Sawbones (3 page)

My portrait was underneath the headline. In it I stood stoically next to a table of medical instruments. I threw the paper on the sofa. “I always hated that photograph. Next time I am determined to smile.” I sighed. “Well, what now?”

“We get you out of town,” Camille said.

“With what? I have no money.”

“Yes, you do.” Maureen rummaged in the basket and pulled out a purple velvet bag.

“Oh!” I took the bag from her, opened it, and looked down on my mother's jewelry, the last connection I had to a woman I didn't remember. I'd done everything possible to keep from parting with the jewelry five years earlier when I had struggled to start my practice. Sentimentality was a luxury I couldn't afford now. “I hoped to never be desperate enough to part with these.”

“It don't get much more desperate than this,” Maureen said. She reached back into the bottom of the basket and pulled out a glass jar. “I also got the housekeeping money.”

“No, Maureen. You will need that.”

“If you think you're going off without me, you've got another think coming.”

My eyes burned. “You would do that?”

“Now don't you go to getting all sappy on me, Katie Girl. You know as well as I do that you wouldn't survive one day without me there to do all those things you never think of.” Maureen looked at Camille. “If her head hasn't been in a book, then her mind has been wandering off to I don't know where for as long as I can remember. Thinking about veins and organs and wasting diseases, most like. Though why any woman would want to think of those things is beyond my comprehension.”

“Mine as well,” Camille said as seriously as her subdued amusement would let her. “So, it is up to us to take charge, don't you think?”

Maureen eyed Camille. Despite her best efforts, Camille's easy demeanor and beauty won my devout Irish Catholic maid over.

Clutching the velvet bag to my chest, I turned to the window while the newfound friends made plans for my escape. Leaving New York. Starting a brand-new life out West. It was incomprehensible.

I thought of Beatrice Langton's daughter, Elizabeth, on her sick bed, of Mrs. Watson bedridden for the last three months of her pregnancy, of the drawer full of drawings from sick children I'd doctored, of little Edward Beechum, whose cast I would remove next week, of the women who thanked me profusely for merely listening and taking their problems seriously. How could I leave them? Who would take care of them?

“I cannot leave.”

“What? Why?” Camille replied.

“I have patients who need me.”

Camille picked up the discarded paper and held it up. The $500 reward jumped from the page. “Do you really think you will be able to help your patients from jail? The judge will make sure you rot in there,” she said with a great deal of bitterness. “Even if, by some miracle, you aren't thrown in jail, do you honestly think any of your other patients will stand by you? That the male doctors you've displaced won't crucify you in the press as well as the drawing rooms of Washington Square?”

All the energy left me. She was right. My career in New York City was over. My pang of remorse at abandoning my patients was pushed aside by Camille's next question.

“Catherine, how does Texas sound?”

Daunting. Terrifying. Remote.

“Perfect.”

“We will be on solid land soon.”

Maureen nodded and inhaled deeply in an effort to tamp down the nausea that had been constant since we sailed out of New York Harbor three weeks before. Her already thin frame had become frightfully gaunt; her face had been green for so long I had almost forgotten her normal rosy complexion. I put my hand over hers and squeezed.

Her eyes were glassy and distant, as if seeing events from the past instead of the thin strip of land sliding into view. The ever-present guilt that her misery was due to me blazed in my chest. I should have argued with more force against her coming, but her presence was so comforting I did not. Nor did I consider how traveling by sea would bring back memories of her journey from Ireland twenty-five years before, and the loss of her family on the voyage.

“We will stay in Galveston for a few days and let you recuperate. I will go to the apothecary when we land.”

“You won't. I'll be fine.”

Before I could reply, a sailor walked by, his pointed disinterest in us serving to magnify my suspicion. I bowed my head and hoped the thin veil covering my face was sufficient. Maureen's sickness, which had tied us to our cabin for the entire voyage, had been a blessing, though I was sure Maureen did not think so after vomiting for three days. I made sure the cabin boy who brought our food never got a clear view of my face.

Maureen lowered her voice and continued. “You stay away from the apothecary. Last thing you need is to bring attention to yourself.”

“I hardly think—”

“You agreed,” she said, with more force than I would have expected from her weakened state. “You're a midwife now, not a doctor. I know it's gonna chafe you something fierce, but you have to listen to me this one time. If not me, then Camille.”

They were correct. A midwife was commonplace. A female physician would turn heads, pique curiosity, and remind someone of the scandal that had rocked New York City weeks before. I feared the story had made the papers across the country, especially with the bounty on my head. Even if the story had not made the Galveston papers, from the number of ships in harbor, it had certainly traveled to this port and many others by sea.

I grasped Maureen's arm as we wobbled on sea legs down the pier, two sailors from our ship hauling our trunks a few steps behind. The aroma of grilled meats and roasting nuts made my mouth water and my stomach rumble in anticipation of a meal that did not subsist of thin soup and hard, coarse bread. The wharf was full of sailors, stevedores, businessmen, and street urchins selling peanuts and newspapers with one hand and stealing pocketbooks with the other. Even the foul smells of body odor, dead fish, and bird droppings could not diminish my hunger or the thrill of being around civilization once again.

We stopped in front of the wharf office. “Here is fine,” I said to the sailors. They loitered, waiting for a coin. I had paid the captain handsomely for the voyage, much more than I should have; by rights, he should pay the men. I could not risk their ire. I pulled two precious gold coins from my reticule and handed one to each. They tipped their hats and walked away.

“Wait here.” I leaned down, checked her forehead for fever, and whispered, “Hopefully James has sent good news.”

Inside, I asked the clerk, “Do you have a telegram for me? Maureen O'Reilly?”

“I'll check.”

I wandered over to a bulletin board covered with a thick layer of handbills for wanted men. Horse thieves, bank robbers, gunfighters, and outlaw gangs left little room for an adulterous murderer. If my poster had been on this wall, it had long since been covered. I was lifting up the corner of a bill to examine what was beneath when the clerk called me back. He handed me the telegram with a sad smile.

“You are so kind.” I walked to a quiet corner of the room, took a deep breath, and opened the telegram from James with a shaking hand.

Regret to inform you cousin Catherine has passed away STOP Body found by river three days after you left STOP Buried in family plot next to uncle STOP Safe journey STOP

I read the telegram three times before my knees gave way and I collapsed into the nearest chair.

Dead? I am dead? Who on earth did they find in the river? I visualized what the waterlogged, decomposed body must have looked like and shuddered. Did James identify an unknown woman as me so I would not always be glancing over my shoulder? I could never return to the East, or use my real name again, but it was a small price to pay for staying alive.

I was dead. They'd had my funeral. I wonder who had showed up, if anyone. Camille and her girls would have attended, as well as my other clients from Twenty-Seventh Street who would not believe me capable of murder or, if so, they would not think the less of me. I smiled as I envisioned my funeral attended only by whores. James had probably been appalled.

I returned to the clerk. “Could you point me in the direction of the customs house?”

The clerk's brows furrowed and his expression morphed from one of sympathy to suspicion. “What business do you have there?”

Not only had Camille arranged our last-minute voyage on a packet ship captained by a discreet regular of hers, but she had also given me the name of another client who would help me arrange the next leg of our journey. “No business. Just calling on an old friend.”

“Who?”

“Major Eric Gardner?”

The clerk's weak chin melted into his fleshy neck. “Your old friend sailed under guard for New York City yesterday morning.”

“Oh.” I dipped my head so the clerk could not get a good view of my face. “How unfortunate. What was the charge?”

“Corruption. Embezzlement. Typical Yankee carpetbagger, coming here and stealing from the Rebels.”

I smiled weakly. “Yes, well, thank you for your assistance,” I said, and left the office hurriedly.

The door closed behind me and I stared unseeingly at the wharf. There hadn't been time for Camille to plan our escape past “Take this ship to Galveston and call on Eric Gardner.” I turned toward the door again, thinking to cable Camille for advice, but stopped myself. I did not want to raise the clerk's suspicions any more than necessary. I was more than capable of taking control of my circumstances. How difficult could planning a journey be? First, we needed to decide where to go.

I glanced down the platform to where Maureen waited. Maureen stood as I walked toward her. “Well?”

I handed her the telegram and saw in her expression my shock from minutes before.

“Does this mean?”

“I'm dead? It would appear so.”

Maureen handed the telegram back, crossed herself, and remained silent.

“Come. Let's get some solid food in you and plan our future.”

Maureen and I made our way to the Lafitte Hotel, where we sat down to enjoy our first civilized meal in a month and to talk about what to do next.

“I've always wanted to see California,” Maureen said.

“California it is.” I didn't care where we went, and if Maureen wanted to see California, the least I could do is repay her loyalty with the privilege.

“We will stay here a few days to rest. I am not sure how to get to California from here.” I sipped my tea. “We may need to sail—”

“No. I'll not step on a boat again.”

“Of course.” I reached across and grasped Maureen's knobby hand. “Are you dizzy?”

She sighed. “Tha ground is still rocking.”

“Give it time. I will settle you in upstairs before I go find a jeweler. First, try to eat a bit more.”

Maureen nibbled on her toast. I leaned forward and whispered, “I need a new name.”

I grinned, excited with the prospect of taking on a new identity. It reminded me of the many personas my cousin Charlotte and I put on during my time living in England, each character more absurd than the last. “I was thinking Laura. Dr. Laura Elliston.”

Maureen knit her brows and lowered her eyes to her plate of barely touched food.

“What? You don't like it?”

Maureen placed her hand in her lap and sat silent.

“Maureen?”

“You said you'd be a midwife.”

“There's no worry now. Everyone thinks I'm dead.”

“And how many women doctors are there in the world? Not enough that you won't stand out.”

I waved my hand in dismissal. “I'll say I studied with a doctor in England who has since died. There is enough British in my accent to pass. I can accentuate it as well,” I demonstrated. “Or, I can say I'm from Ireland.” I mimicked her Irish brogue. “I could use your last name.” When she didn't appear convinced, I leaned forward over the table and spoke in my normal voice. “You've read in the papers how desperate towns in the West are for doctors. I doubt many will check my credentials.”

Maureen shook her head. “It ain't worth the risk, Katie Girl.”

“Laura.”

“If you're found out, they'll send you back to New York. You'll hang. I canna bear it.”

“I'm not going to get found out and I am
not
going to hang.” On the voyage from New York I decided I would never hang; I would do whatever necessary to end my life before it happened. I could not tell that to my devout Irish Catholic maid, though.

“Why take the chance when you can be a midwife just as well?”

I sat back in my chair. “I am a doctor, Maureen. A surgeon, and a damn fine one.” Maureen frowned, as I knew she would. “I worked hard to get where I am. I am
not
going to throw it away out of fear.”

Maureen shook her head and placed her napkin on the table beside her plate. The disappointment on her face fanned my anger. “What?” I said.

She leveled her eyes at me and laid on the guilt as only she could. “You dinna once mention helpin' people. It's only about you and your pride. I thought I taught you better, but I see I didn't.”

We stared at each other across the table, a familiar battle of wills for going on twenty-five years, ever since my mother died of a fever when I was five years old. Our young Irish maid had stepped in and raised me while my surgeon father filled the void his wife's death created by increasing his practice and creating a new medical school. Maureen had called me strong-willed and insolent more than once, and though she didn't understand my desire to be a doctor, she was proud of my accomplishments. At least, that is what I had always thought.

“Of course I want to help people, Maureen. Why do you think I work as hard as I do?”

Her lips were white from the effort to keep quiet. I almost laughed. “Go on. Say what you want.”

“I've said it before to no use. Wasting my breath.” She stood. “I'm going to rest on a stationary bed.” She stepped away from the table, and turned back.
“Laura.”

I rose as well, ignoring the sarcasm. Let her have her little fit. She would come around. “I am going to walk around the town and investigate passage to California. Overland passage.”

Ten minutes later, I walked down Galveston's main street with two pieces of my mother's jewelry to sell in my reticule. The sun shone and the salt-tinged air was crisp but not cold, a welcome relief from the blustery weather we left in New York. The smell of roasting nuts pulled me down to the corner of Twentieth and Strand. There, a fat man sold roasted pecans, which I was determined to buy until I saw the unkempt state of his apron and the dirt embedded in his nails. I politely refused and moved on.

A little farther on, an elderly Negro played a violin. A tattered bowler hat lay upside down in front of him, two dull coins struggling to contrast with the faded brown felt. I dropped a shiny penny in the hat with a smile. He nodded and thanked me without missing a beat.

I help people, I thought as I strolled along. Of course I want to help people, to heal. It was the definition of my job. What Maureen did not understand, or could not understand, was I was the sole arbiter of my success. I had no one to champion my abilities, to put me forward professionally. The few doctors who tolerated me thought it was promotion enough if they did not disparage me publicly for having the intelligence to excel in their profession and the temerity to try. My vanity and pride was seen as a character flaw, whereas the same attitude in my male colleagues was praised as confidence. Maureen, though she was proud of me, would have preferred I be more circumspect in my self-promotion and present a more ladylike attitude of modesty and submissiveness. Those particular attitudes had never taken with me, though I had tried.

A clump of people gathered on the wharf caught my eye. A portly, nattily dressed man stood on a barrel in the middle of the group delivering an oration that, from the impression of his audience, was at once appealing and suspicious. He was too well dressed to be a minister. A young woman stood next to the barrel, handing out waybills to whoever showed interest. I stepped closer to hear.

“It is, by far, the most picturesque spot for a town in all of the Colorado Territory! In the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, the water is plentiful. Game is abundant. The soil is perfect for farming.”

“Yeah, but what 'bout gold? There any gold in that there plentiful water?” The men gathered around laughed.

The orator smiled as if placating a child. No doubt, he'd heard the question before. “None has been discovered as of yet. But, you may be the first! A wagon train is leaving Austin next week, traveling north through Texas to the Colorado Territory. Lots will be sold on May fifteenth and June thirtieth.”

Most of the men shook their heads and walked off, murmuring about Indians. The speaker raised his voice and said, “We're traveling under the protection of the US Army, up the line of Western forts.”

An old man standing next to me said with a huff of disbelief, “Land promoters. Ain't no one gonna travel up through the Comancheria these days.” He spat on the ground and left.