Pearl River

CHAPTER 1: PARIS, 1814

The last grating pull of the bone saw severed the leg and it fell to the table with a dull fleshy thud. There was no tourniquet to stanch the flow, yet there was only a trickle of blood from the artery; and that trickle was almost black, not bright red. The man was already dead.

Artery clamped, the surgeon tied it off quickly, and the amputation was complete. It had taken less time than lighting the candles in the candelabras that shed their flickering light on the lifeless corpse. The assistant lowered the stump to the table and picked up the other pale skinny leg. Encircled in one slashing sweep of the long blade, followed by the rapid strokes of the saw through tibia and fibula, the second lower leg and foot flopped to the table even faster than the first. Wordlessly, the assistant held up first one knee then the other while the surgeon swiftly amputated both at mid-thigh. Though no bright spurts of red indicated their locations, arteries were unerringly isolated, clamped and ligated.

The pair moved to the upper torso of the body and completed their grisly task by amputating both forearms, then both upper arms in rapid succession. Except for the obvious swift skills exhibited by the surgeon and his assistant, the now dismembered cadaver might have been better described as being butchered, rather than suffering multiple amputations.

The surgeon beckoned to a man standing in the shadows outside the circle of candle light about the table. The two lowered the corpse into a wooden coffin on the floor, then added the amputated limbs in appropriate positions. The coffin was of standard size, though the occupant could have at that point been accommodated by a much smaller box. The surgeon and his helper hefted the coffin, and the surgical assistant held the door while they carried their burden to a waiting two-wheeled horse-drawn cart standing in the cobblestoned street a few steps away.

The man helping the surgeon to load the coffin onto the cart then mounted to the driver's seat and slapped the reins on the horse's rump. The cart moved slowly away. Grating wheels on cobblestones and clopping iron-shod hooves broke the silence of late night. The dead man had lately been resident in a Paris alms house and was now en route to a potter's field - following a brief stopover at the dissecting table.

The assistant was drying his hands on a towel, and stepped aside for the surgeon to wash at the basin. The man was hardly to be described as an assistant, though, for he was merely acting as such. He was the renowned surgeon, Guillaume Dupuytren, and he was the mentor for one Glenn Buchanan, the surgeon who had just expertly dismembered the corpse.

That was nice work, Dr. Buchanan, Dupuytren spoke English to his American protege.

Thank you, sir.

You located the vessels quickly, just as you must when there is a tourniquet with no spurt of wasted blood - and your patient's screams fill your ears.

The previous dissections of the complete course of the arteries made it simple to know where to look.

Long hours at the dissecting table had culminated in the exercise of the evening, somewhat of a dress rehearsal for the amputations that Glenn would be performing on patients rather than cadavers. He had been assisting Dupuytren at all types of surgical procedures, but practice on unfeeling corpses was de rigueur prior to operating on live patients. Even though Glenn would be performing surgery on the less fortunate charity patients of the city, Dupuytren wanted no part of a botched job by any of his apprentices.

The amputations had prompted Glenn to think back to his childhood on the family plantation in Virginia, when his beagle puppy had been run over by a wagon and suffered a broken leg. My first medical experience was to splint my puppy's broken leg, he said to Dupuytren. My father recognized my bent for the healing art at that early age and encouraged me to study medicine.

Your father has great insight in recognizing your talent.

Yes, I've been very fortunate to have his support in my pursuit of learning the art of medicine, and even more fortunate to be able to be apprenticed to you in surgery.

Dupuytren's skill as a surgeon was known throughout Europe and America. The man was a hard taskmaster. Compliments such as that just received were rarely bestowed, so that Glenn felt the long hours spent on anatomical dissection had been of great value. He was prepared to perform amputations at any level.

Glenn transferred lighted candles into two small lanterns, and blew out the remainder. Dupuytren locked the door as they departed. Two small circles of light shone about the feet of the men as they walked to the waiting carriage. The driver awoke with a jump when Dupuytren held his lantern up to the man's face and shook his leg.

Messieurs! the startled man croaked hoarsely, embarrassed that he had fallen asleep during his late night vigil. He scrambled down from his perch and opened the door to the carriage for the two men. Having boarded his passengers, he climbed back to his seat and urged his horse into motion.

Dupuytren was snoring even before the carriage had reached Glenn's lodging. To be able to sleep soundly at a moment's invitation was the mark of a surgeon accustomed to attending his patients at odd hours. Glenn eased out of the carriage without awakening him. Barring some call to care for the living - or dying - their evening working hours were over. He waved the driver on, walked up the short flight of steps and entered the house.

There had been the usual busy day at the hospital followed by house calls and finally the acquisition of the cadaver late in the evening. The lateness of the hour had been no deterrent to Dupuytren's attendance at Glenn's demonstration of his skill at amputations. Sleep awaited opportunity, not habit. Candle light had added to the difficulty of the accomplishment, but all had gone well. Glenn stripped off his clothes, extinguished his candle and fell into bed.

The next morning when he arose, he saw an envelope lying on the floor where it had evidently been slipped under the door by a messenger. He must have overlooked it in the darkness upon his return the evening before. Recognizing his mother's handwriting as he picked it up, he eagerly broke the seal, unfolded the letter, and began to read.

My dearest son, the letter began, It is with the deepest sadness that I write to you the news of your father's death in the futile defense against the burning of the Capitol by the British.

Glenn read the sentence again. It couldn't be true. Yet there it was in his mother's own writing. He read it again and again. He sat down on his bed and tried to read the rest of the letter, but none of the remainder would register in his brain. So that each time he attempted to read further, he returned to that opening sentence. His father was dead at the hands of the British.

Glenn's grandfather had been lost at Valley Forge and an adventurous uncle even earlier at Brandywine. Thus he already had ample reason to hate the British. The tears of sadness that welled up into his eyes over the loss of his father soon changed into tears of rage. After the initial shock of the news had subsided, his mounting fury had ultimately cooled into a carefully planned determination to return to vent his anger in fighting against this renewed attempt at British oppression.

Glenn hated to leave Dupuytren and Paris. For as Glenn's skills had accumulated, his teacher had become more reliant on him and allowed his protege to provide the postoperative care not only for the charity patients but for a number of the more affluent clientele as well. Some of the elderly women were particularly taken by the handsome young American, and were delighted to have him call to attend them. Dupuytren had been equally pleased to be able to parcel out some of his work to a man in whom he by then had the utmost confidence - confidence to perform a task, and to know at once when to summon the master instead.

Thus it was with much regret that Glenn sought out Dupuytren to tell him of his decision to return to America. You know that you have hardly completed your apprenticeship, Dupuytren had observed rather sternly upon hearing the news.

I realize that, sir. I beg your forgiveness, and I hope to repay you some way - perhaps by returning to Paris to work with you again after this war is over. I do want to learn more from you and to serve you longer for your kindness in teaching me your skills. For now, though, I feel compelled to return.

What is your plan?

I'll return to offer my services to the military in defense of my country. I feel that I owe it to my father. I'm sure that my brother will be taking care of our mother and our home. I feel that I have to do something to avenge our father's death.

I can understand your feelings, though I dislike the idea of your leaving. I would press you to remain, but I can hardly argue against putting your skills to use in a venture that seems so compelling to you. Perhaps you will return. I would welcome it.

Glenn's services were of no mean value to an army in the field. He was now qualified as both physician and surgeon, with his training in medicine having been polished by the acquisition of swift surgical skills. Glenn had learned those skills so especially valuable to a military campaign from a world-renowned surgeon. He was ready to return home to join in a military action of vital personal concern.

Well-advised military friends in Paris had word of a gathering British fleet known to be soon setting sail for New Orleans. They suggested that a British attack on New Orleans would probably result in the most important campaign of the war. Glenn had therefore decided that this was where his services would best be put to use.

There had been softer-voiced pleadings from other lips for him to remain - lips silenced by the firm yet tender touch of his own. Neither her pleadings nor her tears, nor yet the warmth of her body had been able to dissuade him from his determination to leave Paris for America.

CHAPTER 2: RETURN TO AMERICA

Since he planned to sail directly to New Orleans, the major problem had been to secure passage to that city, which in all likelihood would soon be blockaded by British ships. Finally he had located a Spanish ship in Le Havre bound for Mexico and had persuaded its captain to put him ashore at the Mississippi River. The trip had been uneventful aside from the inevitable bout of seasickness he had suffered almost as soon as the small ship had put to sea. As he was beginning to recover on the following morning, an unexpected squall had sent him back into his bunk. With clearing weather, he had rapidly recovered and gained his sea legs. The cool sea breeze and fresh salt spray had cleared his nostrils of the last remnants of the dissecting room stench, and he had relaxed from the strain of intensive study.

Part of his time at sea had been spent carefully sorting out what he would take with him, since it would be limited to what he could carry. Foremost was a beautiful walnut case bearing a silver plate engraved, To G. Buchanan from G. Dupuytren. Inside the green velvet-lined case were fitted a set of bone saws and amputation knives with long straight blades of finest steel. Next had come a set of smaller surgical instruments - sounds, probes, clamps, scalpels - and the usual medicinals. A pair of muzzle-loading pistols, change of clothing, a blanket, and food from the ship's stores completed his pack. He smiled as he discarded a burgundy velvet jacket with matching trousers along with lace-trimmed silk shirts and fine silk hose. He would hardly have use for such as these where he was going. He presented the clothing to the chef in the galley who had helped him with his food supply. Manuel, these are for you.

Gracias, Senor, he replied, Uno momento. and he held up both hands motioning Glenn to wait, then disappeared into the galley. Grinning broadly, he returned with a dirk of Toledo steel, the handle of which was inlaid with gold and silver wire hand-hammered almost as smooth as the shining blade itself. This would no doubt be an item of considerably greater utility.

Brief stops in the West Indies and at St. Petersburg for fresh food and water had yielded no information on either British or American activity except to confirm General Jackson's crushing defeat of the Creek Indians.

The Spanish sailor that had rowed the dinghy to put him ashore had shaken his head in disbelief that anyone alone would attempt to follow the Mississippi river on foot to New Orleans. His dripping oars poised, he had watched Glenn flounder the first few faltering steps. You no go back weeth me, Senor Glenn? he called.

Glenn shook his head, No, I'll be fine. Good luck in Mexico!

He had refused this final chance to return to the ship; just as had the ship captain resolutely refused even to enter the mouth of the river, anchoring well off this easternmost outlet and sending him hurriedly ashore. The sailors' fear of expected British gunboats was evident in their haste to send additional lookouts into the topmost rigging, and was further reflected in the faces of the remaining crew members gathered muttering at the rail to watch his departure. Dispensation to put him ashore at all had been granted as a detour from their Mexican destination only as the result of expensive bargaining at Le Havre, almost six weeks ago.

He had felt more than a little uneasiness as the sails billowed out almost before the oarsman had pulled alongside. And the feeling had been intensified by the sinking of the fading pennant from view, when he fully realized that he was alone in unfamiliar hostile surroundings. He had been born and reared in Virginia tobacco country, though, and the conditions he knew from hunting and fishing along the James River could not be so different from those along the Mississippi. His main concern, therefore, had not been fear of timeless natural enemies of man, but of his lack of knowledge of the deployment of British pickets. Of course he was still a long way from New Orleans and there was little need to be concerned about the British at this point.

CHAPTER 3: HOSTILE COUNTRY

He pushed aside a low-hanging sweet gum bough and looked ahead toward the next shallow slough blocking his path. At least this one had a convenient half-submerged log lying diagonally across it, almost bridging its narrowest undulation, so that he could probably jump to the far edge and not sink knee-deep in the sour muck. He only cared to avoid the heavy pull of the sucking mire on his legs, for his caked figure would hardly show the effect of one more mud bath. Taking a hitch at the strap of his pack, he paused momentarily to glance down at the gray mud plastered from hips to toes - lighter in the drier areas above, and progressively darker down to his feet. His leather knee boots were unrecognizable as such, his legs merely giving the impression that something besides mud must be clasping his trousers so tightly about his calves.

As he began to lift a black mud boot to move forward again - he actually hadn't yet shifted his position, but had only commanded an aching thigh to lift a leaden foot - a movement ahead caused him to pause. Sauntering daintily on tiny paws, a fat ring-tailed black-masked raccoon silently appeared from behind a cypress tree and maneuvered between its knob-like knees, apparently intending also to cross the slough by way of the natural log bridge. Unaware of the human observer, it suddenly halted at water's edge to slap quickly at a retreating crayfish, and brought up both forepaws clutching the wriggling crustacean. The death of the crayfish in giving that moment's pause, meant life to its furry captor, for simultaneously with the splash of its capture, the log not three feet away underwent a sinister metamorphosis. The pair of knots at water level near the end toward the raccoon slowly opened to expose slit-like black pupils haloed by bloodshot red eyes - eyes that appeared hung over from some pre-Jurassic reptilian debauch that had left only a few vicious survivors in this mammalian era. As soon as the leathery eyelids had opened, massive jaws erupted in one slashing, snapping lunge toward the raccoon's head, and the balancing swoosh of tail sent muddy droplets across the slough to daub dripping gray blobs on the dark green leaves of the sweet gum branch still in the hand of the now stunned onlooker.

Ragged rows of teeth clamped shut on dripping air, for the intended victim, in a furry blur, had nimbly hopped back a few inches and turned aside. This seemed even more remarkable in that he still grasped the crayfish, which with widely-stretched claws now clamped them shut onto a forepaw. The reflex jump of the raccoon in response to this event was almost comical in view of the major disaster he had just avoided. A quick nip of sharp teeth dispatched the crayfish. The executioner felt no remorse in thus ending the existence of its unwitting savior, probably the only specimen of natural food from which it had benefited other than nutritionally. The raccoon then blithely waddled a few feet down the slough to begin ritually washing the still dripping crayfish before it became his late afternoon meal.

With appetite undisturbed by his narrow escape literally from the jaws of death, the raccoon seemed to take for granted this precarious swamp existence into which he had been born. But the alligator was no live-let-live type and came charging heavily down the slough to slash snapping green teeth in reiteration of his claim to this particular dank puddle as a private domain. This time the raccoon backed easily away wearing what appeared to Glenn to be an almost human expression of disdain that his lumbering adversary should expect to score a blow now lacking the element of surprise. So to avoid this poor loser, the raccoon moved several yards down the slough but was again chased away. He repeated this episode again and again as if intentionally tantalizing his reptilian adversary into a frenzy of thrashing hate. When the water had become a sea of leaf-strewn boiling gray mud, he finally moved away from the slough. Sitting back on his haunches, he deftly peeled and ate the still unwashed crayfish tail and tossed the head and claws aside. After licking his paws, he ambled away. Watching his departure, the alligator showed his rage only by a slight twitch of the last foot of his armored tail and snorts of muddy spray from dilated nostrils.

Glenn felt the sweat of his palm against the butt of the pistol tucked under his belt where his hand had reflexly been drawn at the onset of this swampy drama. He released his grip, realizing that the whole episode had played itself out without benefit of human interference. He wondered, though, if the outcome would have been the same in his own case, had he stepped upon the alligator's lethal snout still thinking it a log. Even managing to kill his assailant in such an encounter, an ordinarily trivial wound might mean the end of a man alone in this God-forsaken country.

He finally began to walk again, this time altering his course to parallel the slough for many yards before turning again to find that he had outflanked it and avoided wading after all. One last look at that saurian monster was enough to impress on his memory forever that alligators didn't grow to be twelve feet long by missing every meal. Whereupon he resolved to scrutinize each log in the future for spiny bark and knots that were eyes foretelling doom for the unwary.

He quickened his pace, noticing the sun falling lower to his left as he headed steadily northward. As he threaded his way through limber hardwood saplings, overhead flights of lazily-flapping white waterfowl went unnoticed as did the rat-raaat-tat of a woodpecker on a tall dead tree trunk. He was in his second day of traveling afoot, and hoped to reach higher ground to avoid another miserable night on a small hillock surrounded by marsh grass. He had spent most of that first night fanning away swarms of mosquitoes and listening to the nearby rustling of unseen intruders crawling onto what must have been the only wholly dry ten square feet in the entire Mississippi tide flat. Actually, he was making better progress than he had anticipated, in that he had expected the marsh to have extended farther inland than a day's walk.

Now walking up the river, Glenn looked west, where the sun had dropped below the taller tree tops, producing splotches of denser shade that made the late fall warmth less uncomfortable. He plowed through a narrow cane break and moved again into the open.

His first step beyond the cane was cushioned by something soft. He perceived the movement of that cushion simultaneously with the dull thud against his leg. A rusty brown moccasin as large around as a man's wrist was clamped to his right calf, its blunt tail wriggling beneath his boot.

Grasping the snake behind its head with his left hand, he ripped it loose, instinctively drawing the pistol from his belt with his free hand. The ball exploded through gaping white jaws to pulverize its brain. He loosened the coils from about his wrist, and cast it aside still writhing. In spite of his sudden dryness of mouth, he managed to swallow, but failed to dislodge his pounding heart, thinking:

God! What a way to die! The throbbing blue-white swelling creeping up your leg until the poison enters your blood to surge throughout your body numbing all but the searing pain; and chaining you to that circle of mud to fell your carcass over that of the blind headless viper whose spattered blood would mix with yours as the earth reclaimed its dust.

But his trembling fingers beneath the boot top failed to show blood, and there was no pain to their pressure. As he quickly pulled the boot from his foot, he saw a hollow fang protruding where the dark wetness of the venom dripped down the outside of the boot. Realizing that the strike had failed to penetrate, he felt a wave of relief followed by weakness and nausea, so that he looked away in disgust from his dead adversary.

Now he realized also that his hasty shot had been unnecessary; he could have crushed the cotton-mouth's head under his heel. His mind still heard the ringing echo of the report as a blatant announcement of his presence, though the actual sound had long since subsided. Hastily reloading his pistol, he pulled his boot back on and stood erect, listening. There