Richard Alan Schwartz
The Surgeon: A Civil War Story
First published by Village Drummer Fiction 2021
Copyright © 2021 by Richard Alan Schwartz
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Richard Alan Schwartz asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Richard Alan Schwartz has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
Previously published as A Female Doctor in the Civil War under the author’s pen name of Richard Alan. CONTENT HAS NOT CHANGED.
Second edition
ISBN: 978-1-970070-31-6
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
Find out more at reedsy.com
This book is dedicated to Surgeon General William Hammond, who wrestled American physicians away from medicine as an art and into scientifically based practice. This led our medical community to the forefront of medicine.
Secondly, this book is dedicated to, my grandson, Zane Noah Roberts. His melodic laughter and calm demeanor fills our hearts with joy.
This novel would not have been completed without the love and sacrifice of my wife, Carolynn. She has enriched my life since the day we met.
Contents
Field Hospital
Life as a Surgeon
More Wounded
Directives
On the Battlefield
The March
Dr. Connolly
Wounded
One Mystery Solved – Another Continues
Tired
First Leave
Evaluations
Expanding Educations
Maggie Disappears
A Major Battle
The Enemy Gets Close
Bromine
The Chemist
Second Leave
Dialogue Between Friends
Dr. Scharf
The End in Sight
Author’s Notes and Resources
About the Author
Also by Richard Alan Schwartz
Field Hospital
June, 1862
“You’re a woman…doctors know…and you should have learned in medical college, young lady…too much stimulation isn’t healthy for a woman.”
“Thank you for noticing my gender but,” Abbey’s attempt at an upbeat voice became tinged with anger, “at the risk of…over stimulation…I’m willing to put my life in harm’s way just like the men.” She struggled to remain calm. “I’ve worked hard to earn a degree at medical college, pass the medical board examinations and earn contract employment as a surgical assistant with the military.”
The older man she addressed wore a uniform with major’s rank which fit loosely on his slender frame.
“Dr. Fellows,” she handed him a folded copy of her orders. “As I said, I was told I’d be training with you.”
He clenched his jaw numerous times while he read then shook his head. “No…No…I’m sorry but assistant surgeons work in field hospitals which are close enough to combat that we occasionally take fire.”
The six-foot-tall, buxom woman pursed her lips while her attempt at an upbeat demeanor evaporated. “The men risk their lives for the sake of the Union. Why shouldn’t I?”
His neatly trimmed but sparse salt and pepper beard framed an expression of incredulity. “I was informed I’d receive a recent medical school graduate who’s had surgical…I mean…but no way…a woman?” He took a step back from the tall woman as if distance would change the situation. The chief surgeon’s shock slowly turned to anger. He put his hands on his hips then leaned toward her. “You…you’re the Dr. Kaplan I’ve been expecting?”
“Doctor Abbey Kaplan…”
“But…you can’t be.” Slowly shaking his head, he thought for a moment, swallowed hard then continued. “I’m expecting someone I can train as an assistant surgeon.”
“Sorry to disappoint you but I’m the new assistant surgeon.”
His chin began to quiver. “There has to be a mistake.”
“No mistake. As my orders state, I’m your new assistant surgeon.”
His eyes raced through her orders a second time. “No…the person I’m waiting for passed the medical exams with…”
“Peerless scores, one of my examiners told me.” “His essay was brilliant.”
“I wrote about the symptoms, diagnosis, pathology and treatment of erysipelas and gangrene.”
He raised his eyebrows. “How did you know about…?”
“Encountered them during my years in the Northwest so spent time researching those diseases during medical college. To prepare for my service assisting the military, I’ve also been reviewing the circulars, directives and documents coming from the Surgeon General in Washington and the National Medicine Museum.”
Dr. Fellows snorted. “When one of those damn pieces of paper can perform surgery, they might be useful.” He stammered. “This must be some kind of mistake…a woman…disgusting…I can’t be burdened with a woman.” With his chin trembling like a leaf, he practically shouted, “My next surgical assistant will be replacing a first-class surgeon. He had nerves of steel, excellent dexterity and therefore was promoted from assistant surgeon to chief surgeon of a Connecticut regiment.” The doctor glared at her. “Seventy- five-percent of the surgeries are amputations. I need someone with steady nerves who won’t blanch at their first limb removal or run away at the first sound of battle.”
Abbey said through clenched teeth, “I assure you, I realize I have much to learn but the gruesome nature of surgical intervention doesn’t bother me. Plus, while I haven’t experienced combat, I have assisted in surgery during College.
I’ve even treated a gunshot wound. In addition, I’m a contract surgeon so not concerned with promotion.”
With an expression of disgust he waved a hand of dismissal at her. “With our nation at war…I get a woman.” He snorted. “You’re not fit to be…”
Abbey’s countenance, indeed her mood and posture, no longer made any attempt to contain her rage. With fury in her eyes, she interrupted. “Not only do my exam scores recommend me, I have a burning desire to learn more about medicine…particularly surgery plus study mental state. By joining the war effort and doing my part to keep the Union together, I’ll be exposed to more diseases and surgical procedures than numerous decades of civilian practice.” She added in a slow and succinct voice, “That’s why I’m here.”
He returned her glare. “I need someone I can depend on. You should be at home, raising a family. Casualties might be arriving any moment.”
Abbey’s anger swelled like a river swol
len by spring’s melting snow. Her hands slowly moved to her hips. She shouted, “With casualties about to arrive, perhaps you should get your gaze off my chest and we could begin my training.”
He coughed and cleared his throat, then stared at her shoes. “Training? No. No, I won’t let you.” He turned to one of the medical helpers. “Pvt. Silver, escort…Miss Kaplan…and her gear to the tent she’s been assigned. She’ll wait there for new orders.” He turned to Abbey and smirked. “I’ll have you reassigned within the hour.”
* * *
“Do I call you Lieutenant or Dr. Kaplan?” Pvt. Dan Silver said as he walked down a row of tents set up for officers. He carried her duffel bag on his shoulder.
In one hand, the six-foot-tall doctor carried a leather covered, briefcase-sized container which held her surgical instruments; a carpetbag in the other. “I understand, as an assistant surgeon, I’m considered rank equivalent of lieutenant but I’d prefer being addressed as Dr. Kaplan.”
The private pulled a tent flap aside. “Your quarters, Dr. Kaplan.”
Abbey stepped out of the bright, mid-morning sun, into a ten-by-twelve-foot tent which was tall enough for her to stand along the center line. The interior smelled of mold and a slightly earthy scent, reminiscent of recently turned soil. A cot occupied each side wall and a desk with a single oil lamp occupied the center of the space. Pvt. Silver dropped her duffel on one of the cots.
“I’ll tie both flaps open to air out the place,” he said.
“Thank you, Private.” The doctor removed the pin which held her hat in place then placed it and the hat on top of her duffel. She ran her gloved fingers on the edge of the desk and examined them, then mumbled, “Filthy.”
“I’ll get some supplies and clean that for you, Ma’am.”
“Some rags, soap and a bucket of water, please, and I’ll do it myself…even though I may not be here but a short time.”
Four-hours later and Abbey sat at the desk in her tent reviewing documents on new medical practices. She glanced at her duffel. “Wonder if it’s worth unpacking?”
In the distance, she heard thunder. “Wonderful,” she said under her breath. “Hot and humid as the seashore in August and now it’s going to rain…more humidity.” She wiped rivulets of sweat off her brow. “That’s just what I need.” Abbey walked to the tent opening and glanced skyward. “That’s odd. Clear and sunny.” She heard thunder again. A number of officers ran out of their tents, leapt on horses and galloped in the direction of the deep rumble. She heard a new sound, higher in pitch and more of a pop.
“Damn,” she thought. “That must be cannon and rifle fire. A battle is starting. I should be putting my skills to use and saving lives.” Abbey cursed, then walked to her desk and opened a medical text. “I’ll review wound repair. With a battle started they’d be foolish not to use my skill.”
During the next hour, the gun and rifle fire continued. If anything, it seemed to intensify. Abbey’s ears perked up. Someone was calling her name. She moved to just outside the tent.
A tall, clean-shaven, barrel-chested man with muscular build and wearing sergeant’s stripes hurried down the row of officer’s tents. “Looking for Dr. Kaplan,” he shouted.
“Over here.” Abbey yelled.
He double-timed up to her and saluted.
Abbey returned his salute. “I’m Doctor Kaplan.”
“I’m Scharf, Ma’am. We need your immediate presence at the medical tent.”
“Which way?”
“Your medical instruments?”
“Oh yes.” She quickly retrieved her government-issued case.
“Your apron?”
“Don’t have one.”
“That frock will be covered in blood and guts shortly.” “To hell with the dress. We have men who need medical intervention.”
The Sergeant grinned. “Follow me, Dr. Kaplan.”
As they approached the three medical tents, indicated by the red flag which waved in the stiff breeze, men on stretchers were gently lifted out of two-wheeled, single-mule-drawn carts. Each cart carried from two to four wounded on stretchers. Tens of injured were arrayed in rows, waiting treatment. Some of them moaned. Others yelled for their mothers. Still others lay motionless, simply staring skyward. Abbey noted many had opened their shirts.
The sergeant’s eyes followed her gaze. “They’re checking to see if they’ve been gut-shot,” Sgt. Scharf said. “It’s an always fatal wound.”
“Always?”
He nodded. “That’s what I’m told. Tragic we can’t fix that type of injury. But…” he grinned, “maybe you’ll figure out how, Doctor.”
They entered the center tent. Dr. Fellows stood at an operating table, his blood-covered hands gripped a bone saw which rasped its way through a man’s femur. His apron, once white, but now covered in splotches of bright-red, fresh blood stains and dark, nearly brown, old stains. The acrid scent of chloroform reached her nose.
“Next patient,” Dr. Fellows yelled. With the corner of his apron, he wiped flecks of blood off his sweat covered face.
“Here,” Sgt. Scharf said, throwing Abbey an apron which she quickly looped over her head then tied.
“Across the table from me,” Dr. Fellows growled upon seeing her.
The next patient was placed on the table. A cloth containing chloroform was put on a holder then placed above the patient’s mouth and nose. When bandages were removed from his right foot; the soldier’s foot bones were shredded.
“We’ll amputate at the ankle,” Dr. Fellows said then nodded at the bandages across the soldier’s eyes. “Miss Kaplan, remove the wrapping.”
Using scissors, Abbey cut through them at the side of the patient’s head then gently lifted the wrappings off the front of the man’s face.
The man who administered anesthesia cursed and turned his head so as not to view the empty eye socket and missing nose.
Abbey noticed the others watching to gauge her reaction to the gory sight. “He has scalp and facial lacerations which should be sutured.”
“Then get busy,” Dr. Fellows growled. “And be quick.” He picked up a scalpel and cut through the tissue around the man’s ankle.
Abbey picked up a needle and thread then pulled the two sides of the six-inch wound together. She started carefully tying the sutures in a continuous row.
Dr. Fellows glanced at her work. “Faster Miss Kaplan,” he said in a mocking voice. “I’ve nearly removed this foot and you’re still making pretty stiches.” He picked up the bone saw and glanced at Abbey then cursed. “Time counts, damn it. Not pretty. The faster we finish, the faster we can move to the next patient.”
“Yes, Dr. Fellows,” she said while tying off the end of the stiches.
“Ligation Doctor. This blood vessel.” He pointed.
Abbey moved to the other end of the table and tied off the bleeder.
“Too damn slow,” Dr. Fellows grumbled. He performed the balance of the amputation himself.
Abbey finished closing the man’s facial lacerations then with the help of a nurse, bandaged the area.
“Next patient,” the older doctor yelled.
A man, whose eyes pleaded for Abbey’s help, was without his lower jaw.
“Do what you can for him,” Dr. Fellows said. “Lt. Smith, prepare the other surgical table and put the next patient on it. I’ll work there while Miss Slow does what she can for this man.”
“During my brief stay, I’d appreciate being referred to as Dr. Kaplan,” red-faced Abbey stated.
Dr. Fellows muttered an indistinct vocalization which sounded to the medical team like, “Harrumph.”
Seven-hours later and Dr. Fellows grabbed his lower back and stretched. He announced to the surgical team, “Thirty- minute break. Get something to eat then report back here.” He turned and walked away.
A tall, lanky lieutenant with a long nose and large Adam’s apple approached and held out his hand to Abbey. “I’m Lt. Smith, head of the medical assistants. There’s te
n of us depending on assignments. Mess is this way, Doctor.”
Sgt. Scharf joined them. She asked, “Do the helpers have medical training?”
The lieutenant tried but couldn’t suppress a laugh. “No, Ma’am. We’re band members and a few men not fit for combat. Our medical knowledge is limited to what you doctors teach us. I believe you’ve met Sgt. Scharf.”
“I have,” she said. With barely disguised sarcasm, Abbey asked him, “What instrument do you play?”
“I’m lead percussionist, Doctor,” said the powerfully built man who was slightly taller than Abbey.
“What qualifications do you possess which recommend you to the surgical team?”
He smiled. “I can precisely follow orders.”
She laughed.
“Food is this way,” Lt. Smith said with a wave of his hand.
“We’re glad you’re here, Dr. Kaplan,” Sgt. Scharf said. “An assistant surgeon is a key member of the team.”
“Won’t be here but a short time. Dr. Fellows is having new orders cut for me.”
The lieutenant and sergeant exchanged worried glances.
“We’ve been without an assistant surgeon for a number of weeks,” the sergeant said. “They don’t grow on trees. I can’t imagine why they’d get rid of a capable surgeon.”
“Capable? With the exception of today’s surgical interventions, I’m only school experienced, not exactly capable yet.”
“You hung in there damn well, Ma’am,” the lieutenant said.
“Thank you.” Abbey stared at her food for a while then asked, “Doesn’t bother either of you, I’m female?”
Sgt. Scharf said, “Today’s wounds were as ugly as they get and you did fine.”
“Our chief surgeon didn’t think so.”
The two men again exchanged further worried glances. The lieutenant said, “We’d best eat, Ma’am.”
After an additional six-hours of surgery and constant ridicule from the chief surgeon, Abbey collapsed onto her cot. “With his constant demeaning remarks, I doubt I’ll be here much longer,” she thought. “I’ll bet I assisted in three-dozen amputations today and even performed two myself…all performed to the melody of our chief surgeon’s derogatory remarks.” She shook her head. “This experience is what I prayed for but I can’t imagine he’ll keep me.”
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