Sawbones (16 page)

“Why would you do something for nothing?”

“Don't bother, Adella. She don't have no intention of seeing us,” Mary said.

“Certainly I do. Why wouldn't I? Is now a good time?”

“Sure,” Mary said. “This laundry can wait.”

“You do the laundry in this pool?”

“No, we carry laundry around for the fun of it,” Mary said. “What's your name?”

“Laura Elliston. Come with me.”

I led the three of them into hospital. A soldier carrying a bucket covered with a towel walked past us to the creek. “One minute,” I said to the women, and walked over to the soldier.

“Private?” The soldier stopped and put his bucket down, exhaled, and wiped his brow with his sleeve.

“Ma'am?”

I coughed when I stopped in front of the soldier. “Is that from the hospital latrine?” I asked, pointing to the bucket.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You are dumping it in the creek? Behind the hospital?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Our drinking water comes from there, as well?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Please tell me you use a different bucket.”

“I clean it out first.”

I waved my hands. “No.” I placed my fist against my nose and mouth to stave off the queasiness from the stench wafting up from the bucket. “Dump it downstream from the pond, please.”

“But, with all this rain, the shit washes away real quick.”

I shook my head. “I don't care. Dump it downstream. Get a clean bucket, one that hasn't been used for feces, and haul your water. First, take it to the cook and have him boil it.”

He walked off without responding. I doubted he would follow my orders at all.

I motioned to the laundresses and lead them around to the front of the hospital. “Two of you can wait outside on the front porch while I see the other. Who would like to go first?”

“I will!” Ruth said.

“This way,” I corrected when she walked toward the enlisted men's ward.

“But that's where the niggers go!”

“This is also where the private rooms are.” I led her into the room Kindle had recently occupied and motioned to the cot. “Sit there. I'll be right back.”

I found Waterman measuring medicine. “We have a problem.”

“Ma'am?”

“The creek. We're dumping our waste into the pool where we get water.”

“We don't have a problem with dysentery, no more than other ailments.”

“With more soldiers coming daily, we might. Have the cook boil the water we give patients. And find an unsoiled bucket we can use to haul water.”

I returned to Ruth. She sat on the cot, knocking her feet together in boredom. I washed my hands in the basin. “When was your last menses?”

Ruth shrugged.

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

“Fourteen!” She looked much older. “Have you
started
menses?”

“If you mean am I a woman, yes.” Ruth was obviously proud of this.

“Does it come regularly?”

“My curse? No.”

Though sure of the answer, I asked anyway. “Do you have relations with men?”

“'Course I do. I'm the most popular girl.”

I can imagine, I thought. The coarseness of her demeanor, her uneducated speech, and her brown crooked teeth (which she tried to hide with close-mouthed smiles) did little to diminish her beauty.

“Do the men wear a sheath?”

“Yeah.” She didn't look at me when she answered.

I took her pulse, felt her neck, and looked in her mouth and throat.

“Lie back.”

With my stethoscope I listened to her lungs and heart. When I pressed her abdomen, it was hard.

“You're pregnant. About four months along, I guess. Did you know?”

She nodded. “I been terrible sick o' the morning. It's been hard keepin' it from my ma.”

“Your mother?”

“Mary. Please don't tell her. She's gon' to be some mad. She tells me every time, ‘Ruth, use the sheath,' and I do. Honest, I do. But, he didn' wanna and he's so smart and handsome, I couldn' say no!”

“Is this the only time you did not use a sheath?”

“I never do with him. He don' like it.”

I sighed and helped her sit up. “Is he a soldier at the fort?”

She nodded and tried to hide a smile. Immaturity and infatuation won out. “He's an officer and he…”

I held up my hand. “I don't want to know.” With the mood I had been in the past few days I had no doubt I would confront the man and give him my unvarnished opinion of his actions. I didn't need to alienate the Army, my only option for leaving Fort Richardson safely.

“You won't be able to hide this from your mother forever, you know.”

“I been dreadin' tellin' her sumtin' awful. She'll make me get rid of it.”

“You don't want to?”

“I seen what they do to get rid of 'em and I don' think I can take it. I don' like pain.”

“Childbirth is painful.”

“Yeah, but after you got a baby.”

The girl was staring off into the distance, lost in the fantasy of having and loving a child. It was no doubt a fantasy devoid of the realities that would face her: raising a bastard on the frontier with little to no money and, if a girl, dooming her to a life of want and prostitution like Ruth's own.

“When Wally finds out, he'll not allow nothin' to happen.”

“Ruth…” I wanted to tell her she was being stupid, that no officer would claim the child of a whore as his own.

“His wife ain't woman enough to give him a baby, but I am!”

“His wife? He's
married
?”

“An ugly, plain girl. He married her to get his commission.”

“He sure does talk a lot to a child whore,” I said under my breath.

“I ain't his whore! He ain't ever paid me.”

“That's even worse, Ruth.”

“He don' treat me like men treat whores. That's what I'm trying to tell ya. He don' think of me like that. When he finds out, he'll marry me.”

“He's already married!”

“He don' love her. He loves me.”

I shook my head. It was useless to argue logic with a fourteen-year-old girl.

“You won't tell Mary, will ya?”

“No. When she finds out and tries to force you to take care of it, you insist she find me.”

“You would'na let her, would ya?”

“What on earth do you think you are doing?”

Harriet Mackenzie stood in the doorway of the cubicle, her face flaming red.

“Treating a patient.”

“This…child cannot be a patient of yours.”

“She asked for medical assistance and I am giving it to her. According to the most basic definition, she is my patient.”

“She appears healthy enough to me. What's her ailment?”

“It's none of your business!”

“Those women on the porch are with her, I assume.”

“You assume correctly.”

“You cannot treat those prostitutes,” she said, lowering her voice to a harsh whisper for the last word.

“Of all the people on this fort, they are the most important people to treat. Women follow instructions to curb venereal disease much better than the men do.”

Harriet's mouth pressed into an even thinner line and her nostrils contracted. “Alice, please take the children to the reading room.”

I had not noticed Alice Strong standing behind and to the side of Harriet. She was drawn and pale, staring into the middle distance with red-rimmed eyes as if holding back tears. Alice jumped when addressed. She looked at me as if from far away. “Private Howerton died ten minutes ago.” She glanced at Ruth, turned, and left without another word.

“If you will excuse me, Harriet. I need to finish examining my
patients
and attend the dead.”

Harriet stepped into the cubicle. “Leave,” she said to Ruth. Ruth stood and languidly, with an insolent glare at Harriet, left.

I spoke before Harriet opened her mouth. “Are you worried the officer's children will know what those women are? Is so, you give them too much credit. To them, they are the women who do the men's laundry. Indeed, it's what they were doing when I met them by the creek. I didn't see anything on their figure that said ‘prostitute,' but I didn't look too closely, I admit. Was there a sign somewhere? Maybe a scarlet
A
embroidered on their breasts?”

“I might have known you would treat my concerns with so little respect.”

My resolve to be polite to Harriet and cultivate her friendship went out the window. “Are you treating
me
with respect? In one day you have questioned my morals, my professionalism, and have tried to dictate what I should and should not do. As far as I am aware, you have no authority over me or my responsibilities as fort doctor.”

Harriet gave a bitter, unbecoming laugh. “Fort doctor? Please don't delude yourself. You're nothing more than a tool to get men out of the hospital and into the field. You are no more a doctor than I am.”

It took absolutely every ounce of strength I possessed to not slap Harriet Mackenzie across the face. I reminded myself that my loss of temper and composure was precisely what she wanted. My sudden awareness that she truly and utterly hated me was shocking and cooled my temper more than venting my feelings would have done.

“Regardless of what you believe, until I am told differently by Lieutenant Colonel Foster or Colonel Mackenzie, I will act as the fort doctor. Until you can approach me with the civility you expect of me but are unable to yourself extend, I have nothing further to say to you.”

I went to the front porch where Alice, still dazed, was ushering the children and women down the steps. “Alice.”

She turned but did not lift her head. “After I attend to Private Howerton, I will come to the reading room to examine anyone who still wishes to see me.”

Alice looked up at me and was on the verge of saying something when Harriet breezed down the steps. “Come along, Alice.” The young woman dutifully followed, as did the others, like ducklings waddling after their mom.

Mary stood next to Adella and Ruth, arms crossed and chin lifted. Adella smirked as if she had expected it all and Ruth bit her nails and stared at the floor. Through the open front door, I saw Waterman directing two orderlies as they carried Howerton's body upstairs to the death room. I turned to Mary and said, “Who's next?”

The aroma of fresh-baked bread that met me when I left the hospital was a welcome relief after preparing Howerton's body for burial. It was a task I rarely, if ever, was required to perform in New York. Apparently, though, the Army believed its surgeons should perform the duties instead of paying the local barber who served as mortician.

I followed my nose to the bakery north of the hospital, where a fat woman was setting out loaves of warm bread to cool on a long, meticulously scrubbed wooden table. She offered me a thick slice slathered with fresh-churned butter. The bread melted in my mouth and butter dribbled down my chin. I wiped my mouth with the handkerchief I kept tucked in my sleeve and saw Welch walk hurriedly past the guardhouse and behind the stables. I thanked the baker, and my curiosity piqued by Welch's demeanor, followed.

The stables were among the most solid fort buildings. Great care was taken with the horses, the West's most valuable commodity. Horseflesh was considered by many to be worth more than a man's life. A few soldiers saw Welch pass the corral; one called out to him. He continued on as if he did not hear.

I turned to follow when a man called out to me. “Miss Elliston?”

He was short, stocky, and hirsute with bowlegs and muscular arms. His shiny black bowler sat high on a broad, tall forehead. The lower half of his face was covered with a wiry ginger beard of indeterminate style, or possibly every style, as if he was resistant to cutting his beard in order to keep every styling option open. He held a pencil lightly in the meaty fingers of his right hand. His left hand held a notebook. He looked like a fighter and even had the scarred knuckles to testify to a previous life or a source of side income, but his inquisitive expression and tools in his hand marked him as a newspaperman.

“Yes?”

He smiled and revealed a mouthful of teeth, much to my surprise. “I knew it had to be you. My name is Henry Pope. I'm the editor of the
Jacksboro Union Leader
.”

“Mr. Pope.”

He removed his hat and held it over his heart. “First, let me say how sorry I am for the ordeal you've been through.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pope.”

“I understand how difficult it must be right now, with the memories of the massacre so fresh in your mind. I wouldn't wish to have you relive those horrible events of three days ago for anything.”

But you will ask me to anyway.

“Truth is, there are so many stories of the Indian atrocities they have lost much of their impact.”

“Have they?”

“It is hard to believe, but it is true. People don't want to hear about it anymore.”

“I'm grateful,” I said. I tried to see where Welch was but could not. A soldier leaned his back against the side of the nearest barn, hat low over his eyes, one foot propped up on the wall. He was the only soldier nearby not engaged in an activity.

“Our readers are interested in
you
, though.”

I returned my attention to Pope. “Me?”

“Yes. A woman operating on the officer who saved her life? In the middle of a thunderstorm? That story sells newspapers.”

“The storm had not come.”

He continued as if I had not spoken. “Then performing a second surgery, mere hours later, amid lamplight with Uncle Billy himself holding the lamp.”

“It sounds as if you know the story. There is nothing I could possibly add.”

“It's true?”

“It's truer than most newspaper stories I've read.”

He smiled with bitterness. “I know what you're implying. We don't have a good reputation, newspapermen. I assure you, I don't print lies, nor do I go in for hyperbole. I find the truth is usually more unbelievable than anything I could make up.” He leaned forward. I could smell the faint aroma of whisky on his breath. “Between you and me, I don't have much of an imagination.”

“Again, I don't see what I could possibly add.” My eyes were drawn to where the solitary man stood. Two soldiers walked by the man, laughing and talking. They glanced at the man and went silent. He didn't move or acknowledge them but kept his eyes on the ground.

“Background, Miss Elliston.” I turned my attention back to Henry Pope with exasperation. “Where are you from? What got you interested in medicine? Where did you get your degree? Information such as that.”

“Mr. Pope, I must confess something to you.” He leaned closer. “I don't like talking about myself. I would prefer if you printed your story with the information you have.”

He nodded. “I understand.” He put his pencil in his hatband and his notebook in his vest pocket. “I am sure it won't be difficult to write to the medical colleges in the East and get the basic information. How many women doctors are there?”

He was sly, our Mr. Pope. It was an open secret the West was full of people running from their past. My evasion fueled his speculation I was as well. I could not risk his curiosity. “You could, Mr. Pope. You will not find me on the rolls of any of the colleges taking women students.”

“Why is that?”

“Well,” I said, before launching into an elaborate lie. “I received my degree in England. It is not technically a degree, though in England I assure you it is as legitimate as any lambskin you receive in the Union. You see, I read under a venerable doctor in England precisely because I couldn't get into a college in my home country. I apprenticed with him for four years, until his death. With no patron in that country, I decided to come west, where specific credentials might not be as important as they are in the East and where I might be able to become successful based on my skills instead of my school. It is so difficult when people assume you do not have the intelligence or skills to succeed because you might not have the right pedigree or gender. Don't you agree?”

I could tell my story hit a nerve with Henry Pope. “Indeed, I do. Miss Mackenzie didn't tell me all of that.”

“Miss Mackenzie?”

“Yes, the colonel's sister. I saw her mailing a letter in town. She suggested I talk to you.” Pope tilted his head to the side. “She doesn't like you much, does she?”

My smile was thin. “Now, if there's nothing more, I must get to the sutler's store before dark. Captain Kindle needs a cane.”

Pope reached into his jacket, pulled out a folded handbill, and opened it. He glanced between the paper and my face. “I see a resemblance.”

I sighed and pretended to be bored, though I well knew what he held in his hand. “And, what is that, Mr. Pope?”

He held up my Wanted poster. In the picture, I stood ramrod straight next to a table arrayed with my medical instruments and a copy of my degree from Syracuse Medical College. My dark dress was plain, my expression severe, my hair pulled tightly back into a bun. Weeks later and thousands of miles away, I hated the picture still.

“I'm offended you see a resemblance, Mr. Pope. Who is she?”

“Catherine Bennett. You haven't heard of her?”

“The woman who killed her lover in New York?”

“Yes.”

“They talked of her around the campfire. I don't know her. I thought she was dead.”

“That's the report.” With one last look at the photo, he folded it and returned it to his pocket.

“And did Harriet Mackenzie see the resemblance, as well?”

“I didn't show it to her.”

“You want to keep the reward for yourself.”

Pope shrugged.

“I'm sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Pope, but I'm not Catherine Bennett.”

“Well, I'm a newspaperman. I won't let facts stand in the way of a good story.”

“Very admirable, Mr. Pope. You do know once you print that story Jacksboro will be overrun with bounty hunters. When they discover I am not who you proclaim me to be…” I shrugged and glanced at his scarred knuckles. “It's a good thing you are a fighter. I look forward to reading your article.”

I walked away, hoping Henry Pope would rather have the reward for himself than print the story and have a horde of bounty hunters to compete with. The man leaning against the barn pushed himself to a standing position and sauntered off toward the parade ground. He didn't divert to any task, nor did anyone call to him in recognition. He passed the officers' quarters, turned around, and tipped his hat.

He was no soldier. He was the man from the creek.

Had he overheard our conversation? It was possible. We hadn't kept our voices low. Across the parade ground, the man had disappeared as if I had imagined him. But I had not, nor had I imagined his interest in me.

I clutched my stomach and looked around. A few soldiers watched me, but none approached. I inhaled and smiled, hoping it would settle my racing heart, and went in search for Welch.

Welch was not near the corral where a soldier was breaking a palomino or walking across the parade ground or in front of the eastern buildings. Wondering if he kept to the outside of the buildings, I walked around the sutler's store. Besides an empty wagon driving down the road behind the buildings there was not a soul in sight. I was wondering where Welch went and what business he could possibly have on the fort after being discharged as I walked to the front of the sutler's. The bell jingled and the door opened. A soldier with a handmade quilt under his arm held the door open for me. “Ma'am,” he said with a nod.

My breath caught and I grasped my chest.

“Ma'am? Are you sick?”

I inhaled a shaky breath, my eyes riveted to the quilt he held. “That's a nice quilt, sir.”

“It is, ain't it? Got it for my wife.”

My eyes met the man's. He looked as if he was afraid I was about to swoon. I tried to smile, but my lips tightened into a grimace. “What a thoughtful present.”

“Her quilt's got fleas all in it.”

“I'm sure she'll like this one.” I stepped into the sutler's store. “With a little scrubbing the bloodstain should come out.”

“How did you…?” The door closed on the soldier's confused face.

It looked like any other general merchandise store in Texas. Roughhewn shelves held all manner of items a soldier might spend their thirteen-dollars-per-month salary on. Whisky, beer, tobacco, canned fruit, and canned meat held places of honor on the shelves. Other items less in demand but more necessary included shoelaces, needles and thread, combs, soap, blankets, quilts, shoes, shirts, underclothes, paper, pencils, and boot polish. Women's clothes, shoes, mirrors, and brushes were available for the laundresses to purchase, or if they were like the soldier I'd met, for the men to get for their wives or girlfriends.

I fought back the impulse to ransack the place, like Jesus in the temple. I remembered the activity I saw in this part of the fort the first night in Kindle's quarters. If I was not mistaken, and I was confident I was not, the sutler had looted the massacre sight of the dead's possessions and was now selling what he could for a substantial profit. My blood boiled at the idea of the sale of my abandoned possessions (abandoned not because I did not want or need them but because of circumstances out of my control) going to line the pocket of some stranger.

The shop was empty. A door to a back room stood partially open, through which I could hear the muffled voices of two men. I stood by the counter and feigned interest in the candy jars.

“It's
his
fault I was dismissed.”

“He don't think so.”

“It's the truth.”

“The truth is if you weren't an incompetent doctor and a drunk they would have looked past your absence.”

“I'm competent enough to line everyone else's pockets. All I'm asking for is a little help for all I've done.”

“You've been paid.”

“It ain't enough.”

“It was.”

“Before I lost my income. Doctorin' in Jacksboro ain't gonna be enough.”

“Ain't our problem.”

“You tell him he owes me and if he don't pay me in cash he'll pay another way.”

A long silence followed. The man replied, “You're drunk.”

“I ain't that drunk, and I mean it.”

I was focused on listening and not paying attention to what I was doing. I dropped the glass lid I had removed from the jar of peppermints. It clattered onto its base but thankfully didn't break. It did, however, alert the two men to my presence in the shop.

The sutler walked through the partially opened door and looked at me cautiously. “Hello, ma'am. I didn't hear you enter.”

“I just walked in. I accidentally dropped the lid to the peppermint jar. I had to smell them. It reminds me of home.”

“Are you searching for anything in particular?”

“A cane. For Captain Kindle. I'm Dr. Elliston.” I held my hand out.

“Yes. I've heard so much about you. The canes are right here.” He motioned to a umbrella stand full of canes; plain hickory canes of various sizes, a walnut cane with an ivory knob handle, a thick stick with a natural handle skillfully carved into a horse's head and rubbed almost smooth with use, and a black ebony cane with an ornate brass handle. The shelves behind the counter were filled with an impressive variety of medicines.

“How is the captain doing?”

“Fine. I'm sorry, I missed your name.”

“Forgive me.” He bowed. “Franklin is the name. Tom Franklin.”

I pulled a plain hickory cane from the stand. “How much for this cane?”

“For the captain, it's free.”

“How much for a bag of peppermints?”

“For the doctor who saved the captain's life? No charge.” Franklin scooped a large portion of peppermints into a paper bag.

“Thank you. You won't stay in business long if you give away your merchandise.” I teased.

He handed me the bag of candy. “It'll be our little secret.”

“Thank you.” I took the bag, smiled, and walked to the door. In the middle of the store I turned back, shyly.