The Apprenticeship of Lucas Whitaker (5 page)

The sky had cleared and a delicate white saucer of moon was rising. Jasper and Moses, eager now for a bucket of oats and the warmth of the barn, pulled the wagon swiftly through the night.

Lucas sat on the seat next to Doc, who was strangely quiet, showing none of what Lucas had already come to think of as his customary ebullience. There were many questions Lucas wanted to ask Doc about what had happened at the Stukeleys', but Doc's silence and the pensive expression on his face made Lucas hold his tongue.

“That cursed disease!” Doc's sudden, vehement cry rang out over the snow-crusted fields. Holding the reins with one hand, he shook a fist in the air. “Good Lord, when will we be led out of the darkness of our ignorance and
enlightened?
”

For a while, neither Lucas nor Doc spoke a word, and the steady clop-clopping of the horses' hooves was the only sound. Then Doc turned to Lucas and asked quietly, “Did you come to me because you aim to become a doctor yourself someday?”

“No,” Lucas answered truthfully. “I—I had nowhere else to go.”

“Fair enough,” said Doc. “If I recall correctly, you said you came from north of here. Had a farm there, did you say?”

Lucas nodded. Then, realizing Doc couldn't see him in the darkness, he replied, “Yes.”

“But you couldn't stay there…” Doc said.

“I couldn't—I didn't—” He struggled with the words in his head, trying to figure out how to explain to Doc how the house had felt. Not empty, exactly, but full…full of the absence of everything and everyone he loved.

“Couldn't stay on alone, manage a farm all by yourself, is that it?” Doc asked.

“Yes,” Lucas said. “After—after Mama died, I—couldn't see my way to stay.”

“What did she die from, lad?” Doc asked gently.

“Consumption,” Lucas said. “Same as what Sarah Stukeley has got. Same as what took my pa, and Lizy, and Uncle Asa, and maybe the babies, too, I don't know for sure.”

He was about to bring up the cure when Doc began to talk. “Lucas, lad, I went to medical college, did you know that?”

“No,” said Lucas.

“Oh, yes. I went to what many would call one of the finest institutions. We performed surgery. We did dissections. We learned to practice ‘heroic' medicine. We were taught that the body's fluids must be kept in balance. Sickness results from an imbalance of those fluids, we were told. Bad blood makes people sick, so we learned to bleed 'em, to get out the bad blood. We learned to bleed and blister and purge and puke our patients.”

Doc snorted derisively. “And when that didn't work, we were told to bleed, blister, purge, and puke 'em some more.

“And you want to know something, lad? Any one of us who's got an honest bone in his body will admit that, half the time, we haven't the foggiest notion what we're doing. We don't know why our patients get sick, and we don't know why they get well, if they do. And when they do, I'll swear it's often in spite of us. There are days—and today happens to be one of them—when I think that if all our so-called medical knowledge were to be thrown in the ocean, it would be better for mankind.” He added darkly, “And worse for the fishes.”

Lucas didn't know what to say, but his silence didn't seem to matter to Doc. It was as if the day's events and the dark night had opened up Doc's heart and he seemed to want—to need—to talk.

“Many of my fellow physicians look down their noses at the ‘quacks' who come around selling miracle cures and tonics from their wagons. They scorn the root doctors and granny women, like old Moll Garfield. Call them witches and worse.”

They were at that moment passing by Moll Garfield's small cabin. Doc lifted his hat in a salute as they rode by. “But in truth, Lucas, their treatments are often as helpful as any doctor could give. You've heard of smallpox, of course,” he said.

“Yes,” answered Lucas. “Mama and Pa both lost family to it.”

“A common experience,” said Doc. “And now smallpox is hardly ever heard of, thanks to the discovery of inoculation. But when Dr. Edward Jenner first tried the vaccine back in 1796, he was laughed at by his fellow physicians. Think of it, Lucas! Who could credit the idea that giving someone a very mild dose of a disease would protect him from becoming deathly ill with it!

“Yet it's no different, on the face of it, from Moll Garfield's remedy for dog bite. She'll tell you to take a few hairs from the dog that bit you and apply them to the wound in a plaster. And I'll not tell you she's wrong. There's wisdom in some of the old ways. True, some are plain silly, and others are downright harmful. The trouble is, we don't always know the difference.”

There was silence for several moments. Then Doc said in a low voice, “I was in Philadelphia in 1793 during the yellow-fever epidemic. Did you ever hear tell of it, lad?”

Lucas shook his head. “No.”

“Oh, Lucas, the city was a ghastly place to be in that summer. Ghastly. People were nearly paralyzed with fear of the ‘black vomit,' as they called it, myself included.

“I'll never forget the constant cry of the gravediggers ringing through the streets: ‘Bring out your dead. Bring out your dead.'”

In the pale moonlight, Lucas could see Doc brush his hand across his forehead, as if to sweep away the memory.

“I was your age, lad, and thinking about studying medicine, when that fever swept through the city. Killed one out of every ten people, it did. Then it disappeared just as mysteriously as it had come.

“There wasn't a doctor in the city who could do more than hide behind closed doors, praying that he and his loved ones would be spared.

“That experience was a valuable lesson to me, Lucas. It has prevented me, I hope, from becoming arrogant. But it left me with the desire to
know more
. To be able to
do more
.”

Doc Beecher turned to look at Lucas. Even in the dimness of moonlight reflected off snow, his eyes appeared to glow with the fervor of his words.

“I am humble before life's mysteries, Lucas. But I believe that we must try to learn and understand as much as we can, lad, if our being on this earth is to mean anything at all.”

The town of Southwick lay ahead, quiet and still in the late-winter evening. Candle-or lamplight gleamed from a few windows; most were dark. As Doc steered the wagon down the empty main street, he turned to Lucas with a wry smile. “I'm sorry, lad, for bending your ear, and you a captive here in the wagon with no hope of escape. But visits such as ours to the Stukeleys today make me feel useless. Helpless. And that makes me melancholy.

“I expect you know something about that.”

Tears sprang suddenly to Lucas's eyes. Useless. Helpless. Yes, he knew something about that. He was grateful for the darkness that hid his face.

The following morning Doc told Lucas to take the wagon over to Eben Oaks, the blacksmith, to have him look at the wheel.

“Tell him it was giving a bit of a wobble yesterday on the way out to the Stukeley place,” Doc advised.

When Lucas stepped into the shop, young Daniel Oaks was counting out nails for his father, and placing them in bags to be sold. At the sight of Lucas, his face broke into a smile. “'Lo, Lucas,” he said shyly.

“Hello yourself, Daniel,” answered Lucas. “How's the toothache?”

“Gone,” said Daniel, jumping up to give Lucas a look inside his mouth. The empty space looked much less red and swollen to Lucas. “Where's my tooth?”

“I gave it to an old man who didn't have any,” said Lucas.

“Did not!” Daniel laughed.

“I did. Mighty grateful he was, too. He said to give you this.” Lucas handed Daniel a twig several inches long. The end was splintered into bristles.

“What is it?” asked Daniel, wrinkling his nose in a frown.

“A tooth cleaner,” said Lucas. “I made it for you. Doc says if you use it, it'll keep your teeth from going bad.”

“Mama!” Daniel hollered excitedly, running out of the forge and into the house. “See what Lucas gave me!”

Lucas looked toward the man who had been busy heating a piece of metal in the forge. “Mr. Oaks?” he inquired.

“That's me,” said the man. “I already know who you are. Heard all about you from Daniel and the missus. Just a minute, and I'll have a look at that wheel of yours.”

Eben Oaks removed the red-hot piece of iron from the fire and, still holding it with his tongs, began to pound it on the anvil. Talking was impossible over the clanging of metal on metal, and Lucas was content to watch.

When Eben was satisfied with the shape, he dropped the horseshoe into a large tub of water to cool. There was a loud hiss when it hit the water.

Eben and Lucas walked out to the wagon. As Eben bent to examine the wheel, he said, “So, you're apprenticed to Doc Beecher.”

“Right,” said Lucas.

“You're lucky in that,” said Oaks, running his hand around the wheel's rim. He flashed Lucas a knowing look. “Even if it puts you at the mercy of Cora Bunce.”

Lucas shrugged. “She's not so bad, I guess.”

Oaks was removing the wheel. “It's not a new wheel you're needing,” he said. “I believe I can straighten this one up good as new.”

He placed the metal wheel rim on the anvil and began turning it, tapping it lightly as he went along. Curiously, he asked, “Is she as persnickety as folks say? Mrs. Bunce, I mean. Mrs. Oaks heard Cora holds the notion that folks ought to wash themselves—all over, mind you—every so many days!”

“She's persnickety about that, all right,” agreed Lucas.

“I say it's not natural,” said Eben with a shake of his head. “I said to Mrs. Oaks, I said, it's like rubbing a fish in dirt to set a person in water like that. And this time of year!”

Lucas smiled. Pa would have said “Amen” to that. He decided to ask Doc's opinion about bathing the next time he had the chance. He was very anxious to talk to Doc about the cure for consumption, also, and vowed to himself to do that soon.

With a final stroke of his hammer, Eben removed the wheel from the anvil, held it out at arm's length, and with one eye closed examined his work. Evidently satisfied, he started for the door.

As he attached the wheel to the axle, Eben said, “I had a hard time of it when I was your age. Apprenticed to the devil himself, I was. Old Milton Yale. He's dead and gone, with no one to miss him, I can assure you of that. When he wasn't pounding on the anvil, he was pounding on me.”

Lucas grimaced. He'd heard stories of masters who used their apprentices cruelly. He guessed Eben was right: it was luck that had brought him to Doc instead of to someone like Milton Yale.

“Now, you tell Doc that wheel ought to be good for a long while yet,” Eben said. “And thank you for your kindness to Daniel. Mrs. Oaks said you had a right healing way about you.”

As Lucas drove the wagon back to Doc's house, he repeated Eben Oaks's words to himself: “A right healing way about you.” He liked the way they sounded.

Lucas pulled the wagon up to the barn and was about to unhitch Jasper and Moses when Mrs. Bunce called from the doorway. “Leave the horses be, Lucas. Dr. Beecher's needed at Clem Buell's place. He's been waiting for you.”

She disappeared into the house, and Lucas guessed she was going to tell Doc Beecher he'd returned. He was curious, and eager to see what he and Doc would be doing next.

Doc came out then, his black bag in one hand, a wooden crutch in the other, and sat beside Lucas in the wagon. “You drive,” he said, and pointed the way.

“I'm afraid of what condition we'll find Buell in, Lucas,” he said. His face looked worried as he settled himself beneath the blanket. “He hurt the leg over two weeks ago and didn't send for me until now. His nephew Nat tells me it looks bad.”

Lucas urged the horses forward. “The wheel's fixed, Doc,” he said. “Mr. Oaks said you didn't need a new one. Said to tell you this one should last a while yet.”

“Eben's a good man,” Doc answered distractedly. “Honest as the day is long.”

“Yes, Doc,” said Lucas. He could see that Doc's thoughts were on Clem Buell, rather than on the wagon wheel. This was clearly not the time to discuss bathing or the cure or anything else with Doc. Keeping the horses at a lively trot, he waited until Doc pointed to a run-down shack on the edge of a large stretch of woods.

“That's Clem's place,” Doc said.

Lucas stared. The house that he had shared with his family was small, dark, and rustic compared to Doc Beecher's house in town, but Clem Buell's place was far cruder. Made from ill-fitting boards with no chinking between them, the walls leaned haphazardly under a wearily sagging roof. The door hung open, and the single small window held neither glass nor oiled paper, but was stuffed with what looked like an old hat. The filthy snow was littered with broken dishes and tools, bones, food scraps, and the emptied contents of the household's chamber pots.

Doc Beecher appeared not to notice. He eased out of the wagon seat, showed Lucas where to tie up the horses, and hurried into the shack. Lucas followed.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness inside. A large man lay on the floor on dirty blankets. Even in the dim light, Lucas could tell from the hollow planes of his face that all or most of his teeth were missing. His face showed several days' growth of whiskers. As Lucas looked closer, he could see the red flush of fever on the man's cheeks and the glazed look of his eyes.

Doc Beecher was kneeling at the man's side. “Clem?” he said loudly. “It's me, Doc Beecher. Can you hear me, Clem?”

Clem looked wildly about. “Lizbeth!” he cried. “Lizbeth! Lizbeth?” His voice faded and his eyes closed.

Doc leaned over to pull back the blanket. Lucas gasped when he saw the man's leg. It was swollen to at least twice its size, straining Clem's pants to near bursting.

A thin, nervous-looking man appeared in the doorway. Lucas guessed it was Clem's nephew when he said, “He didn't want no doctor is why I didn't come sooner. It was a tree fell on it. He was working alone, Doc. I didn't find him till the next day.”

“I understand, Nat,” said Doc. “You did right to come for me today. I'm going to have to take that leg off.”

Nat looked sick. “He'll be awful riled about that, Doc. He'll—there's no telling what he'll do.”

“He won't be saying or doing anything if I don't remove that leg,” said Doc firmly. “You can see how rotten it is. A few more days and it'll kill him.”

Nat turned away and slipped out the door.

“Leave that door open,” Doc called after him. He muttered something about the air being thick enough to cut with a knife. To Lucas he said, “Looks like we're on our own. Get a good hot fire going, and look around and see if there's any whiskey.”

As he built the fire, Lucas watched Doc remove from his bag a knife, a saw, a pair of tongs, a flat, metal plate with a handle on it, and a tin container. He handed the container to Lucas.

“Hang this tar near the fire to soften.” He clamped the tongs onto the metal plate and directed Lucas to place it so that the plate was directly in the hottest part of the flames. “You find any whiskey?”

Lucas handed Doc the jug.

“Get as much of that down his throat as you can,” Doc said. He began to cut away the leg of Clem's trousers.

It was difficult to get the delirious man to swallow the whiskey, but Lucas did his best. Doc reached over, took the jug, and gulped down a big swig for himself. Then he said, “Hold him, Lucas. Hold him hard. He's going to fight you, and I need you to keep him still. Keep giving him whiskey if he'll take it.”

Doc worked quickly and skillfully and soon the amputation was over. Lucas knew he'd not soon forget the sound of Clem's strangled cries, or of the saw working through bone, or the strength of the man's struggle. Doc went to the fire, grasped the tongs, and touched the red-hot metal plate to the place where Clem's leg now ended above the knee. Clem, mercifully, fainted.

Lucas felt himself grow dizzy, and everything in the room began to look far away and fuzzy. Doc caught him as he fell and held him up, handing him the whiskey jug. Lucas took a deep swallow, and the terrible burning of the liquid brought him, choking and spitting, to his senses.

“There's no shame in feeling lightheaded the first time, Lucas,” Doc said. “You're human, lad, not a chunk of stone.” He continued to talk, quietly and matter-of-factly, instructing Lucas about the procedure he had performed.

“I had to cauterize the wound, you see, to stop the bleeding. Now I'll seal off the leg with this tar, see?—like that—and, Lord willing, the putrefaction will stop and Clem will get well.”

Doc went to the door and called, “Nat? It's over. You can come in now.”

Lucas listened while Doc explained to Nat how to care for Clem. “Keep giving him whiskey for the pain. And boil this in water and make him drink the water. It should help with the delirium. Those blankets he's lying on are filthy. If you haven't any clean ones, stop by and I'll have Mrs. Bunce give you some. I've left the crutch for when he's up to walking, but I'll be back to see how he's doing before that time comes, I should imagine. You tell him I'll fix him up with a wooden leg as soon as he's ready.”

Nat had been staring fearfully at Clem the whole time Doc was talking. The man's agitation was so great that Lucas doubted he had heard a word Doc said. When Doc was finished, Nat kept repeating, “He's gon' be riled. He's gon' be awful riled, Doc.”

“I'll be back, Nat, to talk to him,” Doc assured the little man. “He'll be angry, no doubt about that. But it's his own confounded fault he let it go so long. The truth is, he's lucky to be alive, the stubborn old coot, and you can tell him I said so.”