Sawbones (12 page)

“It is a pleasure to meet you.”

He ducked his head and bid me good night.

My shoulder was not only stiff but also painful and swollen. I had waited too long to set it. The agony when I removed it from the sling would, forever after, make me more sympathetic to my patients' pain. I lifted my arm as high as I could and lowered it a few times. I needed full mobility as soon as possible. A one-armed doctor might be serviceable; a one-armed female doctor would be useless. Soon, I was short of breath and perspiring freely. With a groan, I returned my arm to its sling.

With Kindle sleeping soundly and sleep impossible, I explored the hospital. Our wing was divided in half, with the side closest to the administration block used as an operating theater and what appeared to be two officer's rooms. A walkway spanned the length of the wing and on the other side of the makeshift curtain walls was an open ward consisting of six beds, close together. A wood-burning stove sat in the middle of the walkway, its chimney snaking up, over two of the beds and out through the roof. A fine layer of soot on the floor and beds outlined the path of the chimney. One bed was unmade, as if the patient had just left.

The stove was cold and only a few embers could be found when I stirred the ashes inside. I was relighting the fire when Caro, supporting a frail soldier, emerged from the far end of the ward.

“Go on, now, Jethro. Jus' a li'l farther. Lean on me, son.” Her voice was soothing, as smooth and light as fresh honey poured from a pot. The man was shivering uncontrollably, making it difficult for her to hold on to him. She was, in essence, carrying him across the floor. I closed the door to the stove, placed the poker aside, and moved to help.

“You will be no help with one arm, but thank you.”

I stepped out of the way. She settled the man into his bed with great tenderness and care. “Go on and rest now, Jethro,” she said. She smoothed the blankets over her patient, straightened, and turned to face me.

“What is wrong with him?” I asked.

“Diarrhea syndrome. So Welch says.”

“Oh.” I stared at the poor man and wondered how long he had to live. Diarrhea was an ailment medical advances had not been able to solve. Some recovered, some did not. Keeping the patient comfortable was the only course of treatment.

“What is being done for him?”

“Nothing. Welch refuses to treat him because he's a lost cause and a Negro.”

“I'll examine him in the morning. We can at least make him comfortable. Will you be here or are their other Negress nurses to attend him?”

“There are others, but I'll be here.”

“I will see you in the morning.”

I checked the fire was fully caught and was leaving when Caro asked, “How is the captain?”

“Much better. Thank you for your help earlier. You did a wonderful job.”

She tilted her head to the side and examined me as if I were a curiosity. “Thank you.”

“You have experience in nursing, don't you?”

“Only with sitting by bedsides and assisting in births.”

“Were you a slave?”

Her enigmatic smile made me realize the foolishness of my question. “What I mean is were you an inside slave? What did they call them? House slaves?”

“Yes, that's what they were called. My mother was. We were sold when I was eight years old.”

“Where did you go?”

“I don't know where my mother went. I was sold to a brothel in New Orleans.”

I bowed my head and stared at the embers in the stove. Caro did not need to elaborate. I could imagine what her life would have been like. Though my imaginings did not compute with her demeanor, and I now realized, her speech, which fluctuated depending on whom she was addressing.

I was on the verge of asking more details when I saw in her countenance the same reserve I struggled to maintain since I had left New York. “Is there anything you or Jethro need?”

“No, thank you.”

I nodded and left.

Finding Kindle still asleep, I moved through the administration block and into the white soldiers' ward. All ten beds were occupied. I left quickly. The smell of dirty, gaseous men was overpowering and rekindled my queasiness.

The back of the administration block was a mess hall with a kitchen attached. At the front of the block, looking out over the porch that wrapped around the building, were the doctor's office and the dispensary. Waterman was asleep on a cot in the latter office. There were stairs off the hallway but I had little energy and no desire to climb them and look at what were most likely storage rooms.

I returned to Kindle, mopped his brow with a freshened cloth, and sat down. Within minutes, my chin drooped to my chest and I was asleep.

The sun had barely risen behind heavy gray clouds when General Sherman marched into the hospital.

“How is he?” he demanded.

I patted the dying man's chest before rising to face Sherman. “There isn't much hope. All we can do now is make him comfortable.”

Sherman was shocked. “I looked in on Kindle. I thought his color was good.”

I walked into the operating theater and washed my hands in the basin. “Oh, Captain Kindle will be fine, in time. I was talking of the Negro soldier, Jethro.”

“How long until
Kindle
is back on his feet?”

“It depends entirely on Captain Kindle. Some men can withstand incredible amounts of pain and function as if completely healthy. Others are laid low by the smallest of ailments for an indeterminate amount of time. From what little I have seen of Captain Kindle, I would assume he is the former. If I had to hazard a guess, I would predict he will be fit for administrative duty in a week, patrols in four.”

We stood in the doorway of Captain Kindle's “room,” staring at the subject of our conversation. A small snore emanated from his slightly gaping mouth. His countenance was relaxed, devoid of pain.

“When he woke a few hours ago, I gave him a significant dose of laudanum. The more rest he gets the quicker he will heal.”

“Four weeks is too long. I need him completely healthy. I trust you to get him there.”

“I am sure the fort doctor—”

“Fort Richardson is without a doctor for a few weeks. You will fill in until the new doctor arrives.”

“I will do what I can, but—”

“I was impressed with the job you did, Miss Elliston. I doubt you will have another patient as critical as Kindle. A new doctor is on the way from Sill. In the meantime, you will have no trouble treating the normal ailments found on a fort. Richardson seems to have a fair few playing Old Soldier. Take care of it. We need our men in the field hunting Indians.”

“You are appointing me fort doctor?”

“Temporarily, yes.”

Flabbergasted, I could not find the words to accept Sherman's offer.

“Waterman told me you were insistent on staying by Kindle's side last night. Very noble, with what you've been through. Most women would have collapsed. You proved to me you have the mettle to withstand whatever's thrown at you. Am I wrong?”

“No,” I finally managed. “Thank you for your belief in me. I will not disappoint you.”

“I expect not. I've left a letter of recommendation with Lieutenant Colonel Foster. If you perform your duties to his satisfaction, you will receive it when you leave. It should open a door or two for you wherever you decide to go.”

“Yes, it will,” I said, almost overcome with gratitude. “Thank you, General.”

Sherman's steely eyes softened. “I am sorry for your loss,” he said. He slapped his leather gauntlets in his left hand and his granitelike expression returned. “I am off for Fort Sill. Get these men back on duty,” he demanded, and marched out of the hospital. He climbed into his waiting ambulance and the retinue I watched approach my wagon train three days prior commenced its journey to Fort Sill.

Had it only been three days?

Reveille sounded and soldiers went about their early-morning tasks amid a leaden gray mist that clung to the ground. The fog shifted around the soldiers, giving the scene a dreamlike quality.

General William Tecumseh Sherman had appointed me, a woman, fort doctor. Temporarily, but even so, leading a hospital, no matter how remote or underprovisioned, was an opportunity I would have never expected to come my way in my lifetime. If I performed to Lieutenant Colonel Foster's standards, I would leave Fort Richardson with an invaluable reference. With the name Laura Elliston on a letter signed by Sherman, I could contradict any accusation against my identity. In a few weeks I would truly be free of my past.

I was familiar enough with the Army to know “a few weeks” could mean one week to untold months. My knowledge was gathered during the war when resources had been stretched to the limit, and I didn't imagine it would be too different at a remote outpost like Fort Richardson.

Where would I go? The idea of living on the frontier was despicable. I needed civilization, despite the potential danger of chance meetings with people I might know. I supposed I might make it to San Francisco after all.

I sighed with relief and smiled.

Waterman was waiting for me at the office door. “I suppose you heard,” I said.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“What time does Dr. Welch usually arrive?”

“Midmorning. The log is on the desk.”

“I would prefer examining the patients with no preconceived notions. The general believes we have a fair few malingerers. What do you think?”

“I'm not a doctor, ma'am. I perform whatever task the doctor sets me.”

“Will you have a problem working for a female physician?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Excellent.”

The smell of baking bread and bacon was pronounced, and though my stomach was still unsettled, I knew I needed to eat. “Could we eat?”

“This way,” Waterman said. He motioned for me to precede him into the mess hall.

“What is up there?” I asked as we passed the stairs.

“Storage and the death room.”

I noted the narrow, steep stairs. “Seems an inconvenient place for preparing the dead,” I said.

“A stone death house is being built behind the hospital. If it ever stops raining, we'll finish it.”

The kitchen was a small room with a wood-burning stove and a worktable piled high with dirty bowls and cooking implements. Along the walls and in the corners, stacked crates and barrels doubled as shelves for canned goods and spices. Ladles of various sizes and states of cleanliness were hooked over a thin-gauge wire strung up along one wall. A wooden wall that separated the kitchen from the storeroom held pots, pans, and skillets on nails hammered into the wall. On the longest wall in the room, unbroken by windows, hung a single clipboard.

A thin man with stooped shoulders and a wooden leg was at the worktable using a rusty, opened tin can to cut biscuits. He turned and gestured to the vacant wall. “I hope you came here to tell me I'm getting shelves.”

Waterman replied in a weary voice, as if this was a recurring conversation. “I've told you, Martin, I've put the request in.”

Martin made his plea to me. “Shelves aren't too much to ask, are they? I've got a whole wall waiting for them.”

Waterman answered for me. “No, Martin, they're not. Each time I write to the medical department, I request supplies to build them. Every time, I'm turned down.”

“Sutler has the supplies.”

“What would you like me to pay him with?”

The cook looked surly but didn't answer.

“That's what I thought,” Waterman said. “Martin, this is Dr. Elliston. She will be in charge until the new doctor arrives.”

“Can you get me some shelves?”

“I will do my best.”

The old man grunted and returned to his biscuits.

Waterman made the two of us plates of beans, bacon, and warm biscuits from an earlier batch. We were leaving when the cook stopped me. “Can't eat biscuits without a bit of sorghum.” He poured a heaping spoonful of dark syrup over my biscuit.

“Thank you,” I said, with as much gratitude as I could muster. The flaky biscuit was lost underneath a pool of viscous syrup.

When we were out of earshot, Waterman whispered, “He is trying to bribe you. He doesn't share his sorghum with anyone.”

“I've never eaten it,”

We spent the next few minutes eating in companionable silence. After taking a tentative bite of a syrup-covered biscuit I delivered my verdict. “It is very good.” After a few bites of food I would have considered bland under any other circumstances, my hunger increased and it took every ounce of my willpower to eat with dignity. Strength and energy from this plain but hearty sustenance flowed through my limbs. Even the coffee tasted better.

I heard a distant bugle and within a minute the mobile patients shuffled in for breakfast. A couple of the men were laughing, talking, and looked anything but ill. When they saw us their levity was replaced with a fearful suspicion and a stooped-shoulder shuffle replaced their healthy steps. I ate the last of my biscuit and wiped my mouth with a course napkin. “I will be with Captain Kindle. Would you steal a biscuit for the captain to eat when he wakes?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

I smiled my thanks, gave the men in line a quick disapproving glance, and left to check on Kindle.

I smelled Welch before I saw him. It was the sour smell of stale whisky and a body odor I would come to associate with many men in the West, just as the smell of filth and sewage was characteristic of the seedier parts of New York City. Welch stood over Kindle, holding the captain's wrist in one hand and his pocket watch in the other. Welch dropped Kindle's hand, pushed his watch into his vest, and with a slap on Kindle's face, tried to wake him up.

“Captain! Captain!”

“Stop that this instant.”

Welch ignored me and continued his attempt to rouse Kindle. Patches of red tarnished Kindle's pale complexion.

“Mr. Welch, stop hitting my patient this instant!”

He stopped and turned his bloodshot, glassy eyes to me. His hair was dirty and stringy, reminding me of the wet mop Maureen used on the flagstones in our New York kitchen. His face was not bearded but was unshaven, a look that would be disreputable even if his teeth were not brown and rotten. I knew instinctively this man was not a doctor.

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Dr. Laura Elliston, Captain Kindle's physician, and as of an hour ago, the acting post surgeon. You are Mr. Welch, I presume.”

“Dr. Welch.”

“I highly doubt that.”

Waterman stood behind me, much to my relief. A quick glance over my shoulder revealed Caro standing a few feet behind Welch.

“A woman is questioning my credentials as a doctor?”

“If you have any credentials at all, yes, I question them.”

Waterman stepped forward. “Your services are no longer needed here, Silas. General Sherman made it clear before he left that Dr. Elliston is to take charge. If you would like to see the letter he left for Colonel Mackenzie, you are welcome to. You will receive your back pay when the payroll comes from Fort Sill.”

“You just do what you're told, don't you, Waterman?” Welch smirked. “Path of least resistance.”

“My job is to follow orders, not pass judgment on what the orders are, or who is giving them.”

“Keep tellin' yourself that.”

Waterman grabbed Welch and pulled him out of the room. Welch turned his eyes full of watery hatred on me. “You won't last long here, bitch,” he growled, fists clenched.

“That's enough,” Kindle said.

Welch's pugilistic approach to waking Kindle had worked, much to everyone's surprise. “Captain.” I put my hand on his good shoulder as Kindle tried to prop himself up. “Don't bother yourself. Corporal Waterman and I have this under control. Rest.”

Welch wrenched his elbow from Waterman's grasp and with an air of pride, pulled at the lapels of his coat. “Yeah, better rest up and enjoy the last few days with two arms and legs. You know as well as I do you're as like to walk out of here half a man as you are to walk out of here at all. Especially with a woman ‘doctor.'”

“Get him out of here,” I said.

Welch shrugged away from Waterman and gave me a final, withering look. “You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into, missy.” Welch backed out of the doorway and into Caro. He pushed her away. “Don't touch me, nigger.”

Caro towered over Welch by five or six inches. Instead of being intimidated by the epitaph Welch had hurled she stood her ground. Welch ran his hand through his greasy hair and left. Waterman followed. I nodded to Caro and turned my attention to Kindle.

“Look who's awake,” I said.

“Am I?” Kindle asked.

“Unfortunately, yes. I did not plan on slapping you awake for at least two or three more hours.”

Kindle's smile was weak, his eyes half-open. He offered his good hand to me and I took it. His fingers were long, lean, and surprisingly unscarred, the hand of an artist, not a cavalry officer. He squeezed my hand and slurred his thanks to me. What he was thanking me for I had no idea, nor did I care. With my foot, I pulled my chair closer and sat, still holding Kindle's hand. He went in and out of consciousness, trying valiantly to stay focused and engage me in conversation. I chided him to be quiet and get some sleep. With the gentle admonishment, he relaxed and let the laudanum take him under yet again.