1853 - Chapter 4

by Jennifer Cook Purcell

-- The Daily Picayune, Tuesday’s Evening Edition, November 12, 1852

“Is this Dr. Hunt’s office?” James asked as he held the office door open for a young nun as she exited into the foyer. He was dressed in new clothes, thankfully borrowed from his new and seemingly only friend Marc, whose father played poker with Dr. Hunt every Wednesday night and like every good New Orleanian of a certain stature had the good doctor’s address at the ready and could direct James on where to find him.  

“Dr. Hunt stepped out a few moments ago,” said a rotund middle-aged man seated at a large walnut desk at the far end of the room. On his left eye was a monocle which he was using to examine a large batch of delivery slips. “He had a staff lunch to attend,” the man added without looking up. With his wrinkled arm sleeve, he wiped a few beads of sweat from his brow and nervously reached for a leather book that was placed on the top of a pile of papers on the corner of his desk. “Oh, dear lord, this is all wrong,” he muttered to himself as he pointed to a bill of lading he was holding. He read it again, and looked up at James, his only audience. “See,” he said emphatically. “I was right, this is all wrong. We ordered thirty aneurysm needles. Dr. Hunt specifically made that request. So why in the world did they send us 30 enema syringes? And how will I ever be able to get these returned all the way to London? Oh, this is all wrong…” he cried, as he leaned back in his chair and sighed, “…and with the new session beginning. Oh, Dr. Hunt is going to be furious with me.” 

As the man finally fell silent, James removed his hat and stepped directly in front of the man’s desk. “Sorry to bother you, especially now, but my name is James McFarland. Dr. James McFarland. I was offered a physician post at Charity Hospital and a teaching position here at the medical school. I was told to come here. I arrived just this week from Philadelphia and need to speak with Dr. Hunt.”

Presented with yet another new school year obstacle, the rotund man began to absentmindedly shake his leg. “Dr. McFarland?” he asked quizzically. “I don’t recognize that name. Who told you to come here?”

“Well, my offer letter actually,” James said, as he reached to settle a glass of pencils that was rattling on the desk. “It was signed by Dr. Hunt.  If he is not here, then maybe Reginald Oxford?”

“I’mmmm Reginald Oxford,” said the man, his tone drawn out and overly offended. “Like I said, absolutely no one has informed of this. Are you quite sure you’re in the right place?”

“Well, I better be,” James said irritably. “I just traveled eight days by ship to be here, and …”

“By sea?” Mr. Oxford interrupted. “You traveled by sea? How silly. Why in the world didn’t you come by train? By ship… really?” 

 “Yes, by ship,” James said, punctuating the statement with a sharp crack of his knuckles. “Anyway…how I got here doesn’t matter. The point is I’m here now and the letter specifically said I should contact you. Staff meetings are to begin on November 8^th, I believe…and lectures the 15^th…”

“Let me see this letter,” said Mr. Oxford, his voice clinched with agitation.

“Well, you can’t,” James said defiantly. “You see, I don’t have it.”

“Really,” Mr. Oxford said with a laugh. “Let me guess…you dropped it in the ocean? Better yet, it was it nabbed by an angry seagull…”

“Actually no,” James said, grabbing the chair in front of Mr. Oxford’s desk. “You don’t mind…do you?” He said glancing down toward the chair.

“Well…”

“Thanks,” James said as he took his seat. “Anyway, like I said, the letter was stolen on the ship. Look, frankly you don’t appear to be much in the know around here, but I assure you, I’m supposed to be here. I absolutely start teaching here on Monday...”

Just then the bell on the outside door rang loudly and a tall, older man peered inside. “Reggie…dear chap…” said the man with a clipped English accent and a baritone voice that swirled and coated each word. “Where’s Hunt, my boy? He just must come down to the surgery theatre right now and see this procedure we are working on …”

Reggie jumped to his feet. “Dr. Vickery, sir,” Mr. Oxford exclaimed nervously. “How lovely to see you…ummm,” he continued, tapping his pen on the book in front of him. “…Dr. Hunt is the staff meeting, Dr. Vickery. One I thought you would be at yourself, actually.” He paused, trying to arrest his stammering. After a moment he added, “He should be back by 2:30.”

“2:30,” barked Dr. Vickery. “2:30’s no good…this man will be long dead by then if he isn’t dead already. Where’s the meeting? I’ll go fetch him myself.”

“The St. Louis,” stammered Mr. Oxford. “…but I wouldn’t bother him, Dr. Vickery. Not today. You know how much there is to do before classes start.”

Dr. Vickery frowned and began to turn away. “Well, serves him right for signing up to be a desk jockey again,” he added, shaking his head. He looked down and pointed towards James. “Who’s this?”

“No one…” quipped Mr. Oxford.

“Actually…,” James said, seeing an opportunity as he jumped to his feet. “…my name is James McFarland. Dr. James McFarland, that is. I just arrived from Philadelphia. And I’d love to look in on that surgery if I may...”

“I didn’t ask you….”

“No but…”

“Are you staff?”

“Actually yes,” said James. “Or will be as of Monday.”

“Well,” interrupted Mr. Oxford. “That hasn’t been verified, Dr. Vickery. Not exactly…”

“Oh Reggie,” laughed Dr. Vickery. “You bloody dolt. You actually think he’d lie about something like that? Is your mind really that fanciful?”

“Well, you cannot be too careful...”

“But you can come off as an idiot. Look at him…a crisp new shirt. Well-tailored pants…I mean, he looks like a doctor to me. If he wants to come look in on the surgery, then what’s the issue?”

“I just don’t think that’d be wise…”

“Oh, simmer down Ox,” Dr. Vickery said gestured James toward the doorway. “I’ll take the heat from Hunt. This way, son. We don’t have much time.”

As soon as the door closed, Dr. Vickery pointed down the hall toward the main exit. “The surgical theatre is at the hospital,” he said, walking quickly down a long hallway and finally out the front door. “It’s a couple of blocks away so we must hurry.”

For several minutes they walked up the crowded Rue de Commons in silence as James looked around and marveled at the City’s architecture. With their ornate balconies and welcoming galleries, New Orleans homes were clearly designed to receive neighbors, who called on each other freely and at all times of the day. It was the architecture of a gregarious community, so different from monotonous Georgian homes he found in Philadelphia.   

Dr. Vickery waived at a woman across the street and then turned to James. “So James...it is James, isn’t it?”

James nodded and smiled.

“Well James, tell me where you’re from again.”

“Philadelphia”

“Philadelphia…I see…well, then you’ll be popular. We here at the medical school love our Philadelphian brothers, seeing as how much they helped us get this school up and running. You’ll see… and what brought you down to New Orleans?”

“The reputation of the hospital and the school, mainly,” James said as he weaved in and out of weekday traffic with Dr. Vickery.

“Fine,” smiled Dr. Vickery. “But what’s the real reason?”

Approaching Rue de St. Charles, James watched as a wagon overloaded with beer caskets tip over as it was hit broadside by a racing stagecoach, spilling the drivers and the fresh lager onto the road. As the drivers went to blows, pedestrians emerged from behind busy storefronts in the hopes that by feigning interest in the fist contest, they could also partake in the spilled ale.

“Come along,” said Dr. Vickery as James’ gate slowed. “That’s just New Orleans being New Orleans. No one appears to be hurt so let’s keep moving. Police will be here soon enough.”

James laughed at the imbibing attendants and then hustled to catch up with Dr. Vickery. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it seems strange,” continued Dr. Vickery. “With one of the county’s best medical schools in your own backyard…why make the long trip down to New Orleans?”

“Short answer is I grew up in Philadelphia…wanted an adventure,” then more quietly he added. “Longer answer is my father holds a chair there…teaches anatomy. He and I, well you might say we don’t really get along.”

“A-ha,” quipped Dr. Vickery. “Well so we have it. A Prince Hal in our midst...”

“Sorry?”

“It’s Shakespeare, son...Henry IV. Don’t you know it?”

James shook his head.

“Well, you’re in luck. It’s playing at the St. Charles theater right now and even I, an Englishman, was impressed with the production. Go treat yourself before classes start.  But anyway, as we were saying, so you’re down here to escape daddy.”

James grimaced at Dr. Vickery’s tone. “You could say that…” he said with irritation. “You could just as soon say I wanted to strike out on my own…to make my own name…without the help from my family.”

“That’s right, my boy,” Dr. Vickery said. “You absolutely could say that. Don’t get me wrong…I applaud you,” he added as he waived at the watchman standing sentry at the hospital’s gates. “Lord knows, I didn’t get on with my pop either and I certainly didn’t set sail from Mother England just looking for adventure. Seems like everyone in this town is escaping one form of ghost or another.” He stopped in front of the large hospital building to let a horse-drawn ambulance come to slow stop and watched as the men quickly began to remove the patient. “This way,” he said cutting across the interior gardens. “Let’s go around back. It’s quicker.”

The two men walked quickly through the gardens surrounding the west wing and entered through a large door on the back of the building. “Surgical amphitheaters are down this way,” Dr. Vickery said, crossing through the closest ward. On either side of the long room were rows of hospital beds, some empty yet most full of pained and poor people being attentively watched over by handful of old nuns who stepped lightly across the room while clutching their rosary beads and administering their care. Dr. Vickery waived at the on-call physician sitting at the table in the middle of the room and then headed out the ward towards the stairs leading to the lower level. After several minutes, he stopped outside an oak door. “Tell me James. You don’t get squeamish at the sight of blood, do you?”

“No,” James said with laugh. “Of course not.”

“Well, it’s not pretty in there,” Dr. Vickery said. “Thought I should at least check. The patient was found lying next to the Carrollton railroad with his arm torn off. They think he was drunk and got clipped by the train. I’m just saying, it’s not for the faint of heart. You ready?”

“Sir, we have railroads in Philadelphia...I’ve seen my share of what harm they can do to a human body. I’ll be fine. I promise.”

“Good then,” Dr. Vickery said as he opened the door and pointed toward the stairs that led to the upper level of the surgical amphitheater. “Go up there if you don’t mind. You’ll have a good view and be out of the way.”

James nodded and launched the stairs. The room had the sweet, rusted smell of ether, blood, and sawdust, and James, in a whiff, felt immediately at home. On a table in the center of the room lay the patient with a leather tourniquet tied just above the shoulder, cutting off the blood flow from his now missing left arm. A used bone saw sat at the end of the table and a surgeon stood leaning over the patient, meticulously tying fish mouth flaps across the man’s remaining stump.

“How is he?” Dr. Vickery asked as he approached the surgical table.

“Didn’t make it, sad to say,” responded the surgeon. “Lost too much blood between here and the accident site. Poor guy. Must have been drunk or deaf. All the engineer said was that the man was staggering along the tracks and didn’t even move when the horn blew. Next thing he knew, the man fell straight into the train.”

Dr. Vickery looked over the dead man and back at the surgeon. “If he’s dead, then what’re you doing?”

“Practicing…you know, for the next guy.”

“Practicing? That better not be silk thread you’re using, is it?”

“Calm down. Of course not…I’m using horsehair and just enough to sharpen my technique. Don’t worry. I won’t be long.”

Dr. Vickery looked up at James. “Well, son, it appears we rushed over here for no reason.” As James stood, Dr. Vickery gestured towards him to join them on the floor. “Want to get some practice passes in yourself?” he asked and then looking over at the surgeon, he added. “What do you think, Edward? Mind if my new friend shows off his skills?”

Edward continued stitching without looking up. “Depends. Who is your new friend?”

“James, introduce yourself to Dr. Rose.”

“My name is Dr. James McFarland. Arrived from Philadelphia earlier this week.”

“Philadelphia?” the surgeon said. “That city has one of the best medical schools in the country. What brought you down to swim in our muddy bayous?”

“His father, Dr. Robert McFarland, holds the surgical chair there.”

“Robert McFarland…oh, I see,” laughed Dr. Rose. “Then I sympathize. Well, of course. Come on down and show us what you’re made of.”

In several jumps, James hopped down the stairs and arrived at the table. He walked around the table, making a study of the body, and then paused. “Did I hear you say he was drunk?” he finally asked.

“That’s what they think.” Dr. Rose said, handing his needle and thread off to James.

James reached for the implements and began to sew twisted sutures in the area that Dr. Rose had just completed. “But if you don’t mind, did you smell alcohol on him?”

Dr. Rose shook his head “no” as he continued to watch James’ technique. Then after nodding at Dr. Vickery in approval, he added, “But you know, that doesn’t really mean anything. Some alcohols are hard to detect. Down here in New Orleans, that’s half the fun.”

“True,” James said with a smile. Then he paused and gestured down toward the dead man’s feet. “But look at his right ankle. See that anklet with the dime in it?”

“Yeah,” said Dr. Rose and Dr. Vickery in unison.

“Well, seeing that makes me think it’s more likely that he had a seizure.”

“How so?” asked Dr. Vickery.

“Back where I used to work in Philadelphia, one of the nurses I worked with was raised on a plantation. Knew all the folk treatments which was helpful from time to time. One time we had a patient up there that wore a dime tied around his ankle like this one and she said it meant the man was experiencing “spells” you might say.” James finished off his final stitch, leaned in to take a whiff of the dead man’s breath, inspected his tongue, and shook his head. “I don’t smell anything. You’d think you could pick up a slight smell of alcohol if he was all that drunk. And look at his tongue. He bit it near clear off.”

Dr. Rose and Dr. Vickery leaned over to inspect the patient’s mouth.

“He could have done that on impact,” said Dr. Rose.

“Again, you could be right,” James said. “But my guess...” James continued, patting the dead man on the leg. “My guess is this poor guy had some sort of fit out there along the tracks. Fell into a seizure, lost his balance, and pitched into the oncoming train. Didn’t know what hit him.”

Dr. Vickery eyed Dr. Rose and smiled. “Well,” he said with a loud clap. “A seizure. You know, James, in my book that’s a spot-on analysis, wouldn’t you say Edward?”

Edward shrugged his shoulders. “It’s possible.”

“It’s possible,” grumbled Dr. Vickery. Then turning to James, he added. “You will come to find that Dr. Rose, along with a number of the fine doctors here at Charity Hospital, are quite by the book. They’re not much interested in folk medicine. I myself, see things differently. You could say I’m the rebel around here.”

“Oh, you definitely could say that,” laughed Dr. Rose. “But a finer man you will never meet James.”

“You’re too kind, my friend,” Dr. Vickery said, gently slapping Dr. Rose on the back. “But anyway, back to the subject at hand. In my most humble estimation, this is excellent work, James,” he said with a wink. “I think you’ll do just fine here. Just fine. Now what can I do to help you get settled in?”

James paused, weighing the offer. Despite Marc’s generosity, he still needed his own clothes and a trip to the general store. “Well sir,” James said, his voice trepidatious. “Most of my money and clothes were stolen on the ship. A friend leant me these clothes, which are the only ones I have…” He paused and considered before continuing.

“Say no more,” interrupted Dr. Vickery. “I’ll make sure Hunt gives you an advance on your salary. He’ll agree to it…after all, he doesn’t want you showing up looking like a marauding buccaneer the first day of classes.”

Buccaneer? thought James as he looked down and regretted the laces on Marc’s vest. “Thank you…” he said sheepishly. “Thank you so much.”

“Not a problem…and here,” Dr. Vickery said, reaching into his wallet and handing James a ten dollar note. “This should get you started. And remember it’s racing season in New Orleans so that means you’ll need to get yourself a nice suit. There’s a tailor I use…I’ll take you there. Between the balls during Carnival and the racing season, every young man in New Orleans needs a good suit. And before next Friday, I might add. Next Friday the entire medical school will be attending to celebrate the start of the session. You’ll need to be there.”