Open Wound: The Tragic Obsession of Dr. William Beaumont

by Jason Karlawish

  Dunglison set down the notebook.

  “Dr. Beaumont, please take no offense at these remarks.”

  “None taken.”

  “And none intended. I only wish to see this most excellent work have the fullest impact upon the field. To finally establish that digestion is a chemical process, not fermentation or grinding. To settle the role of saliva as well. Your observations of the motions of the coats in the pyloric region are astounding, akin to the thrill Vespucci must have experienced when first gazing upon the coast of the New World. But what you need to learn is chemistry so that you might discover what this chemical is that makes the process possible.

  “If you publish only what you have here, I do fear that the essential message shall be lost.” Dunglison held the thumb and forefinger of his right hand before his face as if to secure some tiny and precious thing. “Focus, focus, focus, Dr. Beaumont,” he pronounced. “Lead them to the light of the truth. That, sir, that, will assure you your place in the scientific pantheon.”

  “Here, here.”

  It was Lovell.

  Dunglison faced Beaumont.

  “And do consider organizing your results by theory and method. In your book, I should think that would be most useful.”

  IT WAS EARLY EVENING when Beaumont escorted Dunglison and Lovell to a carriage in the swept gravel courtyard. The image of the carriage, then its creak and rattle along the drive and finally the glow of its running lanterns vanished entirely into the gloom. The temperature had plummeted and a damp and cold wind blown in from the north. Men crossed the yard with a kind of odd swing to their torsos as they kept their bare hands tucked under their arms or stuffed deep into the pockets of their trousers. Beaumont shivered.

  In these last few weeks he had seen the contours of his fame more clearly than ever, imagined that this hospital's entrance might one day bear his name etched upon its frieze. But Dunglison's words cast him into anger and despair. He had overheard the Englishman whisper to Dr. Lovell as the men settled into the carriage, “A raw talent, to be sure, but it was your Mr. Franklin who said that he who teaches himself has a fool for a master, or some such truism. I really do wish you'd summoned me sooner. Truly.”

  The bitter memories of his years at war returned. Memories of himself, the apprentice-trained surgeon's mate, speaking up at conferences and the university-trained surgeons ignoring him, mocking him.

  He began walking across the courtyard. He missed Debbie, Sarah, Lucretia. Israel. His son. His only son. Debbie had written of the boy's temper, of how she wished her husband would be done soon with the book and return to them. He spat.

  “To come this far, so near the summit of my ambition, only to turn back, to surrender the glory, because some arrogant, some jealous, some English physiologist pretends he can intimidate me into sharing the credit. Diary of digestion! Bah! Alexis is mine. His wound is mine. Every ounce of his gastric liquor is mine. Mine! To hell with the Englishman,” he said loudly enough that a passing soldier turned and begged Beaumont's pardon.

  When Beaumont returned to the cold gray room, Alexis lay as the doctors had left him, flat out upon his cot, his skinny arms folded over his chest. Beaumont stood for a moment and regarded the slow rise and fall of his arms, then shook his head and sat at his worktable.

  “You should have hit him,” Alexis said.

  Beaumont looked up from his notebook. His reflection in the darkened window gazed back at him.

  “What?”

  “Hit him. For insulting you.”

  “You don't know what you're talking about.”

  Alexis snorted.

  “It was a scientific discussion. I wouldn't expect you to understand such things,” Beaumont said curtly.

  “I don't. But I'm not stupid. He made a fool of you.”

  Beaumont turned to face Alexis. The Frenchman had not changed his position.

  “Why don't you get up and carry your pallet back to your room?”

  “That Englishman was rude. They always are. In Canada, they treat us French like shit.”

  Beaumont turned a page of his notebook.

  “Your pallet, Alexis, return it to your room, and then set the chairs in proper order. I'd like you here at seven before you eat. That will be all.”

  Alexis slowly swung his legs over the edge of the pallet and sat up. As he did so gas emitted from his fistula with the long, drawn-out, wet sound of flatus. He grunted with disgust.

  “Merde,” he muttered. He rose and rearranged his blouse, sniffing its armpits.

  “You and me, Docteur, we are of a lot who is alike. Two farmer's boys trying to make it in the big and the bad world. I'm running out of money, by the way. Two dollars, please.”

  “At the pace you spend, Alexis, you shall be through your allowance well before your next payment is due.”

  “And you will then have me to starve, sir?” Alexis gestured with his pinky in a perfect mockery of the English physician.

  Beaumont did not see this gesture. He remained hunched over his notebook, the words now swimming before his eyes.

  “That's enough, Sergeant,” he barked. “You have your orders.”

  FORTY-ONE

  BY FEBRUARY, BEAUMONT HAD PENULTIMATE DRAFTS of the chapters on aliment, hunger and thirst, satisfaction and satiety, mastication and the appearance of the villous coat. The concluding chapter's list of inferences numbered thirty-five. What remained was the chapter he judged the most important: on digestion by the gastric fluid. The meeting with Dunglison had convinced him he needed a chemist to help him identify the chemicals in the gastric liquor. And he believed he had found that man.

  He had met the Swedish ambassador at Congressman Edward Everett's dinner party two weeks before. In addition to the ambassador, the guests included the district attorney of Washington, Francis Scott Key; Senator Henry Clay; two Prussian brothers who ran a bank; a scholar of philology; an ancient Congregationalist minister; and Surgeon General Lovell.

  Everett, a classmate of Lovell's from Harvard, led the conversation from the head of his sumptuously laid table, presiding like a tutor; he directed the conversation from Goethe's essays on optics, to a mediocre performance of Mozart's piano sonatas by the touring French pianist Monsieur Delmar, to President Jackson's obduracy over the national bank and the ascendancy of Jackson's brain, the Little Magician Martin Van Buren. As at all gatherings of Washington's wise and connected, Democrat and Whig, the remarks—both high and low—made reference to the problem of the Negro, both free and enslaved, and the amalgamation of the races. Everett and Key were among the leaders of the American Colonization Society, newly revived by the slave rebel Nat Turner's uprising in Southampton County, Virginia. The society's mission was to relocate all Negroes back to their native Africa.

  It was not until dessert that the congressman asked Beaumont about the experiments he was performing. Beaumont flushed till his ears were warm and his armpits damp. He had hardly spoken all evening. He began the story of the man with the hole in his side. Several guests set down their silver spoons. The philologist began rubbing his abdomen. Senator Clay was wide-eyed. The minister roused from his slumber. They all wanted to know how Alexis came to acquire his wound and the manner of his miraculous recovery. Among all the guests, the ambassador showed the most interest. He was especially curious about the chemical properties of the gastric juice.

  The ambassador was a tall and broad-shouldered man with a low and commanding voice. “In Stockholm,” he explained, “we have the Royal Caroline Institute where the chemist Jons Jakob Berzelius presides. I have every expectation that Professor Berzelius would be most appreciative of the opportunity to apply his talents to ascertain the chemical components of the mysterious juice. Could you get me a specimen?”

  At the close of Everett's dinner, the congressman quoted Francis Bacon's belief that knowledge is power and proclaimed Alexis St. Martin an American Experiment. “A book on dietetics comes at a most propitious time,” he said, “what with Dr. Sylvester Gr
aeme and his healthful cracker and the spread of the temperance and vegetarian movements among even the lesser classes. You, sir,” Everett summarized, “have gathered great riches from the wilds of America, and we must keep these riches in America.”

  NOW THE TWO MEN sat in the ambassador's study. The inlaid card table between them was set out with a full tea service. The china displayed the royal crest of Sweden; the spoons were made of gold.

  “Would you consider bringing your Frenchman to Sweden?” the ambassador asked.

  “Most certainly yes. I had intended to travel to Paris, but my furlough of study was truncated such that I was forced to remain here, in Washington City. But I remain committed to bringing this great knowledge to Europe.”

  The ambassador nodded as he chewed a piece of cake. “A voyage made in the spring would have you in Stockholm around the time of the summer solstice. There are days when the sun never sets.”

  Beaumont visited with the ambassador for another hour. The man was eager to hear stories of the American West. He had once met Captain Hitchcock while visiting Clamorgan's Italian Baths in St. Louis. Hitchcock and he shared a fascination with Dante's Divine Comedy. As Beaumont returned to the Naval Hospital in the evening, his mind was all afire. The damp streets reflected the glow of the gas lamps like scarcely visible suns through the smoke and clouds at Prairie du Chien. People walked hunched up in miserable resignation to the penetrating wet cold, but Beaumont needed to throw off his blanket and cracked open the window of his carriage to allow the night air to cool him.

  He had devoted two weeks to collecting the gastric fluid he gave the ambassador. Within the fortnight, a ship would leave with the container in a diplomatic pouch. By summer, he would have the results of Berzelius's analyses. With the mysterious substance in the gastric juice identified, that most important section of the book could be done, and by winter the book published.

  He would put copies into the hands of the leaders of Washington—Joseph Lovell, Vice President Van Buren, Senator Clay, Francis Scott Key, Congressman Everett, and Secretary Cass—and these men would, in turn, use their influence to see to it that Congress voted him compensation for his expenses and a stipend to continue his research. They all knew each other, and now they knew William Beaumont. Within a year, he would travel with Alexis to Paris, then to Stockholm and the court of King Karl Johan. Perhaps these countries would also see the value of supporting studies on the man with the hole in his side.

  BEAUMONT WORKED DAILY, often past midnight, pausing for a quick meal, sometimes nodding off at his desk until Alexis awakened him, stumbling drunk and whistling into his room.

  At the end of March Beaumont and Alexis prepared to depart Washington. The necessary papers were secured for their travel to Plattsburgh and to drop Sergeant Alexis St. Martin from the rolls of Lieutenant Cooper's detachment of orderlies. His orders now were to be subject to Surgeon William Beaumont's orders. The idleness that attended a move, when all possessions are packed, annoyed Beaumont. He simply could not stop working. There was so much still to do.

  Alexis was slouched in an armchair with his boots propped up on the edge of the windowsill and his arms folded behind his head. He was gazing out at the detachment of orderlies idly raking the gravel square. Beaumont had been telling him about their travels for the coming weeks: New York, New Haven to visit with Dr. Silliman, then Boston and the doctors at Harvard College, and by June, July at the latest, Plattsburgh, where Alexis would stay at Samuel Beaumont's along with William and his family. Deborah had consented. Alexis listened with neither remark nor question.

  “One year from now, Alexis, we shall set sail for Paris.”

  Alexis looked up at Beaumont. “You said that last year.”

  “Is that the way you talk with Lieutenant Cooper? I'm telling you now, things have changed. Important people have finally taken notice. Dr. Silliman is one of the nation's leading chemists. We're going to be famous.”

  “And?”

  “Don't be difficult. Show some gratitude, perhaps? They see the value in my experiments. Your wound has paid you well and will continue to do so. That is my covenant to you.”

  Alexis leered. His lips moved, but no words came. He swung his legs down from the sill and rocked onto his feet. He gazed at the print of Colonel Scott victorious at Fort Erie.

  Beaumont followed Alexis's gaze. “What is it?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “I said, what is it? What's wrong?”

  Alexis shrugged. “Nothing is wrong. We're packed and ready to go. Just as you ordered.”

  Alexis was now gazing upon Beaumont's worktable.

  “Why are you so sullen?” Beaumont insisted. “What are you doing? Put that down, Sergeant. That's an order.”

  Alexis was holding one of the vials of Beaumont's latest experiments on artificial digestion. The liquid within was the color of strong tea and the layer of sediment as dark as molasses. Alexis turned the vial slowly to and fro.

  “This is not quite what I expected. I thought it would be clearer now.”

  Beaumont sighed. He reached out and set his right hand square upon Alexis's shoulder, but Alexis shifted. The hand dropped.

  “How did you—when did you—when did you know that this would be like this?”

  “What are you trying to say?” Beaumont snapped.

  “When did you know that I had this, this gift?”

  Beaumont's eyes narrowed. “What's your question?”

  “Is that why you came back to rescue me from the shop?”

  “That is a silly question, an insult as well. I tried by all means to heal that closed, all means, offered even to sew it closed, but you refused.” Beaumont directed his index finger to within inches of Alexis's face. The man did not flinch. “It's obvious of course, now and in light of the knowledge I have subsequently discovered, that the wound would never close. That it will never close. The action of the gastric juice upon the wound is both what saved you and also what keeps the wound open. The juice worked like muriatic acid to cleanse the wound, but also it kept the vital tissues from growing and in time scarred them into place. The sutures of surgery would have been eaten away, the hole become even bigger. You just have to accept the way you are. Your curse and your blessing. You shall have that hole for the rest of your life. Make the best of it. That's what I've been trying to do all these years.”

  Alexis nodded. “Once upon a time, I thought these things were all planned, by God. I thought you were all that I needed. Sometimes now I wish you'd let me die.”

  Beaumont was indignant. “Don't talk such nonsense. It was an accident. An act of God. Such things happen in life, you know that.” He paused and reached his right hand out again, this time with tenderness.

  “Alexis, you have so much to live for,” he said. “You just have to make the best of things. Think of your family.”

  “I was just an enfant then. Mine was a simple prayer to live, and now see what has become of me.”

  “Alexis, congressmen, senators, the vice president of the United States—Old Kinderhook himself—leading chemists, physicians, great men, men who one, two, even three centuries from now will occupy the pantheon of American history, they all know about you. You. They all await this book with eager anticipation. You and I, we're bound together to make this world a better place. I accept that responsibility and have made it worth your while.”

  Alexis simply stared out the window. “My father was a drunkard who cast me from his house.”

  Beaumont looked back at the progress of the orderlies with their rakes on the gravel. They had now stopped their work and were leaning on their rakes, talking and jesting.

  “And mine, Alexis, was a stubborn Yankee farmer with a wooden plow who couldn't see the right side of a profitable bargain even if it smacked him on the side of his proud face. Remember, Alexis, I know what it's like to be hungry. We two farmer's boys share something in common.”

  The two men gazed out the window. Alexis began to chuckle.
Two of the orderlies were now winging handfuls of gravel at the third, who gestured obscenely with the handle of his rake and danced a kind of jig.

  “I remember that first day, when I awoke. I was alone and it was dark, and I thought I had died and that perhaps I was in Heaven. Then I felt the pain, and I knew I must still be alive. What became of the old man who told the funny stories? Elijah?”

  “Elias. Elias Farnham. He was still there when we departed Mackinac.”

  “And the ladies with their books. Madame Sally. I still think about her and her red-covered book.”