Read Online The Better Angels of Our Nature by S. C. Gylanders - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: S. C. Gylanders
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around 400 B.C. and wrote an oath. ‘I will prescribe regimen for the good of my patients according to my ability and my judgment and never do any harm to anyone.’ To this day medical students have to recite that oath when they graduate.” Cartwright snatched the pen from the boy’s inky fingers and scratched, “First of all, do no harm” across the page. “You know what that means? It means if you can’t do any damn good then at least do no harm.” He tossed the pen onto the pristine page, spraying it with ink spots. “Mercurous chloride and blue mass rots away your insides. Tartar emetic? Even worse, take enough of it and you’ll shit your guts out in a bloody pile. Who knows what’s in half this stuff? Pour them into the Tennessee, that’s what I say and hang the bastards who peddle them. All we really need is morphine and opium for pain control, chloroform and ether for anesthetics, and quinine for fevers. And let’s not forget those universal cure-alls, those pathways to oblivion—the stimulants, God bless ’em—brandy, gin, rum, and my personal favorite, whiskey.”
He produced a small flat bottle from his hip pocket, removed the stopper, swallowed a mouthful, and announced with a grin, “Of inestimable value, to patient
and
surgeon. Most therapeutic. Guaranteed to restore the balance of bodily fluids and replace black bile with good humor.” He tapped himself on the shoulder. “Doctor, you are a genius, sir, I feel better already. Just two or three more doses of that invigorating tonic and I’ll be right as a four-dollar bill. See, alcohol sharpens my senses. Helps me focus and not that I have to explain myself to you, but just in case you’re wondering, I was off duty about three hours ago.” He laughed. “I’m lying. I won’t be off duty for another ten years. What do you think, Private Davis, since you’ve no doubt discussed this with your close personal friend General Sherman, is ten years about right for the duration of this madness?”
The boy wisely refrained from telling him that, only last evening, while hanging about outside the Ohioan’s tent, he had heard the general express a view that they were facing “a thirty years’ war.” Instead, he went back to his work, beginning a new page and carefully copying from the screwed-up, bloodstained sheets of loose paper Jacob had given him.
Barrels of old linen—20, Bedpans—32, Blankets—106, Crutches—120 pairs, Splinting/Dressing plaster—10 rolls, stockings, shirts cotton, shirts woolen, bed ticks, pillows, tin cups—
“Coffins.” Cartwright tapped the page belligerently. “Don’t forget the coffins. We can never get enough coffins. Order enough for the entire army! We’ll need ’em all.” Cartwright ceased his haranguing and stared at the boy’s full mouth and at that funny-shaped nose, dusted with freckles that spilled out across his too-smooth cheeks. Something about the boy, his quiet dignity, his refusal to be drawn into an argument, needled and irritated him. No one
that
young should be that self-contained, that self-confident, it was—well, it was unnerving, that’s what it was, and brought out the worst in him. He leaned over the table, purposely obscuring the list of items that were to be transferred from paper to ledger.
“I don’t know why Jacob’s taken such a liking to you. In my opinion you’re too damn clever for a farm boy.”
“I never said I was a farm boy.”
“No, you never said anything. You just turn up here one day, no company, no regiment, and old Jacob just accepts you like some long-lost little brother. Cornelius thinks you’re a Rebel spy.” Cartwright was smiling that twisted smile.
The boy answered with a tolerant smile of his own as the surgeon picked up one of his small hands and examined it. “Soft. You’re well educated. Maybe you’re from some Quaker community? No, you don’t talk all thees and thous—” He opened his medical case and began to check the contents
He produced a small flat bottle from his hip pocket, removed the stopper, swallowed a mouthful, and announced with a grin, “Of inestimable value, to patient
and
surgeon. Most therapeutic. Guaranteed to restore the balance of bodily fluids and replace black bile with good humor.” He tapped himself on the shoulder. “Doctor, you are a genius, sir, I feel better already. Just two or three more doses of that invigorating tonic and I’ll be right as a four-dollar bill. See, alcohol sharpens my senses. Helps me focus and not that I have to explain myself to you, but just in case you’re wondering, I was off duty about three hours ago.” He laughed. “I’m lying. I won’t be off duty for another ten years. What do you think, Private Davis, since you’ve no doubt discussed this with your close personal friend General Sherman, is ten years about right for the duration of this madness?”
The boy wisely refrained from telling him that, only last evening, while hanging about outside the Ohioan’s tent, he had heard the general express a view that they were facing “a thirty years’ war.” Instead, he went back to his work, beginning a new page and carefully copying from the screwed-up, bloodstained sheets of loose paper Jacob had given him.
Barrels of old linen—20, Bedpans—32, Blankets—106, Crutches—120 pairs, Splinting/Dressing plaster—10 rolls, stockings, shirts cotton, shirts woolen, bed ticks, pillows, tin cups—
“Coffins.” Cartwright tapped the page belligerently. “Don’t forget the coffins. We can never get enough coffins. Order enough for the entire army! We’ll need ’em all.” Cartwright ceased his haranguing and stared at the boy’s full mouth and at that funny-shaped nose, dusted with freckles that spilled out across his too-smooth cheeks. Something about the boy, his quiet dignity, his refusal to be drawn into an argument, needled and irritated him. No one
that
young should be that self-contained, that self-confident, it was—well, it was unnerving, that’s what it was, and brought out the worst in him. He leaned over the table, purposely obscuring the list of items that were to be transferred from paper to ledger.
“I don’t know why Jacob’s taken such a liking to you. In my opinion you’re too damn clever for a farm boy.”
“I never said I was a farm boy.”
“No, you never said anything. You just turn up here one day, no company, no regiment, and old Jacob just accepts you like some long-lost little brother. Cornelius thinks you’re a Rebel spy.” Cartwright was smiling that twisted smile.
The boy answered with a tolerant smile of his own as the surgeon picked up one of his small hands and examined it. “Soft. You’re well educated. Maybe you’re from some Quaker community? No, you don’t talk all thees and thous—” He opened his medical case and began to check the contents
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