Open Wound: The Tragic Obsession of Dr. William Beaumont

by Jason Karlawish

  In the depths of midsummer's thick heat, the replies came.

  Mathews wrote that Alexis was now a farmer, but he would come to St. Louis provided he could bring his wife and four children and that he required funds to bring them. You can pay, Doctor, but I am obligated to warn you that the Drunkard might simply swallow the money. Crooks offered the company's agents to hold the monies and see to it that not one cent got into Alexis's hands. It will be the same as shipping baggage, he wrote. Beaumont set these letters aside.

  In late August 1834, William Beaumont paid his publisher $437.20 for three crates of unsold copies of Experiments and Observations on the Gastric Juice. Four weeks later, William and Deborah Beaumont, and their children Sarah, Lucretia and Israel, departed for St. Louis.

  FORTY-FOUR

  HE PRACTICED MEDICINE.

  Disease and all manner of injury found easy residence among St. Louis's crowded houses and slave quarters, spilling out from the over-stocked Centre Market jail, swirling up and oozing from the open gutters along narrow streets and stagnant levees, carried by swarms of flies. A rank miasma lingered in the pale glow of the smoke-filled taverns. The Battle Row shipyards were choked by steamships' insatiable fires.

  Years passed. The St. Louis census takers marveled at their tallies. Slave Negroes, hard-edged Easterners, Creoles, Indians, Italian portraitists, free Negroes, German farmers, quadroons, plantation owners, European aristocrats, Jesuits, merchants from Mexico, journalists, ministers, Irish laborers. The businessmen and politicians who gathered in the elegant lobby of Planter's Hotel called the city the proper place for the new capital of the United States, for was it not natural that as America moved ever westward, its capital should follow?

  Beaumont amassed great wealth. Ten thousand dollars in a year. More in the season of the cholera scares. He doubled his fees, and still the sick and worried came and paid well to consult with the famous Dr. William Beaumont, who had written the book about the man with the hole in his stomach, who corresponded with senators and diplomats and had met President Van Buren. Some days he estimated he turned away more practice than half the doctors in the city received in a month. He commissioned Hector Berny to purchase more lots in Green Bay. He speculated in land in Prairie du Chien. He traded bonds, bought mortgages, rented lots.

  His military duties grew increasingly insignificant. Upon the death of Surgeon General Lowell, he fell into a dispute with Lovell's successor, Dr. Lawson, who ordered him to inspect hospitals in Florida. Claims and counterclaims fast escalated. Beaumont petitioned that Lawson must recognize not only his many years on the comfortless outposts of the country's frontier and his service in the War of 1812, but his considerable personal sacrifice for the study of Alexis St. Martin. His commander did not waver. The Seminoles were uprising once more.

  One evening, Beaumont dashed off a four-page letter to Lawson wherein he detailed long, honest and faithful service, at extreme outposts, the fatigues of the predatory Indian wars, and insisted that if the principles of Justice and Fairness did not persuade, then he might see fit to resign the corps. Two months later, Lawson replied with a short note accepting Beaumont's resignation.

  TEN YEARS AFTER ARRIVING in St. Louis, the Beaumonts settled at Gambler Place, a mile outside the city, with forty acres for riding and walking, a fruit orchard, a vegetable garden and a geometric rose garden. Their sideboard soon filled with Jaccard cups and Billon cutlery; the mantle displayed an eight-day mahogany shelf clock inlaid and ornamented in the Empire style. Deborah collected silver spoons. The kitchen larder had shelves stacked with mason jars of preserved peaches and pears, crocks of tomatoes. Salted hams hung from the rafters. Beaumont washed at a mahogany shaving stand in a room papered in blue French wallpaper. The bed was canopied with flowing silk. The family dined at a high-polished table with shield-backed chairs. There was room for sixteen. A grand piano occupied the space under the oriel window in the parlor which was kept warm by a coal-burning Berlin grate. In addition to Miss Lynde, governess and tutor for Lucretia and Israel, they employed Mr. Reichel, a diminutive German who taught Sarah piano, and Miss Ellie, who managed the house.

  The Beaumonts entertained. They attended receptions. Twice, they met Senator Daniel Webster, and they hosted Senator Hart Benton and Mayor Andrews for intimate dinners. Deborah, Sarah and Mr. Reichel held musical gatherings, staged readings of poems and plays. The women of St. Louis gathered in their spacious parlor to sew clothes for the poor.

  In time, Captain Ethan Allen Hitchcock came to stay with them. He brought with him his library of some two thousand volumes. The captain's health was failing from a chronic dysentery he had acquired in Prairie du Chien. The two friends soon fell into the habit of a slow noon-time walk through the Beaumont property. Beaumont's bluetick hound dog trotted ahead, its nose always at work. They talked of their years in Prairie du Chien, the journey on the Fox and Wisconsin rivers, the men they had met. The war.

  “The march of time is a funny thing, is it not, William? No one talks of the Second War of Independence. It's just the War of 1812, as though it was over in just one year. In time, I expect it shall be forgotten. The Little Magician Van Buren is washed up, Colonel Taylor is president, and here I am a fusty, musty, grumpy old man without a wife. You read about that Negro Dred Scott? The one in court who now sues for his freedom?”

  Beaumont nodded.

  “Was he not in Prairie du Chien?”

  “He was. He was in the keep of a physician. A Dr. Emerson. I can't recall his first name.”

  “What's queer is how the papers say he could have left his master then. He had every right in the free territories. Why then does he now sue for his freedom?”

  “The times change. I've read that York, Canada, is now called Toronto. We lost some three hundred men in the battle for that town, operated for three straight days, took the ruined fort and the town, only to evacuate before the week was out. Sailed away in ships full of wounded men and tossed the dead overboard. Now it's Toronto. Some old Indian word. I'd say that entirely erases the memory of our aborted invasion. People ask me of the West. I reckon they do you as well. They're fascinated with stories of the Wild West. They love the stories of the Sioux. God knows, they've forgotten most of the tribes, if they even knew them.”

  Hitchcock began to chuckle until he coughed. It took him several moments to compose himself. “You remember Colonel Taylor toasted me as a future president? Me! Affairs have turned out well for you, William, your practice, your family, this house and its magnificent grounds. Your fame has served you well.”

  Beaumont considered the point. They were on a hillside. Hitchcock was winded from the gentle climb.

  “It has, I'll not contest that, Ethan. It has made me a handsome income, and I'm proud of that. My practice thrives, and though most who call on me know of the book and my reputation, they know little of what I've truly done. The substance of the science is of no matter to them. Few have read the book. Small wonder. I could persuade neither the army nor the navy to see the wisdom of purchasing more than a single copy for their libraries, and I had to pay the publisher for unsold books. And yet they come. They all want to see the famous Dr. Beaumont, no matter that their hypochondriacal lamentations have not a whit to do with digestion.”

  Hitchcock broke a long, wet report of wind.

  “Pardon me,” he begged.

  Beaumont paid it no mind. “There are scientists who see its value. Just the other week I received a copy of a Dr. Combe's reprint of my book. The man's a notable British physiologist.”

  “Congratulations!”

  Beaumont frowned. “In the introduction, he refers to me as the late Dr. William Beaumont. To be sure, he was full of praise for the book, yet he said it did not advance the science so much as confirm on solid ground what was known. For that he regards the work as essential.”

  The captain tried to cheer his friend. “So then you have every reason to celebrate.”

  Beaumont smiled.

  “So
then I see how there is so much more that the late Dr. Beaumont could have done, could do. And I knew that when I sent the pages to the printer. I was too rushed, too eager to go ahead, to see the thing in print. Eager to have my fortune. One of the critics identified some two hundred errors of type. But no matter. No one actually reads it, save for the physiologists and some physicians. My book is just that, a book, one of many books. Just as the sun is but a star.”

  “William, please, you're too hard on yourself. You ought to rejoice over what you have done, not ruminate over what you wish were done.”

  The two men walked slowly, each with his arms folded behind his back. The hound circled round them, eager to play.

  “Ethan, here now I'm in the grand climacteric of my life, and I cannot help but think of what shall become of me and what I have done. When I was a young man in Plattsburgh, there was a girl I'd spent months pursuing, thinking about, dreaming about. You know how one is as a young man. Hungry with passion. Mad. I can't recall her name, but I can see her plain as day. And when I'd finally managed to get her into the hay, I no sooner had her than I did despise her. I think that it's the pursuit of happiness that is the greater pleasure than the attainment of that happiness. I wonder if we ever do attain it. I wish someone told me that when I was a young man all set upon making my way in the world.”

  He stopped walking and turned and faced Hitchcock.

  “Tell none of this to Debbie, please. Promise me that.”

  Hitchcock nodded. “Of course.”

  “At least she is content. We speak, of course, but there are many things we pass over in silence. Things I did. Things I failed to do. You've observed that we keep separate bedrooms.” He folded his arms over his chest and kicked at a clod of dirt. “I should've resigned the army when Colonel Taylor ordered me to remain in Prairie du Chien.”

  The two men watched the restless hound trot ahead.

  “Do you ever hear from that Frenchman?” Hitchcock asked

  Beaumont shook his head slowly.

  “I'm sorry, William.”

  “There's nothing to be sorry about. The last exchange of correspondence, ten years ago, he insisted on receiving three hundred dollars to bring him and his family to St. Louis.”

  “But what if he came?”

  Beaumont dismissed the question forthwith.

  “You don't know him as I do. I'll not deny that it hurts to see that the book might be forgotten, that the book did not make the money I deserved, that Congress did not see fit to pay me for my expenses, that they think I'm dead. Honestly, that man's like a hair in the mouth. Some days, in quiet hours, I wish I had shunned the heaven that led me to the hell of pursuing those experiments on Alexis, and yet some days I do wish I could do more experiments, if only to tell the world I'm alive. All do agree, even those who questioned my methods, my ethics, that I proved digestion is a chemical process. My fortune and my reputation are dear to me. At least I have them.” He gazed at the sky. “To hell with that ungrateful Alexis.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  ON A SATURDAY AFTERNOON IN APRIL 1849 the attorneys for William Darnes called at Gambler Place. Beaumont received the three lawyers, Beverly Allen, Joseph Crockett and Henry Geyer, in the parlor. Deborah rose to leave, but he signaled to her that she should remain.

  “There are no secrets in this family.”

  The attorneys filed before her to pay their respects. The sunlight streamed in between the golden lace curtains; she sat and took up her needlepoint.

  “Now then, gentlemen, please take seats. It's not often that Mrs. Beaumont and I receive not just one but three of St. Louis's leading attorneys. How can I be of service to you?”

  Beverly Allen spoke. He was a precise man, diminutive, his eyes magnified by his gold-rimmed spectacles, his thinning black hair brushed back slick and glowing with pomade.

  “Dr. Beaumont, as I am sure you well know, we represent William Darnes, who is charged with the murder of Andrew Davis.”

  Beaumont nodded.

  “The case goes to trial in a matter of weeks. Judge Lucas has not fixed a date, but we have been urging him to move with all haste to trial. Mr. Darnes is eager to clear his name.”

  Beaumont sat with his hands square upon his knees. He said nothing.

  “We are here because you are among the witnesses we will call, and out of respect for your position in the St. Louis medical establishment and the city at large, we wanted to avoid the discomfort of a summons.”

  Beaumont nodded slowly. “I thank you, gentlemen. I would be most happy to discuss how Mr. Davis died of the many head wounds Mr. Darnes inflicted upon him and of my efforts to try to save Mr. Davis's life.”

  “Thank you, Doctor, we want the truth to be known, the unvarnished truth. That's why we're calling on you and Mr. Davis's other physicians to testify about his injuries.”

  THE DARNES-DAVIS CASE was the talk of all St. Louis. Two months earlier, William Darnes had bludgeoned Andrew Davis's skull until the man lay crumpled in a heap at the center of Market Street. No one contested the facts of that afternoon. The politician Darnes met Davis, the editor of the Missouri Argus, exchanged a few heated words over Davis's editorials taunting Darnes, and then Darnes raised his cane and commenced beating Davis until three constables pushed through the crowd of cheering onlookers and pulled the man off of the bloodied and beaten editor. The constables forcibly held Mr. Darnes and relieved him of his iron cane.

  They carried the collapsed Davis to the lobby of the Planter's Hotel and laid him on a couch. Within minutes, Dr. Benjamin Sykes arrived. The editor was gravely injured with three skull fractures and his intellect wandering. Sykes called for a consultation with Dr. Beaumont. The next day, Beaumont operated, a trephining upon Davis's fractured skull to relieve the pressure. He picked out six bits of skull from the worst of the wounds. Seven days later, Davis died, and William Darnes was arraigned on the charge of murder.

  Beaumont and Deborah stood on the porch watching Mr. Allen's coach roll away.

  “Does it disturb you, William, that they want you in court to testify?”

  Beaumont shook his head. “Not in the slightest. Mr. Darnes is the one charged and the guilty one to wit. Not me. I did my duty and have every expectation that the truth shall triumph, as it always does.”

  TWO WEEKS LATER, a tipstaff from Judge Lucas's chambers came to fetch Beaumont from his office on Third Street. When he arrived at the court-room, Mr. Allen was questioning Dr. Sykes about the appropriateness of the operation to trephine Davis's skull fracture. Was the man's consciousness sufficiently depressed to warrant the operation? Might they have waited? Why did they only operate on the fracture above the temple? Two of the jurors had to turn their heads and lean in to the witness stand to better hear Allen, so quiet was his voice. Beaumont waited not more than a quarter of an hour for Allen to finish with Dr. Sykes and call Dr. William Beaumont to take the stand.

  “Dr. Beaumont, as the attorneys representing Mr. Davis, we wish to ascertain the facts of his injury, the nature and extent of the wounds and your professional judgment of them. Well known though you are in St. Louis, could you tell the jury about your background? You served in the surgeons corps, did you not?”

  Beaumont narrated his service in the War of 1812, his many years on the American frontier, the Indian uprising around Prairie du Chien, his practice in St. Louis. Allen turned to the case of Mr. Davis. Just as he had questioned Dr. Sykes, the attorney asked about the reasons for the surgery and Beaumont's experience with the procedure. After three-quarters of an hour, Allen seemed ready to conclude his questions. He stepped to the desk and set down his notes, then ran his finger over the desk as if to check for dust. The clerk looked to the bailiff, the bailiff to the judge, and the judge seemed ready to address Allen when the lawyer turned slowly back to Beaumont.

  “Dr. Beaumont, I have just one question about the book you wrote. Experiments and Observations on the Gastric Juice. The subject of the book was a Frenchman?”

 
; “A Canadian, yes, a French Canadian.”

  “What became of the man? Is he still alive?”

  “He most certainly is. The last news I have is that he is alive and well, the very picture of health, a farmer and the father of four children.”

  “Here in St. Louis?”

  “No, Canada. The man is a Canadian.”

  Allen bowed his little frame. He coughed. “Thank you, Doctor.” He turned to Judge Lucas. “The defense has no further questions,” he announced and walked slowly to the table where Misters Geyer and Crockett sat, their hands folded neatly before them.

  Four days later, the defense attorneys presented their summation to the jury. Deborah and William Beaumont sat among the spectators on benches so crowded that the bailiffs had to bring in chairs and then allow people to stand along the walls before they finally closed the court to further spectators. The bailiffs threw open the windows to clear the room of the ripe, thick smells of the crowd. Young boys and men leaned in through the sills.