Read Online Die Once Live Twice by Lawrence Dorr - Free Book Online
Authors: Lawrence Dorr
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then with rope and finally with plaster around the rope and linen. The ends of the rope were extended beyond Patrick’s foot and tied to a hook on which weights were hung to pull on the leg. The assembly, known as Buck’s traction, gave some stability to the broken bone fragments and helped hold the leg still.
Franklin spit out bits of tobacco. “Now we’ll see if God likes this arrogant asshole.”
Chapter Six
THE GENERAL AND THE CAPTAIN
A fter escaping the Union ambush, General Stonewall Jackson and his soldiers, galloping toward rebel lines, had surprised some North Carolina infantrymen, who could not identify the riders in the darkness and opened fire. Jackson instinctively turned toward the fire and raised both hands, palms outward. Each hand took a ball in the palm, but the truly devastating injury was a ball to his left arm, which fractured his humerus bone and severed an artery. Jackson tried desperately to stay atop his horse, but fell from his saddle into the arms of his junior officer, who broke his fall. The officer took off his own shirt, ripped it apart, and tied a tourniquet to staunch the heavy bleeding from Jackson’s arm.
Jackson was carried on a litter to a horse-drawn wagon, which bore him two miles to a farmhouse that had been converted to a field hospital. Doctor Hunter McGuire, chief surgeon of Jackson’s Second Corps, was waiting there for Jackson. The twenty-seven year-old surgeon stood tall at six-feet two-inches, with kind eyes that nonetheless had an intense gaze. His hair was thick and dark and he wore a full moustache. McGuire had saved Jackson’s finger after the first battle of Manassas.
McGuire knew immediately that Jackson’s only hope for survival was amputation of his injured left arm. The right hand might be of little use in the future, but it could be saved. He ordered the field medics to move Jackson straight to the kitchen, which served as the operating room. The kitchen door had been removed from its hinges and set between two tables to function as the operating table. It was night, so four medics surrounded the table, holding lanterns to illuminate the area where the surgeon worked. There were but three or four tools and no antiseptic for them or the wound. There were only two sources of hope for any operation: the surgeon’s skill and God.
McGuire spoke to Jackson before administering the ether. “General, can you hear me?” Jackson nodded. “Your bone was shattered by the musket ball and the artery is severed. Your skin has also been severely torn. I’m going to have to amputate your arm.” Jackson slowly shook his head no. “Sir, you will quickly develop gangrene of your arm if I don’t. I’m terribly sorry, but I have no choice. We have to work fast, so we’re going to start getting you ready. General, can you still hear me? We are going to place a cloth over your face.”
“Do for me whatever you think best,” Jackson assented. “I am sure that my faith will keep me safe. Only God will decide when I am to die.” He closed his eyes to pray as ether was dripped onto a cloth over his mouth and nose. “What an infinite blessing!” Jackson said as the anesthesia began to relieve the acute pain. He repeated the word “blessing” until he was unconscious.
McGuire moved skillfully to remove the arm, assisted by two dressers named Judah and Thomas. His instruments were kept in boiling water while he positioned a tourniquet strap as high on the arm as possible and ratcheted its metal clamp tight to compress the blood vessels. He wore no mask, no gloves, and no special clothes. His bloodsoaked apron was worn to protect his uniform.
Jackson’s injury lay at two-thirds the distance between his shoulder and his elbow. “Judah,” McGuire said, “bend the elbow to relax the biceps muscle,” which would help him control the level of his cuts. Judah chomped down hard on his cigar as he concentrated on his task. McGuire cut the skin and fat circumferentially
Franklin spit out bits of tobacco. “Now we’ll see if God likes this arrogant asshole.”
Chapter Six
THE GENERAL AND THE CAPTAIN
A fter escaping the Union ambush, General Stonewall Jackson and his soldiers, galloping toward rebel lines, had surprised some North Carolina infantrymen, who could not identify the riders in the darkness and opened fire. Jackson instinctively turned toward the fire and raised both hands, palms outward. Each hand took a ball in the palm, but the truly devastating injury was a ball to his left arm, which fractured his humerus bone and severed an artery. Jackson tried desperately to stay atop his horse, but fell from his saddle into the arms of his junior officer, who broke his fall. The officer took off his own shirt, ripped it apart, and tied a tourniquet to staunch the heavy bleeding from Jackson’s arm.
Jackson was carried on a litter to a horse-drawn wagon, which bore him two miles to a farmhouse that had been converted to a field hospital. Doctor Hunter McGuire, chief surgeon of Jackson’s Second Corps, was waiting there for Jackson. The twenty-seven year-old surgeon stood tall at six-feet two-inches, with kind eyes that nonetheless had an intense gaze. His hair was thick and dark and he wore a full moustache. McGuire had saved Jackson’s finger after the first battle of Manassas.
McGuire knew immediately that Jackson’s only hope for survival was amputation of his injured left arm. The right hand might be of little use in the future, but it could be saved. He ordered the field medics to move Jackson straight to the kitchen, which served as the operating room. The kitchen door had been removed from its hinges and set between two tables to function as the operating table. It was night, so four medics surrounded the table, holding lanterns to illuminate the area where the surgeon worked. There were but three or four tools and no antiseptic for them or the wound. There were only two sources of hope for any operation: the surgeon’s skill and God.
McGuire spoke to Jackson before administering the ether. “General, can you hear me?” Jackson nodded. “Your bone was shattered by the musket ball and the artery is severed. Your skin has also been severely torn. I’m going to have to amputate your arm.” Jackson slowly shook his head no. “Sir, you will quickly develop gangrene of your arm if I don’t. I’m terribly sorry, but I have no choice. We have to work fast, so we’re going to start getting you ready. General, can you still hear me? We are going to place a cloth over your face.”
“Do for me whatever you think best,” Jackson assented. “I am sure that my faith will keep me safe. Only God will decide when I am to die.” He closed his eyes to pray as ether was dripped onto a cloth over his mouth and nose. “What an infinite blessing!” Jackson said as the anesthesia began to relieve the acute pain. He repeated the word “blessing” until he was unconscious.
McGuire moved skillfully to remove the arm, assisted by two dressers named Judah and Thomas. His instruments were kept in boiling water while he positioned a tourniquet strap as high on the arm as possible and ratcheted its metal clamp tight to compress the blood vessels. He wore no mask, no gloves, and no special clothes. His bloodsoaked apron was worn to protect his uniform.
Jackson’s injury lay at two-thirds the distance between his shoulder and his elbow. “Judah,” McGuire said, “bend the elbow to relax the biceps muscle,” which would help him control the level of his cuts. Judah chomped down hard on his cigar as he concentrated on his task. McGuire cut the skin and fat circumferentially
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