by Ginny Dye
“Yes,” Carrie agreed, “but she didn’t make clear how much damage has been done by the practice, and she didn’t tell us it has no place in modern medicine!” Her heart pounded as she reached for another book and opened it to the marker she had placed in it. “‘Bloodletting has been used to treat almost every disease. It’s been used to treat acne, asthma, coma, convulsions, epilepsy, gangrene, gout, herpes, indigestion, insanity…’ ” Her voice rose with disgust. “Insanity!” she snorted. “I’ve never heard such nonsense.” She looked back at her book and continued to read. “‘Jaundice, leprosy, plague, pneumonia, scurvy, smallpox…’ ” She snapped the book closed. “And that is just part of the list. It actually goes on to list about one hundred more.”
“Are you certain it has no value?” Janie asked quietly.
“What I’m certain of,” Carrie snapped, “is that doctors that had no idea how to cure patients decided any treatment was better than nothing at all. Even draining large amounts of their blood!” She stared at Janie, vaguely aware her friend wasn’t sharing her outrage, but now that she had started to talk, she couldn’t stop. “Do you know George Washington died after he was bled heavily?”
Janie shook her head, her eyes curious. “No.”
“Our first president asked to be bled heavily after he developed a throat infection from weather exposure. Within a ten-hour period, they took close to a gallon of his blood.” Carrie’s voice was tight with fury. “A gallon of his blood. How did they expect the man to live?” she demanded. She answered the question in Janie’s eyes. “He died. They blamed it on the throat infection, but the truth is he had nothing to fight it off because of all the blood they had taken. I believe bloodletting weakens patients and facilitates infection.”
“He asked them to do it,” Janie said weakly.
Carrie just looked at her, unable to believe what she was hearing.
Janie flushed and looked away briefly before swinging her eyes back to Carrie’s. “How can you be sure you’re right? Why do you think you know more than the doctors who are teaching us?”
Carrie knew it was a fair question. “Because I’ve seen it,” she said promptly. “The surgeons at Chimborazo did it to most of the patients. Sarah taught me that blood is life so I convinced Dr. Wild not to perform bloodletting on his patients.”
“And how did Sarah know that?”
“I don’t know,” Carrie confessed easily. “But neither do I know how she knew yarrow relieves fever and helps with digestion. All I know is that she was right,” she said. “When Dr. Wild stopped draining our patients of their blood, many more of them lived.” She stood and walked over to stare out the window before she turned back. “You know that is true, Janie! Our ward had the highest survival rate at the hospital.”
Janie didn’t refute Carrie’s challenge, but she seemed to draw within herself on the window seat. “I’m not like you,” she said slowly, her voice tight and anxious.
“What does that mean?” Carrie fought to remain patient. How could she see it so clearly, and Janie not see it at all? She grabbed up the book again. “Do you know that in medieval Europe doctors believed surgery was beneath them? Physicians tended to be academics. They worked in universities, and most dealt with patients as an observer or consultant. They didn’t want to get their hands dirty,” she scoffed scornfully. “They used barber surgeons.”
Janie blinked. “Barber surgeons?”
“Yes,” Carrie said passionately. “Barber surgeons were the most common medical practitioners back then. Their job was to look after soldiers during or after a battle. They, of course, all had sharp-bladed razors. They were expected to do everything from cutting hair to amputating limbs. The death rate was already staggering due to loss of blood and infection. They increased it by taking even more of their patients’ blood.”
“I’m sure they thought they were helping, Carrie,” Janie protested, her face white with horror.
Carrie nodded. “I’m sure you’re right,” she agreed easily, “but doctors have been telling people since the 1600s that it is harmful. Instead of listening, doctors who simply have no real clue how to make people well just keep cutting them and sucking the very life from them!”
A long silence filled the room.
“I envy you,” Janie finally murmured. “I’m also scared for you.”
Carrie shook her head. “Scared for me?”
“Yes. It’s already so difficult for a woman to become a doctor. We are ridiculed and looked down upon. We have to fight for any kind of respect. Now you want to challenge everything we are being taught by both male and female doctors.”
“Not all of it,” Carrie shot back. “Just the part that is wrong.”
“That’s why I’m scared for you,” Janie said insistently. “The medical establishment here in Philadelphia is already trying to prove women have no place in medicine. They are fighting us at every turn. Now you are going to tell them they are wrong about one of their most established practices?” She paused. “What do you think is going to happen?”
Carrie sighed heavily. “I don’t know.” Anger surged through her in a renewed wave. “All I know is that I have to do what I believe is right.” She frowned and studied Janie’s face. “Do you know that bloodletting is a prescribed remedy for cholera patients?”
Janie stiffened. “No.”
“They are doing it to the cholera patients at the new hospital,” Carrie said bluntly.
Janie shook her head. “But they’re already so dehydrated. How can the doctors—”
“Take more fluid? Drain the blood that might give patients the ability to fight off the disease?” Carrie clenched her fists. She stood and paced the room for a minute before she spun around to look at Janie again. “It’s not like I enjoy creating problems. I don’t enjoy being a square peg in a round hole,” she said helplessly.
“It’s just who you are,” Janie said quietly. “You can’t help it.”
“I suppose I can’t,” Carrie agreed, a deep fatigue settling over her.
Suddenly, she knew what she needed to do.
Marietta had not moved away from her position at the window for several hours. She tried to breathe steadily as she prayed, but her fear was growing. In spite of her best efforts, her breath was starting to come in uneven gasps as exhaustion tightened its grip. She had seen no telltale flicker of flames on the horizon, but that didn’t mean the situation was good in the black quarters. Her mind filled with vivid images. Jeremy figured in every one of them.
She stiffened and leaned forward when a man materialized from the darkness and moved toward her. She forgot to breathe as he came closer. The curtain swirled around her head and shoulders as she pressed forward. When the man drew next to the streetlamp closest to her boarding house, he looked up. “Jeremy!” she gasped, a laugh breaking through the sob caught in her throat. “Jeremy…” Her voice was a whisper as her heart filled with joy and relief.
Jeremy stopped under the streetlight and raised his hand, his eyes trained on her window. He waited until she drew the curtains back and stuck her hand out the window to wave. Then he smiled broadly, waved his hand, and continued walking. Moments later he was once more swallowed by the night.
Marietta had so many questions, but she knew they would have to wait until the morning. Her heart full of gratitude, she crept to her bed, pulled back the covers, and climbed in. Within moments she was asleep.
Chapter Seven
Carrie hoped her assumption that ninety-seven-year-old women didn’t go out much was accurate. She peered at the windows as her carriage pulled up in front of the three-story home where Biddy lived. She didn’t see any movement, but there was no reason to expect any. The street, even so early in the day, was already full of carriages and wagons. Laughter and calls filled the air as hordes of dirty, raggedly dressed children played with careless abandon on the side streets. Women hung laundry while they chatted with neighbors, and Carrie could smell the fragrant aroma of bread swirling around her
. Her mouth watered as she suddenly remembered she hadn’t taken time to eat before she left.
Carrie leaned forward to speak to her driver. “Will you please wait here until I discover if anyone is home?” The look Crandall gave her made it clear he thought she was crazy for coming all this way without already being sure of a reception. She quite agreed with him, but there hadn’t been time to send a telegram and wait for a reply. As soon as the sun was up, she had walked down to the livery station to hire her transportation. If she was going to take advantage of no classes on a Saturday, she simply had to take the chance.
“Yes, ma’am,” Crandall said, his tone respectful even though his eyes communicated something else.
Carrie hid her smile as she climbed out of the carriage. She knew that all her driver really cared about was being paid. Her trip might be fruitless, but Crandall would still put money in his pocket. It was actually to his benefit for Biddy to be home because Carrie was paying him to wait until she was ready to leave. She hurried up the steps, rapped on the door, and held her breath. A broad smile spread across her face when she heard footsteps inside.
“Why, land sakes!” Faith cried as she opened the door. She called over her shoulder. “Biddy, Carrie Borden is here!”
Carrie hesitated, surprised at how nervous she felt. “I know you weren’t expecting me…”
Faith snorted. “Girl, you get yourself in this house. We’ve been looking for you to come back every day since you left. You certainly took your sweet time about it. It’s been almost a month!”
“Get that girl back here!” Biddy called from the parlor.
Carrie grinned with relief and turned back toward the carriage. “I will be staying,” she called loudly.
Crandall waved his hand and moved forward.
Carrie interpreted the look on Faith’s face. “I have already made arrangements for the driver to wait in that tavern just a few buildings down if y’all were home,” she assured her. “He will take me back when I’m ready.”
“Good,” Faith said, the relief evident in her voice. “We’ll send one of the children in the neighborhood to fetch him when we’re willing to let you go.” She opened the door and beckoned for Carrie to come inside, and then enveloped her in a warm hug. “It could be a while before we’re willing,” she warned.
Carrie sighed, more sure than ever that she had made the right decision. “It’s so good to see you,” she murmured as Faith kept hold of her arm to lead her into the parlor.
“Why has it taken you so long to come see us?” Faith asked in a scolding tone.
Biddy was sitting in her same chair when Carrie and Faith entered. “Leave that girl alone,” she admonished in her musical brogue. “She is right here now, isn’t she?”
Carrie hurried forward and planted a kiss on the soft, wrinkled face that framed the blazing blue eyes she remembered so well. They drew her just as much now as they had when she’d first met this remarkable woman. “Hello, Biddy. It’s so good to see you again.”
Biddy smiled and waved her into the chair next to the window. “Have a seat, Carrie. Faith will bring some tea and cookies.”
Faith happily bustled from the room.
Carrie settled down in the chair, grateful last night’s storm had driven away the choking heat for at least a little while.
Biddy eyed her for a moment. “We were afraid we had scared you off with all our stories.”
“Absolutely not,” Carrie replied. “Classes and study have kept me busy every single minute. I wanted to get away so many times, but something always happened.”
“So what pushed you over the edge today?” Biddy asked, watching her with wise eyes.
Carrie flushed, not ready to talk it. She shook her head instead. “I came to hear more of your story.” She looked up as Faith entered the room carrying a tray. “And to hear Faith’s story,” she added, glad for the distraction. The look in Biddy’s eyes said the old woman would press her on that question again, but she was going to hold it off as long as she could. Carrie was looking for a way to navigate her latest struggle. She could only hope she would recognize it when it came her way. Whether she would find it here in Moyamensing, she had no idea, but she had learned not to ignore the impulse that had directed her here.
Biddy eyed her for a moment longer and then reached for the cup of tea Faith held out to her. “This is the first break in the weather for months,” she said casually.
Carrie relaxed. “I feel like I can breathe again,” she agreed, accepting the plate Faith held out to her. “The cookies look wonderful,” she exclaimed, her stomach growling in anticipation.
“You’re about to sink your teeth into some Irish oatmeal cookies,” Biddy explained. “This recipe has been passed down through the generations.”
Carrie took a bite and closed her eyes with a moan of delight as her teeth sank into the moist, chewy sweetness. “Oh…” she breathed. “They are wonderful.”
Biddy grinned, her eyes dancing with satisfaction. “The secret is plumping up those raisins with some strong Irish whiskey,” she whispered dramatically. “It takes an Irish cook to know how to make oatmeal cookies!”
“Or a black cook who knows the secret,” Faith said wryly.
“That, too,” Biddy agreed easily.
Carrie took another bite. “I can’t wait to tell the rest of my housemates about these cookies.”
“You’ll take some home to them,” Faith said.
“I was so hoping you would insist,” Carrie said demurely.
Biddy and Faith laughed, their eyes sparkling with approval.
Faith settled down into the other chair in the room. “I told Biddy you weren’t just a figment of our imagination,” she murmured.
Carrie smiled, so glad she had come. She had simply told her housemates she was going out for the day. She didn’t feel like explaining her reasons, and she didn’t want anyone else to join her. Janie, excited about Matthew’s arrival, had looked at her closely but said nothing.
Biddy nodded at Faith. “Carrie wants to hear your story.”
Faith smiled. “I’ll be happy to tell my story, but first you need to finish yours. We don’t want everything to get all jumbled up in her mind.”
“Which wouldn’t take much at this point,” Carrie said dryly.
Biddy closed her eyes for a moment. “My ninety-seven-year-old mind doesn’t remember where I left off when you were here before,” she confessed when she opened them again.
“You stopped at the point where Darcy’s lover was murdered when he tried to save her from more abuse by her owner,” Carrie replied promptly.
“That’s right,” Biddy said. She closed her eyes for another moment, obviously pulling memories forward. “Even though the courts mostly let owners do whatever they wanted—because they were themselves landowners who had their own contracted servants—the things Darcy’s owner did to her were even more horrible than they could bear. After Great-Grandfather Ian was murdered, the courts set her free.”
“That’s wonderful!” Carrie cried, glad there was a happy ending. The realization of what the woman must have gone through had made her feel ill many times during the last month.
“Being set free was definitely an improvement,” Biddy agreed, “but she had nothing and nowhere to go. A neighbor took pity on her and sent her up here to friends in Philadelphia so that her old owner couldn’t find her. About the time she got here, she realized she was pregnant from her lover.”
Carrie gasped. “Pregnant? She must have had so many mixed feelings.”
“I imagine she did. She had lost the man she loved, but at least she was going to have his child.”
“And she didn’t have to worry about the child being sold away from her,” Carrie said with relief.
Biddy frowned. “Not true. A family took Darcy in and cared for her during her pregnancy, but when my grandmother was born, she was taken as an indentured servant as payment.”
“What?” Carrie grappled with what sh
e was hearing. “After all Darcy had been through? How awful!”
Biddy nodded. “Darcy stayed with the family because she wouldn’t leave her daughter, Fiona. She was, for all purposes, still a slave, but the difference was that they were kind to her.”
“How long?”
“Until Fiona was eighteen. She was set free then, but Darcy was already dead. Too many years of abuse had finally taken their toll on her health. She died from pneumonia the winter when Fiona was fifteen.”
Carrie squeezed her eyes closed for a moment, sorrow for the woman she never knew surging through her heart. “What happened to Fiona?”
“Fiona remained free,” Biddy said proudly. “She became a seamstress to very wealthy Philadelphians. She married another man from Ireland who had served out his contract, and had eight children.”
“Which one was your mother?” Carrie asked.
“Keela. She was the third child, and the oldest of the four girls.” Biddy smiled fondly. “My mother was a very beautiful woman, and also very intelligent. She learned from all Grandma Fiona told her, and inherited Grandma’s dressmaking talents. Instead of just making clothes, though, she opened a fashion consulting shop that outfitted the finest women in Philadelphia society. She was very much in demand.”
“How wonderful!” Carrie said enthusiastically, vastly relieved to know the terrible cycle of slavery and abuse had been broken. She looked around the house. “Didn’t you say you were born here?”
Biddy shook her head. “No, but I was only two years old when Mama and Father moved out here and bought the farm. Father was a very successful banker. He adored me and Mama, and didn’t want me growing up in the city. He wanted me to have room to run and play outside like he did as a boy on the farm he grew up on in upstate New York.”
Carrie glanced out the window at the crowded, bustling street. “So Moyamensing really used to be a farm?” It was difficult to believe.
Biddy nodded, her eyes glowing with memories. “The prettiest farm you ever did see. There were more than a hundred acres of rolling pasture. We grew apple trees and raised dairy cows. Father hired men to take care of everything. This house was surrounded by large trees and the flower gardens that were my mother’s pride and joy.”