He became lost in thought.
“What's wrong, William?”
Beaumont's mind was racing with the figures of the costs of Alexis's care. “Nothing, I was just thinking how I doubt Debbie would allow it.”
“Allow what?”
“Allow me to take Alexis on as my own charity case. Why, it's only this year that by my own pluck, and a bit of luck too I confess, I've finally freed myself from the shackles of my many debts. And now we have the baby.” Beaumont smiled. “She's such a delight. I tell you, the other day she smiled at me and laughed. She's going to be a fine and charming woman, as striking as her mother in every respect.” He eased back into his chair. “I must think of my family. Our funds are limited.”
The two men sat in quiet company. The sound of children playing at a game carried in. Beaumont turned a few pages of the book. Thompson tossed his cap around the outstretched fingers of his left hand, ran his fingers through his thin gray hair. He surveyed the collections of books, the stacks of the Eclectic Repertory, an arrangement of pottery medicine containers ordered by size and with paper labels of their contents. Upon the desk there were Beaumont's notebooks, a basket with stones and another with curios of wood and shells, and two thumb-sized beetles mounted upon a board the size of a playing card. Thompson's attention settled upon a sealed jar that held a collection of bile stones. He took it up to more closely inspect its emerald contents. When he spoke, he was incredulous.
“You'll never fathom what Lieutenant Russell has told me.”
Beaumont closed his text. “What now?”
“He says he and Lieutenant Morris decline to testify against your malingerer Lieutenant Griswold.”
“Decline?”
“Recant. Withdraw. Something in that manner.” Thompson picked up the pace of his cap's circular motion. “They want to withdraw any complaint against Lieutenant Griswold. I suppose they wish I'd drop all charges of his shirking his duty.”
Beaumont leaned over the desk. “But why?”
Thompson shrugged. “Collusion among the ranks? They're all academy men, you know, a kind of club I'm not a member of. I truly can't say. I pressed each for a reason, and they maintain that Lieutenant Griswold was ill, now he's better and no harm was done. They regret their complaint.”
Beaumont grimaced. “No harm in malingering to shirk duty?” he insisted. “Truly not.”
“Truly so. Of course Griswold's court-martial proceeds with or without their testimony. We have your medical report to substantiate the charges.”
FOR MUCH OF THE MONTH OF JUNE, the case of Lieutenant Edmund B. Griswold had occupied Beaumont. For three weeks, the young lieutenant had recited a litany of complaints that began with a series of pains in his feet, the left one greater than the right, but soon were general. One he called his cold bone pain. This, the man complained, lay deep in his bones. He shivered when he spoke of it. The other was more in his skin and flesh. Stomach cramps came and went. And there was also a rash.
The lieutenant insisted he remain upon the sick roll, and he passed his days on his cot reading novels. It was after Major Thompson's third petition to Dr. Beaumont to see the man that Beaumont made his final diagnosis.
His methoda medica was elegant. He proved that the young lieutenant had lied about taking his prescribed medicine. Beaumont had told Griswold that the neatly folded brown paper packet was a gentle stimulant. In fact, it was calomel, a medicine designed to produce certain vomiting.
When Beaumont returned to check on his patient, he found the young lieutenant on a bench enjoying the last of the day's sun. His copy of Sentimental Journey lay open beside him. He claimed some, though not entire, improvement after taking the medicine, and yet his jaws, mouth and general appearance, his history and the collaborating history from lieutenants Russell and Morris, concurred upon one single and certain conclusion. Though Lieutenant Griswold claimed he had taken the medicine prescribed by doctor's orders, he clearly had not.
The man was a malingerer.
Beaumont explained the diagnosis to the major and his lieutenants, Russell and Morris.
“A sick man who calls for medical attention and submits to examination takes his prescribed treatment. A well man who's using physical complaints to shirk military duty, that man does not take the dose. And in this case, that man is Lieutenant Edmund B. Griswold.”
That very day, Beaumont struck the lieutenant's name from the sick roll, and Major Thompson brought up court-martial charges, and the man was sent to the jail for failure to follow orders, disobedience and insubordination.
MAJOR THOMPSON'S NEWS that the lieutenants Russell and Morris now refused to testify against their fellow lieutenant irked Beaumont. “Can't you compel them to testify?” he asked. “You're their commanding officer.”
“I am their commander, William, yes I am, but I can't compel them. But that's of little concern. We have the solid facts of your report. Lieutenants Russell and Morris wish to use sentiment and feeling to counter medical science, best of fortune to them.”
Beaumont was frowning as he reached for his notebook and flipped back several pages.
“I saw him outside his quarters, in his shirtsleeves with no other protection than his usual apparel. If Lieutenant Griswold had taken that medicine as I directed him, he would have had swelled jaws and a sore mouth. He'd not have been seated before the plate of boiled beef and potatoes lieutenants Morris and Russell saw him eating earlier that day. Finally, when I inspected him, I saw not one sign consistent with the dose of calomel I prescribed, and neither did he complain of soreness in his mouth or his jaws. That, Major, is, I submit, the scientific proof.”
“I don't doubt you, William.”
Beaumont thumped the tips of his thumb and forefinger on the desk. “The plain and unvarnished truth. If he took his dose as I instructed him, and as he claimed he did, it would have exerted violent effect upon him. He would have begun puking within minutes. It's an experiment designed with the simple elegance to prove him out as a malingerer. The proof is evident.”
Beaumont gestured to his books and journals.
“I have issues of the Eclectic Repertory that speak objectively and scientifically upon the diagnosis of malingering. It's seen not infrequently. A sick man takes his prescribed treatment, but a well man does not. I've an authoritative record of a case from a garrison in the Florida territory that used scarification by cupping to great effect. I think my methods more humane as they will leave no scar upon his person, though his reputation, I can hazard, will suffer certain blemish.”
Beaumont's face had turned a deep red. “And what is a man but his reputation? Glass, china and reputation, Hardage. They are easily cracked and never well mended. Franklin said that.” He pointed to his friend and nodded. “Take reputation away, and all that remains is the bestial part.”
The major was listening intently to Beaumont.
“You'll wring no argument out of me on the matter, William. The facts you submit are clear. Clear scientific facts. And Dr. Franklin's wisdom is true. 'Tis disappointing the lieutenants decline to testify, or even if ordered, will insist they were wrong. But no worries, William. The facts will win out. They always do.”
Beaumont frowned. “I hear his father's a senator,” he said.
Thompson shook his head. “Was. Now the man's a judge. In Connecticut, I think. He comes from an old Connecticut family.”
“Well then, a child of Congregationalist heritage,” Beaumont pronounced. “When I was a boy, I knew a few. I'd say this fella's got a fine pedigree. Doesn't make a damn bit of difference. A malingerer is a malingerer. And yet, the Federalists are a powerful lot with their aristocratic yearnings.”
“Set it aside, William. I only told you this as a matter of fact, not to act upon.” Thompson held up the jar of bile stones before him and rattled them. “You say these came from one man?”
Beaumont nodded. “Aye. A banker in Plattsburgh. I took care of him for a number of years for gall bladder ailments,
and then one evening he took a high fever, turned yellow as a sunflower, and his liver grew tender.”
Thompson turned the jar to make them move. “How then?”
“Autopsy.”
Thompson set the jar down carefully. “I see. My mother always feared the likes of doctors. Said they would let you succumb to dissect you open.”
“It's a belief the profession struggles against. They rioted in Gotham over the doctors taking bodies.”
“Truly?”
“Sometime at the end of the last century, more or less. Dr. Chandler, my mentor, he told me about it. It's so hard to persuade the general populace of the value of the autopsy. But you know without it we'd remain as aboriginal root doctors or fall prey to the homoeopaths and other speculative approaches. Draping spiderwebs over wounds. Imagine doing that to the likes of a wound such as Alexis's. Careful inspection of the morbid anatomy is essential for the progress of modern medicine. The French are leaping ahead of us in that regard. There is simply no reason a country as great as ours cannot excel in medicine. Can't you order the lieutenants to testify?”
“William, I can't force them to say what they do not want to say. Besides, what's the worry? Your diagnosis does not depend upon their complaints about Griswold shirking his duty. As you said, scientific facts speak for themselves.”
“They do. How then is our malingering Lieutenant Griswold?”
Thompson shook his head slowly. “Reading books and writing in his commonplace book as he awaits his trial.”
“Novels I should say.”
“Indeed novels. You think it related?”
Beaumont nodded. “I do. The problem with that lovesick trash is that it dissipates a man's resolve and ambition. It's all sentiment without the guide of reason. Like liquor. Deborah reads them for her literary salon. She adores this book Pamela. I can understand that habit in women. It's in their nature. But I simply don't understand it in a man. I'd bet lieutenants Russell and Morris read them as well. They're in that salon, you know.” Beaumont shook his head in disbelief. “I do wish you'd talk to those academy men.”
AS BEAUMONT WAS WALKING HOME along the hard dirt path between the hospital and his cottage, a man's voice called to him. It was Lieutenant Russell.
“Doctor, do you have a moment, please?”
Beaumont considered the young man. “Not at present, Lieutenant. The hour's late. My wife awaits.”
The lieutenant halted some twenty paces away.
“Just a moment, please. Has Major Thompson spoken with you, Doctor?”
“Major Thompson and I speak frequently. How can I help you, Lieutenant?
The lieutenant hesitated.
“Speak, man.”
“If I may, Doctor, please, I should like to ask you about Lieutenant Griswold. You see, Doctor, he's a changed man. Whatever it was that ailed him has long left him, and all of us are quite willing to have him back in service. The only consideration that hinders that is your judgment upon Lieutenant Griswold. In light of the facts, might you reconsider?”
“Reconsider?”
“Yes sir. Your report is all that sustains his court-martial.”
“Are you suggesting I change the facts? That I lie?”
“No sir, it's just the methods, sir.”
“The methods?”
“The methods to ascertain his illness—or whatever it may have been—seemed improper for what we'd expect, like some trick. Unfair and . . .”
Beaumont cut him off.
“Lieutenant Russell, are you in fact suggesting that what I did was somehow wrong?”
The lieutenant hesitated.
“Speak now,” Beaumont commanded.
“You're a physician, sir, and the garrison . . .”
“I know what I am, Lieutenant. Get to the point.” He pronounced each word like a bullet.
Russell summoned his courage. He raised his voice. “You're a physician, and the garrison looks to you as someone they can trust for help.”
Beaumont covered the distance between him and the lieutenant in eleven quick steps. “Mark your speech lest you mar your fortune, young man. Look at me. Look now. By your remark I have every reason to call you out and challenge you right now, sir, right now, for this animadversion upon my honor. Withdraw your remark. Do it now. I said, now.”
“Sir, I only meant to say that what you did to Lieutenant Griswold has others worried. I am not questioning your skills as surgeon but appealing to your sentiment of mercy, sir.”
“Sentiment of mercy?” Beaumont uttered a sharp laugh. “Lieutenant Russell, I deal in facts. That is what my profession and this fort, this army, expect of me and pay me to do. Lieutenant Griswold is a diagnosed malingerer. That is a fact. Fact, I repeat. Mercy cannot change facts. Leave that to the court or some other authority invested with that power. Withdraw your remark now, or choose your weapon. I'm quite serious. Or when we meet next, it shall be on the field of honor.”
The lieutenant looked about. The two were entirely alone. He swallowed hard. “Doctor, I withdraw my remark.”
Beaumont nodded sharply. “And if I hear one measure of the substance of such remarks pass your or any man's lips on this island, I shall denounce you from one end to the other and call you out with pistols on the field of honor. Am I understood?”
Russell was trembling.
“Yes sir.”
NINE
THE FIRST FROST CAME ON A CLEAR NIGHT at the end of October with planets visible and stars falling. The surface of the Straits of Mackinac was like glass. A skein of ice formed atop the rain barrels. The last men on the beach gathered round fires in tight circles and coughed from the blue smoke that seemed to follow them even as they shifted and lowered to avoid the smoke.
Six afternoons a week, the women from the literary salon took turns sitting at Alexis's bedside reading to him. They alternated for a month but in time it was Sally Thompson, the major's ailing wife, who took most of the days. Her voice was soft, and she remained wrapped in a shawl as she read. She started with the scriptures, then sonnets, and finally settled on her children's primers. They were all dead now. Alexis enjoyed the primers and would politely interrupt with questions about the characters. He was fascinated by a story about a boy named Peter whose father was a farmer and liked to repeat the phrase that “Peter had a proper purpose in life.”
By December, the voyageurs' brigades and Indians had long broken up their camps and journeyed into the woods to set their traps. They left behind a beach strewn with debris picked over by dogs and ink-black birds the size of small turkeys with ragged wings whose cries so resembled a plaintive child that the soldiers would discharge their guns into this jetsam. Flocks of geese flew over. Their noise lasted for hours as they passed, casting shadows like clouds.
The island's inhabitants were now reduced to the year-round residents and the soldiers. The season of parties soon began. It was a rotating schedule of teas, salons, dinners and sociables, anything to pass the long, frigid winter days.
In the Crooks's warm parlor, the men stood around the crystal punch bowl filled with a Jamaican rum punch. Deborah sat before the Crooks's latest acquisition, a grand piano. Emilie Crooks sang, her earrings twinkling like stars. It was a song about spring. The Reverend James asked Beaumont if they might talk sometime about the Frenchman. Captain Pearce, close as he was to their exchange, leaned in and suggested they meet at his office. He too wished to hear about the young voyageur with the hole in his side.
The next day they met at the captain's office. Pearce sat behind his desk with his sword upon it. He rubbed the ball of his thumb idly upon the pommel's lion's head. The reverend and Ramsay Crooks sat on the horse-hair sofa, and Beaumont eased into a wing chair. A fire hissed with tiny jets of green and yellow flames. They were discussing the Crooks's party. As a corporal poured out cups of coffee, the reverend volunteered that the pleasure of a musical entertainment was the most superior means to pass the winter months. The reverend set down his cup, scratched hi
s arms, cleared his throat.
“Dr. Beaumont, on behalf of the citizens of Mackinac Island, we do commend you for your singular dedication to the care of the voyageur Alexis Martin.”
“Thank you, Reverend. It's all in my duty.”
The reverend carried on. “We all agree we are most fortunate to have a surgeon of your skill and dedication at this remote garrison. The families of Mackinac Island rest assured.”
“Again, thank you, Reverend.” Beaumont looked at the assembled company. Ramsay Crooks played with his amethyst ring, his great hips forcing the gaunt reverend into the corner of the small sofa. Captain Pearce, safely planted behind the expanse of his desk, gazed at the frosted window.
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