Time's Convert

by Deborah Harkness

  “Where will you go first, Bodo?” Mrs. Otto packed her rolled bandage away in a basket and picked up another length of cloth. “To the hospital in Bethlehem to wait for the wounded?”

  “I leave such decisions to the Big Man, Mrs. Otto,” the doctor replied.

  “Surely we will be going straight to the battlefield,” Junior said. “They say the whole British army is at the mouth of the Elk River, and marching north.”

  “They say many things, most of which turn out to be false,” Frederick observed.

  “There is one thing that is for sure,” Dr. Otto said, his tone sober. “Wherever we are going, we are going soon. The battle is coming. I can feel it, pricking at my soles.”

  Everyone within earshot stopped to listen. Dr. Otto did have a preternatural ability to anticipate the orders that Washington handed down. No one had realized Dr. Otto was getting his intelligence from his feet, however. Mrs. Otto looked down at her husband’s shoes with new respect.

  “Don’t stand there gawping, Mr. Chauncey!” After her husband’s prognostication, Mrs. Otto was seized with anxiety and spurred to greater efficiency. “You heard the doctor. You are not pulling a cannon any longer. There is no time for idleness in the hospital service.”

  Marcus put down the box of camphor and picked up another. Not every tyrant, he had discovered, was a man. Some wore skirts.

  * * *

  —

  WHEN AT LAST the battle came, at a small town outside Philadelphia on the shores of the Brandywine, the chaos was unspeakable.

  Marcus thought he knew what to expect. He had been with Dr. Otto since January, had inoculated hundreds of men, and had seen soldiers die of smallpox, typhus, camp fever, wounds acquired during foraging expeditions, exposure, and starvation.

  But Marcus had never been behind the advancing army with the medical service, waiting for the casualties to arrive after the orders to fire had been given. From the rear, it was impossible to tell whether the Continental army was inches from victory or if the British had routed them.

  The medical corps set up their first hospital in a mercantile just outside the battle lines, where the surgeons’ mates transformed the dry goods counter into an operating table. They stacked the dead in a small room where extra flour and sugar had once been stored. Those awaiting treatment lay in rows on the floor, filling the hall and the porch outside.

  As the battle commenced, and the number of wounded and dying men rose, Dr. Cochran and Dr. Otto decided that a dressing station should be set up closer to the action to evaluate the wounded. Dr. Otto took Marcus to his new field hospital, leaving Dr. Cochran in charge at the store.

  “Dressings. Why are there no dressings? I must have dressings,” Dr. Otto repeated in a low mutter as they set up the treatment areas.

  But the dressings and bandages that Mrs. Otto had so assiduously rolled and packed had all been used. Marcus and Dr. Otto were forced to use blotting paper and soiled dressings from dead men instead, the blood wrung out into buckets that attracted the summer’s black flies.

  “Hold him there,” Dr. Otto said, directing Marcus’s attention with a shift of his eyes. Underneath their hands, a soldier writhed in agony.

  Marcus could see crushed bone and raw muscle through torn clothing. His stomach tightened.

  “The patient may faint, Mr. Doc, but not the surgeon,” Dr. Otto said sternly. “Go out to the porch and take six lungfuls of air and then come back. It will steel your nerves.”

  Marcus bolted for the door but was barred from leaving the farmhouse by a stranger who cast a long shadow in the hall.

  “You.” The shadow pointed at him. “Come.”

  “Yes, sir.” Marcus wiped the sweat from his eyes and blinked.

  A man came into focus, one so large he filled the doorway. He was wearing a dark blue coat with a standing collar, few buttons, and no gold braid. French. Marcus recognized the cut and style from the parades he’d seen on Market Street in Philadelphia.

  “Are you a doctor?” The Frenchman spoke perfect English, which was unusual. Most of his countrymen got by with hand gestures and the occasional English word.

  “No. A surgeon. I’ll call—”

  “There’s no time. You’ll do.” The man reached out a long arm and caught Marcus by the collar. His hands were crusted with blood, and his white breeches were smeared with splashes of red.

  “Are you wounded?” Marcus asked his captor. The Frenchman seemed robust enough, but if he were to fall down, Marcus wasn’t sure he would have the strength to lift him to safety.

  “I am the chevalier de Clermont—and I am not your patient,” the Frenchman replied, a sharp edge to his voice. He pointed again, his arm long and his fingers fine and aristocratic. “He is.”

  Another French soldier lay on a makeshift stretcher, nearly as tall as his friend and covered with enough gold braid to draw the notice of even the most discriminating Philadelphia maiden. A French officer—an important one, by the looks of him. Marcus rushed to his side.

  “It is nothing,” the fallen officer protested in a thick French accent. He struggled to sit up. “It is a very little hole—une petite éraflure. You must see to this man first.”

  A young private from a Virginia regiment was slung, unconscious, between two friends. Blood poured from his knees.

  “A musket ball went through the marquis’s left calf. It doesn’t appear to have hit the bone,” Marcus’s captor said. “His boot needs cutting off, and the wound needs cleaning and dressing.”

  God help me, Marcus thought, staring down at the stretcher. This is the Marquis de Lafayette.

  If Marcus didn’t call Dr. Otto immediately, Mrs. Otto would hold him down while Dr. Frederick beat him senseless. General Washington doted on Lafayette like a son. He was too important for the likes of Marcus.

  “Sir, I’m no doctor,” Marcus protested. “Let me fetch—”

  “That you, Doc? Thank God.” Vanderslice was helping Lieutenant Cuthbert hop in his direction. Cuthbert’s eyebrows were nearly singed off, and his face was the color of boiled lobster, but it was his bare, bloody foot that captured Marcus’s attention.

  “Doc?” The tall Frenchman’s eyes narrowed.

  “In de benen!” Vanderslice whistled as he watched a ball pass overhead. He gauged its trajectory with the quizzical attitude of a seasoned artilleryman. “They’re getting closer—or more accurate. If we don’t get out of the line of fire we’ll all be beyond Doc’s help.”

  “Very well, Meneer Kaaskopper.” The French soldier’s bow was mocking.

  “Cheesemonger?” Vanderslice bristled and loosened his hold on Cuthbert. “You take that back, kakker.”

  “Carry the marquis to the front parlor. Now.” Marcus’s voice cracked like a gunshot. “Put Cuthbert on the porch, Vanderslice. I’ll see to him after Dr. Otto examines the marquis. And for Christ’s sake, get that Virginian to the kitchen. What’s his name?”

  “Norman,” one of the Virginians shouted through the rising din. “Will Norman.”

  “Can you hear me, Will?” Marcus lifted the Virginian’s chin and squeezed gently, hoping to rouse him. Dr. Otto didn’t believe in striking senseless patients.

  “The marquis takes priority.” The chevalier gripped Marcus’s forearm with a bruising hold.

  “Not with me, he doesn’t. This is America, kakker,” Marcus retorted. He had no idea what it meant, but if Vanderslice felt this fellow deserved the name, that was good enough.

  “The Virginian,” the marquis said, trying to rise from the stretcher. “I promised him that he would not lose his limbs, Matthew.”

  De Clermont’s head angled slightly toward one of the marquis’s stretcher-bearers. The man looked miserable, but nodded abjectly before punching Lafayette in the chin. This knocked the French aristocrat out completely.

  “Thank you, Pierre.” De Clermont
turned and strode into the farmhouse. “Do what the Yankee says until I return. I’m going to find another doctor.”

  “Vas ist das?” Dr. Otto demanded of the chevalier de Clermont, who had plucked him off his patient and was dragging him toward Lafayette.

  “The Marquis de Lafayette has been wounded,” de Clermont said brusquely. “Attend to him. Now.”

  “You should have taken him to the mercantile,” Dr. Otto said. “This is a dressing station. We do not have—”

  Dr. Cochran arrived with Dr. Frederick in tow.

  “John. Thank God you’re here,” de Clermont said with visible relief.

  “We came as soon as we heard, Matthew,” Cochran replied. Behind them were Drs. Shippen and Rush, followed by an anxious flock of aides who usually didn’t leave General Washington’s side.

  “Where is he?” Dr. Shippen demanded in panic, his nearsighted eyes scanning the darkened room. There were two things on which you could rely with Dr. Shippen: He always chose the most aggressive course of treatment even if it killed the patient, and he never had his spectacles with him.

  “At your feet,” de Clermont said. “Sir.”

  “That boy needs both legs taken off,” Dr. Rush said, pointing at the Virginian. “Do we have a saw?”

  “There are less barbaric alternatives.” De Clermont’s expression darkened.

  “Perhaps this is not the best time to discuss them,” Dr. Cochran warned. But it was too late.

  “We are in the midst of battle!” Dr. Rush exclaimed. “We must take the legs now or we can wait and take them after gangrene has set in and the flesh is putrefied. In either case, the patient is not likely to live.”

  “How do you know? You haven’t even examined him!” de Clermont retorted.

  “Are you a surgeon, sir?” Dr. Shippen demanded. “I was not informed that monsieur the marquis was traveling with his own medical staff.”

  Marcus knew that when doctors fell out over cures, the patients were forgotten. For the moment, at least, Norman’s legs were safe. While the rest of them argued, he could at least uncover the Marquis de Lafayette’s wound.

  “I know my way around a human body,” de Clermont said evenly in his perfect English. “And I’ve read Hunter. Amputation in battlefield settings is not necessarily the best course of treatment.”

  “Hunter! You overstep yourself, sir!” Shippen exclaimed. “Dr. Otto is extremely fast. The Virginian may well survive the operation.”

  Marcus examined the marquis’s boot. Its leather was soft and pliable, not tough and weather hardened. That would make it much easier to cut through—though it would be a shame to ruin such a fine item of footwear in this army, where so many went poorly shod.

  “Here.” The man called Pierre held out a small knife.

  Marcus glanced around. Other than this French orderly, no one was paying him any notice. Dr. Cochran was trying to soothe Dr. Shippen, who was threatening to throw de Clermont out of the house for impudence. The chevalier had switched to Latin—at least Marcus was fairly sure it was Latin, since Dr. Otto and Dr. Cochran often conversed in the language when they didn’t want their patients to understand what they were saying—and was probably continuing his lecture on Hunter’s reluctance to amputate. One of the aides was staring at de Clermont with open admiration. Dr. Otto spoke in low tones to Dr. Frederick, who disappeared into the kitchen. Meanwhile the surgeons’ mates quietly exchanged bets on the outcome of the argument between de Clermont and Shippen.

  Marcus took the knife and neatly sliced the boot from cuff to ankle. He peeled the leather away from the wound. It had clean edges and there was no sign of protruding bone. No compound fracture, Marcus thought. An amputation would have been necessary had that been the case, no matter what the chevalier said or Dr. Hunter believed.

  Marcus probed the wound with his fingers, feeling for the telltale bump that would indicate that the musket ball was still in the wound, or that the bone had been chipped and a piece was lodged in the muscles. No lump, no resistance. That meant there was nothing in the wound that would aggravate the nerves, tendons, or muscles, and no foreign body that might cause the wound to fester.

  The marquis stirred. Marcus’s touch was gentle, but the man had been shot and the pain must be intense.

  “Shall I hit him again, Doc?” Pierre whispered. Like de Clermont, his English was flawless.

  Marcus shook his head. His examination had confirmed what he already suspected: The only thing about the marquis’s condition that warranted immediate treatment was his aristocratic blood and high rank. The marquis was a fortunate man—far more so than Will Norman.

  Marcus felt eyes on him, heavy and watchful. He looked up and met de Clermont’s stare. Shippen was sputtering about surgical methods and patient outcomes—the man had an unholy fondness for the knife—but it was Marcus, and not the esteemed doctors, who held the chevalier’s attention.

  “No.” The single word from de Clermont cracked through the room. “You will not treat the Marquis de Lafayette, Dr. Shippen. Ruin the life of the man in the kitchen with your knives and saws, but the marquis will be seen to by Dr. Cochran.”

  “I beg your—” Shippen blustered.

  “It is a minor wound, Dr. Shippen,” Dr. Otto interjected. “Let your poor surgeons, Dr. Cochran and me, see to the marquis. Your greater skills are needed elsewhere. I believe the boy with the bad knees was recruited from General Washington’s estate.”

  This got Shippen’s attention.

  “My son is cleaning his wounds and is waiting to assist.” Dr. Otto stepped aside and swept a shallow bow.

  “Indeed.” Shippen pulled on the edge of his waistcoat and straightened his wig, which he had worn to the field in spite of its impracticality. “A Virginian, you say?”

  “He is one of the new riflemen,” Dr. Otto said, nodding. “Let me take you through.”

  As soon as the doctors were clear of the room, everyone who remained swung into action. Cochran asked for lint, ointment, and a probe while he examined the marquis’s leg.

  “You know better than to bait a quarrelsome animal when he has his dander up, Matthew,” Cochran said. “Hand me the turpentine, Doc.”

  “So you are a doctor, just like the Dutchman said.” De Clermont studied Marcus with unblinking eyes.

  “He could be,” Cochran said, swabbing at the marquis’s wounds, “were he given your education, taught Latin, and sent to medical school. Instead, Mr. Chauncey has absorbed more knowledge than most of Dr. Shippen’s students through an occult means that he will not divulge.”

  De Clermont looked at Marcus appraisingly.

  “Doc knows his anatomy and basic surgery, and has a good grasp of medicinal simples,” Cochran continued, as he carefully cleaned the hole in Lafayette’s leg. “His artillery company gave him the title Doc after the army withdrew from New York. Bodo captured him at Morristown and Mr. Chauncey reenlisted for a three-year term in the medical department.”

  “So you’re a New Yorker, Mr. Chauncey,” de Clermont said.

  “I’m a man of the world,” Marcus muttered, trying not to sneeze as Cochran applied fluffy lint to the wound. Man of the world, indeed. He was a cat with nine lives, and nothing more.

  “We must get the marquis to safety, John,” de Clermont said. “The future of the war might depend on it. Without him advocating for the Americans, it will be hard to get the arms and supplies that you will need to beat the British army.”

  Marcus’s job here was done. There were sick and wounded men outside. And Vanderslice was right: The battle was drawing dangerously near. He headed for the door.

  “You’ll stay with the marquis, Chauncey,” de Clermont ordered, stopping Marcus in his tracks.

  “I must see to Lieutenant Cuthbert,” Marcus protested. Cuthbert was still waiting for treatment and would not be left behind, even if Marcus had to carry hi
m.

  The Marquis de Lafayette stirred. “The Virginian. Where is he?”

  Dr. Otto and Dr. Frederick appeared, carrying another stretcher bearing the wounded soldier from Virginia, still with both legs and still unconscious.

  “Do not trouble yourself, Marquis,” Dr. Otto said cheerfully. “Dr. Shippen and Dr. Rush have gone somewhere out of the range of the British guns. For the better preservation of the wounded.”

  “For the better preservation of the wounded,” Dr. Frederick solemnly repeated, though his lips twitched.

  “If we remain here, our next operating theater will be inside a British prison,” Cochran warned. “Load those we can transport onto the wagons, Doc. Which way did Shippen and Rush go, Bodo?”

  “Back to Philadelphia,” Dr. Otto replied.

  Marcus wondered how long they would remain there.

  Les Revenants, Letters and Papers of the Americas

  No. 2

  Matthew de Clermont to Philippe de Clermont

  Bethlehem, Pennsylvania

  23 September 1777

  Honored Father:

  I am with our friend, who has been shot in battle. He tells me that it was the most glorious moment of his life, to shed blood for liberty. You must forgive him his enthusiasms. If you could tell his wife, madame the marquise, that her husband’s spirits are high and that he is in no discomfort, I know that it would ease her mind. She will have heard every sort of account—that he is maimed, that he is dead, that he will die from infection. Assure her that none of these are true.

  The medicine is savage here, with few exceptions. I am overseeing Lafayette’s care personally, to make sure that they do not kill him with their cures.

  I have passed your letters on to Mr. Hancock, who is here in Bethlehem along with most of the Congress. They were forced to leave Philadelphia when the British took the city. Washington needs supplies if he is to succeed—ammunition, guns, horses. More than that, he needs experienced soldiers.

  I must go and see to a controversy. The people of this town are very pious, and do not welcome the army and its soldiers.