.

  There is always disturbance of the stomach when more food has been received than there is gastric juice to act upon it.

  In the following weeks, he sampled meals and mixed the samplings with ox gall and bile. In March, Alexis began to protest the experiments. One morning, after Beaumont had drawn off a vial of gastric juice, Alexis sprang from the cot and assumed a defiant posture. Beaumont sat passively in his chair, his face cast in stone, as Alexis ranted that Beaumont had not an idea of what he was doing and the irritation it caused: the sinking feeling when he stuck the rubber tube inside, the pain along the edge.

  “Just poking about like some, some, I don't even know the word for such a perverse man!” he screamed. “Marie is right. I should double my fee for this. Double it!”

  Alexis turned on his heels. Beaumont followed him to the doorway. He called after him. “I'll deduct that fee from the two years of charity you owe me. And your life.” As he watched Alexis stride away, he spoke to himself. “You're a fool, William Beaumont. An utter fool. Bringing this man and his family into your care. Your own personal Indian tribe.” He spat. “Emerson was right. Undo this mess and get him alone and reserved in a barrack somewhere. But where? How?”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  IN THE MIDDLE OF MAY, JUST AFTER SUNRISE, a soldier summoned Beaumont and his family to hurry to the fort with all possible haste. Within the hour, the streets of Prairie du Chien
rang with whoops and shouts and wicked laughter and screams. Some two hundred Menominee and Sioux warriors came streaming through the streets and alleyways, twisting and dancing and leaping.

  They were dressed for war in leggings or colored breachclouts, their bodies painted red and black, and they carried their slaughter. The heads of Sauk and Fox men and even some women were stuck on poles that they swung and pumped up and down, turned to and fro, so that the one faced another and then another in rapid succession, as if talking like puppets in a macabre theater, their bloodied locks of hair slapping each other. Men wearing necklaces made from ears shook spears decorated with coal black scalps. Some of the braves kicked a head back and forth like a ball.