Thoreau at Devil's Perch

by B. B. Oak

  He bore a few healed scars on his chest, and I saw bruises, most likely from bull hoofs, but no broken bones. His skull, however, was smashed open, and cracked bits of cranial material were pushing against his brain. I deemed him to be young and healthy enough to endure both a gore to the head and my remedy to set him right again.

  “I will have to operate,” I said.

  “Can’t you just patch him up, doc?” Herd said. “I ain’t payin’ for any fancy surgery on some trespassin’ Injun. Bad enough Hiram almost kilt our old horse in his haste to get him here.”

  “Our bull gored him, Pa,” Hiram said. “Don’t that make us accountable?”

  “Injun had no right to be on our land in the first place. Besides which you never seen Sultan attack him.You just supposed he did.”

  “What else could I suppose, Pa? There was blood on Sultan’s horn.”

  “That don’t prove nothin’.”

  “Enough!” Julia said. “You are wasting precious time with your petty-mindedness, Mr. Herd. Leave the doctor to do what is necessary to save this man.”

  “Let’s go, Hiram,” the farmer said, grabbing his son’s arm. “We have done our Christian duty by fetching the Injun here and need do no more.”

  “Wait,” I said.“I will need a pair of steady hands to assist me.”

  Both men shook their heads most vigorously and backed out of the room.

  “My hands are steady, are they not?” Julia said. She raised them for me to see. They were already bloody from pillowing the man’s head. “Allow me to assist you, Doctor.”

  I regret to admit that I hesitated before assenting, for it is an accepted belief in the medical profession that women are far too faint of heart and weak of stomach to assist in operations. Yet the idea of having this particular woman at my side made my spirit rise above such a belief. I nodded to her, and we got down to it.

  Julia brought me water and a clean cloth to swab the wound site, and, after I cleared out grass, leaf, dirt, clotted blood, and matted hair, I observed the skull fracture more closely. The pericranium was open, and the right back parietal bone stove in. Fragments and spiculae of bone and hair intruded into the cranium, and to determine if the dura mater had been breached I would have to trepan. Before I went ahead with the procedure, I thought best to forewarn Julia.

  “I am going to bore a hole right through our patient’s skull so I can lift out those broken pieces of bone and relieve the pressure being exerted on the brain tissue,” I told her. “Unless that is accomplished with dispatch, he will surely die.”

  She did not so much as blink. “Then by all means bore away, doctor. And I will pray he survives it.”

  “He has survived worse,” I said, indicating a deep dent on the other side of his head above the temple. “Such a scar as that indicates he was shot in the head.”

  “How extraordinary.” Julia regarded our patient more closely. “What if he awakens during the surgery?”

  “He is so insensate that it is most unlikely.”

  “But what if he does?” she insisted. “Will he feel pain?”

  “Some,” I allowed. “But less than you would expect. The skull has no nerves.”

  I asked her to shave away the hair around the wound as I laid out my scalpels and tools. She commented that the trephine I would use to bore the skull hole looked much like a corkscrew. I showed her that instead of a screw tip, the trephine had a circular, serrated-edge saw that cut into the bone. This made her shudder only slightly.

  And so we began. With Julia at the ready with clean strips of linen, I picked up a scalpel and without hesitation sliced through the flesh and pericranium right to the bone, bisecting the wound indentation. Our patient’s legs twitched slightly. Two more cuts at right angles to the first made it possible to fold back the flaps of skin surrounding the wound. As instructed, Julia used the linen strips to press down on the flaps and stanch the flow of blood.

  I had never performed such an operation as this before, only observed it being performed in the operating dome of Massachusetts General Hospital when I was a medical student. Yet I proceeded without hesitation or trepidation. I somehow felt in my marrow that I had done all this before in some previous time and place. I realize this makes no sense, but it gave me great confidence nevertheless.

  I placed the bit of the trephine a quarter-inch to the left side of the shattered skull opening and began to saw into the raw, white bone, pulling back the instrument occasionally so that Julia could clear away skull fragments. I proceeded with great caution, for I could not allow the trephine to fully penetrate the bone and thrust into the brain, thus instantly killing my patient. When that became a definite danger, I put the trephine aside and cut away the last of the circular piece of bone with the edge of a serrated scalpel. I asked Julia for a beaker of water and deposited the piece in it to keep it fresh until it was time to put it back in place.

  I was relieved to see that no part of the crushed cranium had broken through the thin membrane of dura mater surrounding the brain like a protective sack. With firm pressure I used the edge of my scalpel to ease out the loose fragments. I then scraped away all the jagged bits of bone to form a clean edge around the wound. As I worked, a bit of sawn bone slipped between the edge of the skull and the dura mater and alas, out of sight.

  Julia had been busy stanching the blood around the wound. I told her to desist for I needed her to perform a more urgent duty. As I pushed down on the dura mater, she must pick out the lost bone fragment with a pair of forceps.

  She stared at me in disbelief. “But I have had no training.”

  “You have the better angle,” I explained gently. “And you are so clever with your hands. Just take care not to push the fragment farther out of reach.”

  She grew pale but bravely took up the forceps. She managed to grasp the bit of sharp bone with them, but slippery fluid kept her from getting a tight hold. Her hand began to shake.

  “Steady,” I told her softly.

  “Do you really trust I can do this, Adam?”

  “I trust you implicitly.”

  Thus encouraged, she tried again and this time succeeded in lifting the bit of bone away from the brain. She cried out in relief.

  I acknowledged her achievement with a brief smile before fitting the sawn circular piece back into the skull. Used beeswax to bind it there. As a preventive measure against infection, I washed the wound with red precipitate. Closed the flaps of skin over the incision, sewed them up, and covered the area with linen bandages soaked in diluted honey. Believe in the healing powers of honey almost as much as my mother did.

  “That ought to do it,” I told Julia.

  She gazed down at our patient. “I touched his very brain,” she whispered. Overcome by this realization, she began to sway.

  I grabbed her arm and led her outside for a breath of fresh air. The Herd men were waiting in the door yard. They expressed relief when I informed them that the Indian was still breathing, and Mr. Herd even offered to pay me for my trouble. Frugal Yankee farmer that he is, he offered me one dollar and two-dozen eggs. I accepted this pittance without the slightest objection. My true reward will be my patient’s survival. And the surgical experience I have gained is invaluable.

  JULIA’S NOTEBOOK

  Sunday, 9 August

  I must ready myself for church, so I shall make this entry brief.

  Adam saved the life of a mortally wounded young man yesterday, and I had the privilege of assisting him. That I could muster the fortitude to do so might astound some, but we of the Weaker Sex are not so weak as men would have us. Indeed, I see no reason why women should not be allowed to study medicine and become surgeons themselves. But I suppose that is a far-fetched notion.

  I have never encountered an American native before. I am familiar with portraits of them by Charles Bird King, however, and our patient has similar features. His face is hairless, and the bones beneath his cheeks are prominent even in repose. He has a somewhat low, backward slopin
g forehead. His ears have thick lobes and lie close to his head, and his eyelids are ovated, edged with long, straight lashes. His nose is sizeable (indeed, it reminds me of Henry Thoreau’s nose), with a predominating aquiline bridge, and his lips are well-formed. His hair is so black it seems tinged with cobalt blue, and his skin is an earthy, burnished shade of reddish-brown that I should reproduce on canvas with a mixture of clay pigments such as ocher, sienna, sinoper, and umber. During the surgery I had opportunity to observe his bare chest, and it is fairly muscular but hairless. I have glimpsed nearly naked men before, models for Papa’s paintings of mythic figures, and this Indian would make a good Hermes, the speedy messenger of the gods. Perchance he has come to Plumford as a harbinger—What could he foreshow?

  Am I letting my imagination get the better of me? Perhaps I have been reading too much Poe to Grandfather. We both enjoy Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque immensely. Takes us back to the days when I was a child and Grandfather would read macabre tales concerning Bluebeard and the Headless Horsemen and such to me. We have always shared a taste for such fare, which Grandmother Walker, rest her soul, considered quite common. I was never a proper enough girl to suit her, but I suited Grandfather just fine. It pleases me that he still enjoys my company. The more he mends, however, the more anxious he becomes that I shall soon be leaving. I am sorry this disturbs him, but how can I remain here? It is hard enough to make a living teaching art and painting portraits in a metropolis the size of New York; nigh impossible in a village the size of Plumford.

  Lo! I have just heard the parlor clock strike ten. That means I am already late for church. It would be of little matter to me if I had not promised Lyman Upson I would attend today. He is supply preaching for the absent parson. If I quickly pin up my hair, tie on my bonnet, and sprint down the Green, I can be at the Meetinghouse within five minutes. Given how long-winded Mr. Upson can be, his sermon is sure to go on for another hour and more. Oh, why did I agree to go and listen to him? Most likely because he looked so eager when he asked me. He does not get many opportunities to preach anymore, and I suppose it would be a pity to miss him. But now more minutes have passed, and I shall be later still. I had better leave off writing at once if I intend to go at all.

  It does not appear that I do intend to go, for I continue to write. In truth, I resent that Mr. Upson extracted such a promise from me. I have little interest in hearing more of his bleak views concerning sin and reprobation.

  Now Grandfather is calling me for assistance. Surely attending to his needs supplants attending church. I am relieved that I shall be staying at home.

  ADAM’S JOURNAL

  Monday, August 10th

  What might have happened if I had not driven out to the farm this morning makes me shudder to contemplate. I got there just in time to see Gran carrying her musket in both hands and running through the pasture toward the woods. This meant nothing good. I sprang out of the gig and headed after her.

  For one her age she was fair flying, apron strings flapping behind like kite tails. I called to her, but she did not hear me, and I finally caught her as she got to the edge of the sugar maple stand.

  “Gran, wait,” I said, taking her arm to stop her. She was full flushed and puffing like a steam engine. “What’s the trouble?”

  “Thank the Lord you’ve come, Adam,” she gasped. “I heard Harriet screaming for help up here, and all my farmhands are out mowing the far pasture.”

  “Where is she?” We looked around, but there was no sign of Harriet. But over Gran’s heavy breathing, I managed to hear muffled female cries for aid. “She took cover in the sugaring shed!” I said.

  I raced up through the trees and got to the shed just as Rufus Badger kicked in the door. He plunged inside, and I followed right behind him. Little Harriet was cowering behind a pile of firewood. I grabbed Badger’s shoulder and spun him around. He was slobbering drunk, which given his strength and fighting ability, I think now was most fortunate for me. Also, the experience gained at the boxing club in Cambridge stood me in good stead. He came at me faster than I expected, given his drunkenness, and I parried a vicious fist thrust at my head, then dug a blow into his belly that made him gush out air like a burst ball of leather. Even so, he still had strength enough to throw himself at me full force, and we both of us landed in a pile of tangled limbs on the floor. He shot his thick grimy thumb at my eye, trying to gouge it out, but I slipped from his grip, and we were both up in an instant. Harriet tried to scamper to the door, but Badger blocked her. I grabbed a stout length of firewood and brought it down on his head, not intending to kill the man but to stun him to immobility, which I did. He crashed down like a fallen tree.

  I swung Harriet into my arms, for she was near fainting, and carried her outside, away from the beast. “You saved me,” she murmured into my waistcoat, and I thanked God that I had. I put the poor frightened dear down on a carpet of moss beneath a sugar maple and told her to breathe deeply and slowly.

  Gran came running to us, still carrying the heavy musket. Badger staggered out of the sugar shed right then, and wound back his arm to strike me with his nasty blackjack. Gran raised the musket and pointed it at him.

  “Don’t budge another inch, you soulless villain,” she said. Her voice trembled with rage, but her hands were steady. “As a Christian woman I won’t kill you, but this load of birdshot will do some damage for sure.” She lowered the muzzle and pointed it at a region every man holds dear. “And it will be the last of you pestering girls.”

  That got Badger’s attention. He changed in an instant from a vicious cur into a wheedling conniver. “I meant no harm, ma’am. The miss appeared willing enough when I found her alone picking mushrooms.”

  “You lie!” Harriett cried out. “I beseeched you to leave me be, and when you wouldn’t, I screamed loud as I could.”

  Badger did not look toward Harriet but kept a bleary eye on Gran’s gun. “I reckoned she was just havin’ sport with me.” He grinned, showing his gums and a few rotten teeth. “Frisky little mares like her like to put up a fuss afore they get broken in.”

  “Shut your filthy piehole, mister, and get your stinkin’ carcass off my property,” Gran told him with a wave of her gun.

  He snorted. “I wager that old blunderbuss don’t even fire, you old hag.”

  “Either you will lose that wager,” I said, taking a step toward him, “or lose a fight to me again.”

  Badger looked from me to Gran’s gun and back to me again. He then whistled for his horse, and it ambled out of the woods to him. He mounted it slowly, and I saw he was in pain from my blows. But he was not yet through making trouble. He unwound a whip from around the pommel of his saddle and raised it to slash down at me.

  The next second the air was filled with a roar and choking smoke as the musket discharged and threw a barrelful of shot just past Badger’s head into the tree above him. A thick limb was blasted clear and fell down amidst shattered leaves on both man and horse. The horse reared and bolted off through the trees in a panicked runaway that threw Badger sideways one way and then the other, bouncing his hindquarters against the trunks of several maples as he hung onto the saddle. Such a sorry sight it was that Harriet began laughing a bit hysterically until horse and man were out of sight.

  After Harriett calmed down and we started toward the house, I announced that I was going to the Justice of the Peace and have a warrant issued for Badger’s arrest.

  Gran shook her head. “Don’t you do that, Adam. Badger won’t come back here. There’s easier pickings in town for his lust, and we got to think of Harriet’s honor. Don’t matter she was innocent of any wrongdoing. Folks gossip most awful about something like this, and them’s those who like to lay the blame on the female, no matter what. Harriet’s coming of age to marry, so we got to just let this rest.”

  “I will at least inform Badger’s employer Captain Peck of his appalling behavior. I want him to assure me he will keep Badger in line,” I said, and Gran did not object t
o that.

  When I returned to town I went directly to the office to check on the Indian. Julia was watching over him, and she reported that he had not stirred at all. As I examined him, she looked most concerned.

  “I see no inflammation,” I told her. “And although he remains insensible, his heartbeat is much stronger. He appears to be in excellent physical condition, and I am optimistic he will recover.”

  “Then so am I,” she said, yet apprehension remained in her eyes as she studied me. “What has happened to upset you so, Adam?”

  I had thought I was hiding my outrage well by keeping my demeanor calm and my countenance impassive, but somehow Julia always manages to perceive my innermost feelings. When we were children, it would annoy me, but now I felt relief rather than irritation. I was in need of someone to talk to. We adjourned to the consultation room, and I told her everything that had occurred at the farm.

  “I am still inclined to have Badger arrested,” I said in conclusion. “He should be jailed for what he did.”

  Like Gran, Julia would not hear of it. “If you make the incident a public matter, Adam, it could discredit Harriet’s good name.”

  “Why must women always put reputation before all else?” I said impatiently.

  “Because men do,” she replied, just as impatient. “With the loss of her reputation, a woman loses the respect of men. And without that, she will never obtain her deepest desire.”

  “Which is?”

  “To marry well, of course. That is the paramount ambition of most women.”

  “Is it yours, Julia?”

  “I am already wedded to my Art.”

  “Does that mean you would never consider taking a husband?”

  “It is certainly not my chief consideration. Indeed, I have not thought much about it since I was a girl and wished to marry my dear cousin Adam.” She gave out a short laugh. “How horrified Grandmother Walker looked when I expressed this girlish fancy. She told me that Walker cousins must never, ever marry, but she would not tell me why.”