Make Me a City

by Jonathan Carr

  During the four months he spent at this hospital he was treated, as the case notes indicate, with ever-increasing dosages of bromide of potassium, compound tincture of cinchona and syrup of ginger. His moods alternated between relative calm and high anxiety. When agitated, he would often resort to violence or the threat of violence against other patients and those attendants charged with controlling him. At times, it was necessary to use forceful restraint. The camisole, a stout jacket with long sleeves, was used to confine his arms and hands and, over his final three days here, when his mental and physical fury reached such maniacal levels that they were uncontrollable, he was confined to a crib-bedstead by day and night.

  Whenever his anxiety level was high, the case notes indicate he was also treated with hypodermic injections of Magendie’s morphine solution (typically in ten minim doses), together with ounces of whiskey for the purposes of subduing him.

  The tragic incident that occurred on September 26 seems to have been prompted by Mr. Wright’s reading of a newspaper report. To put this in perspective, it should be reported that one of Mr. Wright’s delusions was that the other patients in the Hospital were potential investors in Chicago. He would draw up maps, “sell” them land and prepare contracts for signature, promising to buy the property back if the value had not doubled by Christmas. At other times he would make strange biblical proclamations, referring to Chicago as the “promised land.” This is mentioned for the purposes of establishing background and the nature of the acute mania from which he suffered.

  Since his arrival in May, Mr. Wright had been permitted, at his request, to read the daily newspapers and he would do so with relish. On September 23, the case notes indicate that he read a report in the Philadelphia Daily News, which warned that the nation’s economy was contracting, that factories were closing and the number of unemployed rising, that real estate was losing its value and that a crash was already under way. Chicago, the writer declared, because it was at the center of the railroads and the grain and meat markets, would be affected worse than anywhere else in the country. Anybody who “can get out of Chicago and cut their losses, should do so at once.” Reading this report sent Mr. Wright into a state of apoplectic rage. He went on the rampage, storming through the wards, yelling at the top of his voice as he denounced the “poisonous Eastern pens” that always tried to bring down Chicago.

  He alleged another patient was the author of this article and, holding the man by the throat, threatened to take him before God to be tried unless he took back his “d____d cocktail of lies.” Four attendants were needed to wrestle Mr. Wright to the ground and during this scuffle he slipped, striking his head against an iron bedstead with such force that he was momentarily concussed. He also received sundry other injuries concurrent with a struggle of this nature.

  On recovering consciousness, he began to shake convulsively and spew saliva at the mouth. The rigidity and contraction of his muscles was tetanic. He continued to shout, and though often incoherent, he referred not to the physical pain from which he must have been suffering but to the “slanderful” article he had read in the newspaper. It took repeated doses of opium and chloral hydrate to subdue the patient. We should observe that this is the first time chloral hydrate is mentioned in the case notes.

  From September 23 until September 26, Mr. Wright was treated exclusively with opium and chloral hydrate, the first five doses taking place within a time period of only two hours. Dr. Dewhurst’s explanation for this is that the patient’s initial response to the drugs was only a marked increase in fury. “He kicked and writhed repeatedly on the bed, requiring four attendants to hold him down.” It took a total of fifty minims of Magendie’s solution and 200 grams of chloral hydrate to reduce the patient to slumber. Dr. Dewhurst agreed that this was a very high dosage, higher than he had ever administered to any other patient. The Hospital’s Superintendent Dr. Kirkbride was away at the time in New York, and it was allegedly not possible to keep him informed of developments in the case of Mr. Wright.

  Over the next three days Mr. Wright’s cranial bruise stabilized, though it was suspected that internal bleeding was still taking place. He was still subject to sporadic bouts of agitation, but it was judged safe to release him from the crib-bedstead on the morning of September 26 for a walk outside. It was a pleasant morning, and the doctors say they have always encouraged their patients to take fresh air when practicable.

  All newspapers had been kept away from Mr. Wright since his outburst on September 23. It was unfortunate that when he was walking in the garden under supervision, he passed by another patient who was reading that day’s Philadelphia Daily News. Mr. Wright seized the paper, whose front page contained the following headline: WILL THIS CRASH BE WORSE THAN THE GREAT CRASH OF 1857? An even stronger maniacal attack than the one that assailed him three days earlier now held Mr. Wright in its sway. He raced around the garden, wrestling anyone who tried to restrain him as he attempted to climb the garden walls. All the time, he was complaining about the “poisonous Eastern pens” and he seemed to be suggesting, according to eyewitnesses, that these “pens” had done the same thing to Chicago in both 1837 and 1857. The doctors described this as the classic symptoms of an aggregate persecution complex. Such patients see a connection with every calamity and place themselves at its center. In this case, Mr. Wright deluded himself into thinking that both he and Chicago had been ruined in the crashes of 1837 and 1857, and that this had been aided and abetted by those “poisonous Eastern pens.”

  This is the point at which the case notes become less frequent and precise than one would expect. After Mr. Wright had been caught and returned with difficulty to the crib-bedstead, unquantified doses of opium and chloral hydrate were administered until the patient finally calmed down and fell into a fitful slumber. We read that his countenance grew pale, and that his skin and the extremities were cold. It appears that for the next eight hours he passed in and out of slumber, that he suffered from periods of excessive agitation and perspiration, and that during this time he was treated with more unquantified dosages of chloral hydrate together with injections of salt and water, grains of quinine and spoonfuls of beef essence.

  At 7:15 p.m. it was recorded that his pulse was regular at 120, and at about this time his bowels and bladder were freely evacuated. The pulse rate would appear to have grown more and more irregular over the next ninety minutes, ranging from 120 to 145. At 8:53 p.m. it is recorded that his breathing suddenly became strained. Before 8:55 p.m. his heart ceased to beat. At 8:55 p.m. there was heard by those in attendance a last gasp.

  The probable cause of death, according to the doctors at the hospital, was cerebral congestion. But it must also be recorded that a pale countenance, a coldness to the skin and to the extremities of the body, and an irregular pulse are conditions associated with the excessive ingestion of chloral hydrate.

  It is to be regretted that the family of Mr. Wright did not order or permit an autopsy to be conducted. One letter placed before the Committee by Mr. Chester Wright, the patient’s second son, causes us particular concern. It was penned by his elder brother, Mr. Augustine Wright, who was in Philadelphia at the time of the patient’s demise. “All the doctors agreed that Father’s mind would never return.… It is better, far better as it is, but it is hard, so hard to part with him. I will send you a lock of his hair.”

  The Committee recommends that further investigations are made, that attendants working on Ward B2 are interviewed, and that pertinent records are collected and examined. One objective should be to identify precisely what levels of chloral hydrate were administered, and when. The inquiry should also examine what contacts existed between doctors and family members on September 26 and whether the doctors, in deciding how much chloral hydrate to give the patient, were acting as professionals in an independent capacity.

  It is a matter of grave concern when patients of apparently robust health but with reduced mental abilities die in such circumstances. Should it transpire that the cause
of death was due to an overdose of chloral hydrate, the Commissioners should consider taking criminal action against those responsible for authorizing those dosages.

  1876–1877

  1876

  THE ADVENTURES OF JAMES P. CLOKE

  AT DETROIT, AN Irishman entered our carriage. He was distinctive as such even before he opened his mouth, looking around indignantly as though everyone else was to blame for what ailed him. A burly creature, he wore a dark cap pulled down too tight over a moist brow, giving the impression of an oyster popping its shell. I would later discover his knitted accoutrement concealed not only a thinning top but also a liverish scar that stretched from ear to eyebrow—proud remnant, no doubt, of a noble brawl. He must have been skimming thirty, a good few years younger than myself. After heaving a trunk beneath the bench opposite, he plumped himself down, eyes glaring like limelight in my direction before they swerved toward the window. There, with considerable effort, they remained fixed. Curiosity: here was a fellow who was trying and failing to appear inconspicuous. “You remind me, sir,” I said, “of a dear friend of mine, whom I have not seen in years.”

  First, he pretended I was addressing the world at large. Then he gave me another of those fierce stares intended to swat me away. I presented myself. “I am James P. Cloke,” I said. “Special Correspondent for The Times of London.” His response was to run a telltale forefinger beneath his nose. A man who displays a twitch at the mere mention of authority piques my interest. “And you, sir, are?” I inquired.

  “What business be that of yours?” he demanded, spiky as could be, snorting on his sleeve and spitting out a wad of tobacco on that most convenient of cuspidors, the floor.

  “I am merely attempting,” I pointed out, “to engage you in a spot of conversation.”

  “You’re English.”

  “True it is that I was born English,” I replied.

  “I don’t like Englishmen.”

  “Many people don’t,” I agreed. “Very often with good reason. But”—I adopted my Irish accent—“I can also be a Fenian that misses the Old Country, that dreams of his beloved Emerald Isle”—I paused, to remove a piece of fluff from my coat—“when I so choose.”

  He was staring at me, bottom lip adrift, as if reluctant to believe the evidence of his own ears. Impersonation has always delighted me.

  “But I am now—like you,” I continued, “an American at heart, and I hope that we can forget our differences of birth for the duration of the journey.” I smiled. “Are you of a gaming disposition, sir?”

  He leaned toward me, so close I caught a whiff of his perspiring aura, and proceeded to seize my lapel in a decidedly uncivil way. From behind a palisade of intriguingly crooked ivories, he demanded to know whether “the Englishman” had ever heard of one “Oscar Brody.”

  “Yes,” I said, trying not to inhale any more of his respiratory aroma than was absolutely necessary, “I believe I have. Was he not the first winner at Saratoga Springs back in ’63?”

  “What?” he exclaimed, missing my feeble wit, which was perhaps just as well.

  It is one of my greatest flaws, ingrained in the blood of many an Englishman, that I attempt levity at the wrong moment. There are days when I cannot stop myself. “You’re right. My mistake,” I confessed. “I was thinking of Lizzie W. It was a grand day. I made over a hundred dollars.”

  “I’m not talking about a d_____d horse, man.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I mean”—he leaned even closer, so close we almost rubbed proboscises—“have you heard of a man called … Oscar Brody?”

  It was as though he had hung a sign around his neck. “No,” I said, “I don’t believe I have.”

  My honesty caused the rogue some confusion. Should he be insulted I had never heard of him, or relieved at my ignorance? “You’ll be certain, then, you’ve never heard of him?”

  “I have not heard of him, sir. No. Never.”

  I like triple negatives for their impact and, true to form, they put Mr. Brody at ease. He grunted, let go of my lapel, rearranged his bulk on the bench and returned to his contemplation of Detroit’s bustling railroad station through the sooty window. Outside a whistle blew, a puffery of smoke obscured the wretched horde of cookie and corn juice vendors, and beneath our feet a magnitude of steel jolted forward as the railroad chuckers, I surmised, removed the blocks that had been holding us stationary. We were on the verge of departure.

  Mr. Brody produced a long nine cigar from his waistcoat and plugged it between his lips. Only when his matches failed to ignite did he need to acknowledge my existence anew. I helped him out, at the same time lighting for myself an Opera Puffs cigarita, an exquisite mix of tobacco bought at no inconsiderable cost in New York. My traveling companion’s gaze returned to the murky world outside the window as he puffed hard and discontentedly on his coarse cigar. The conductor’s whistle blew, we were treated to a percussion of slamming doors, the wheels beneath us creaked and squealed, and the station and the houses and the factories and Detroit itself began to recede from view as open country beckoned and we were finally on our way.

  After a suitable pause, I tried once more to oil the engine of acquaintance. “What takes you to Chicago?” I inquired.

  “Work,” he replied.

  “And would that be work of a particular nature,” I pressed, “or work in a more general sense of the word?”

  A genial enough inquiry, that prompted one of his hands to ball up into a splendidly bloated fist. “Why would you be wanting to know, Mr. Cloke?”

  “I am a reporter, sir,” I reminded him, “with The Times of London. Asking questions is a habit of mine.”

  “Even when a man’s done nothing wrong?”

  “I am not suggesting…”

  “You’d better not be, Mr. Cloke.”

  Oh dear, thought I. What rough edges he has.

  Before we go any further, let me recommend an advertisement for our friends in the Pinkerton Agency: “Ride the Illinois Central railroad.” Believe me, there is nothing like the line from Detroit to Chicago for unmasking society’s ne’er-do-wells. I have found that trains can affect people in the strangest of ways. The iron horse is, of course, the greatest wonder of our age: no rutted surface to negotiate, no saddle to chafe the thighs, no doubt about which direction to take. We become lords of all we survey, propelled across the surface of the earth like birds through the sky. Most of us gaze at the grasses of the prairies before falling into a slumber. But there are others, like Mr. Brody, on whom the beguiling sensation of forward motion has a very different effect. They can no longer keep their mouths shut. They feel the urge to brag about their squalid histories to any sympathetic listener they can find, safe in the knowledge that once the journey is over, they will never have to set eyes on this stranger again. The locomotive hubbub provides the privacy of a confessional. Only God and his earthly representative can hear the bleating of their prideful souls. And so it would prove to be with us. I was—bizarre to say—cast in the role of Mr. Pinkerton; Oscar Brody was my mark.

  I have a way with people, I’m told, that makes them say more than they intend. Oscar’s “confession” would warm the cockles of my heart. Worth including is some of the preamble, for what this revealed about the young man’s character. How eager he was to speak of the deck being stacked against him. Had he not been brought over to America as a motherless nipper? His father, a Mr. Mochta Brody, worked as a digger on the first canal in Chicago, good honest labor (I opine) that nevertheless led many a man to an early grave. Mochta was a giant, crowed Oscar, a hero who did the work of half a dozen ordinary folk. Everybody admired him, everybody loved him. One d____d day, though, when Oscar was not yet five years old, a tragedy took place. Mochta was laying charges to blast a hole through some bedrock with black powder of an inferior quality, supplied by a “son-of-a-bitch Easterner.” The powder exploded before he could get away. And so it came to pass, that the father was consumed by a fireball in plain v
iew of his young son.

  I am not, by nature, demonstrative of emotion. It would interfere with my profession. I do, though, know how to act. So I furrowed my brow and produced some affecting expressions of sympathy before, as soon as was decent, urging Oscar to tell me more. It must have been difficult indeed, I remarked, to grow up an orphan. He hesitated when I put it like that. This was the first sign—and an impressively faint sign it was too—that he had not told the whole truth about his father. Despite the blandishments of the Illinois Central, it required a mix of guile and persistence on my part to coax any more out of him. I would eventually discover that there was indeed a conflagration of some kind, but Mochta—the man who went up in flames—was not Oscar’s father. He was his uncle. The father is still among the living, Oscar finally confessed, a lowly fisherman eking out an existence on Lake Michigan. At this surprising disclosure, I began to take a keen interest in my interlocutor. The Irishman, it appeared, had brain as well as brawn. Someone who re-creates his own past, installing an out-and-out hero for a father in place of a no-account piscatorian, knows where he wants to go.

  I flourished a bottle of Old Jake Beam Kentucky Bourbon. “The very best liquor that money can buy,” I remarked (quite inaccurately, of course) as I handed it across. “Sláinte!” Oscar was soon partaking with the gusto of a true-born Celt. (I myself do not drink for professional reasons, though it can be pragmatic to pretend to do so.) His reminiscences were soon in full spate. “You know what I was always dreaming, Mr. Cloke? To play baseball for the Union team.” Alas, his gift with bat and ball would never be acknowledged by the masters of the sport. “They were,” remarked Oscar, while we were passing through the vicinity of _______, “a bunch of jackeens for not taking me on.”