“We came as soon as we heard, Matthew,” Cochran replied. Behind them were Drs. Shippen and Rush, followed by an anxious flock of aides who usually didn’t leave General Washington’s side.
“Where is he?” Dr. Shippen demanded in panic, his nearsighted eyes scanning the darkened room. There were two things on which you could rely with Dr. Shippen: He always chose the most aggressive course of treatment even if it killed the patient, and he never had his spectacles with him.
“At your feet,” de Clermont said. “Sir.”
“That boy needs both legs taken off,” Dr. Rush said, pointing at the Virginian. “Do we have a saw?”
“There are less barbaric alternatives.” De Clermont’s expression darkened.
“Perhaps this is not the best time to discuss them,” Dr. Cochran warned. But it was too late.
“We are in the midst of battle!” Dr. Rush exclaimed. “We must take the legs now or we can wait and take them after gangrene has set in and the flesh is putrefied. In either case, the patient is not likely to live.”
“How do you know? You haven’t even examined him!” de Clermont retorted.
“Are you a surgeon, sir?” Dr. Shippen demanded. “I was not informed that monsieur the marquis was traveling with his own medical staff.”
Marcus knew that when doctors fell out over cures, the patients were forgotten. For the moment, at least, Norman’s legs were safe. While the rest of them argued, he could at least uncover the Marquis de Lafayette’s wound.
“I know my way around a human body,” de Clermont said evenly in his perfect English. “And I’ve read Hunter. Amputation in battlefield settings is not necessarily the best course of treatment.”
“Hunter! You overstep yourself, sir!” Shippen exclaimed. “Dr. Otto is extremely fast. The Virginian may well survive the operation.”
Marcus examined the marquis’s boot. Its leather was soft and pliable, not tough and weather hardened. That would make it much easier to cut through—though it would be a shame to ruin such a fine item of footwear in this army, where so many went poorly shod.
“Here.” The man called Pierre held out a small knife.
Marcus glanced around. Other than this French orderly, no one was paying him any notice. Dr. Cochran was trying to soothe Dr. Shippen, who was threatening to throw de Clermont out of the house for impudence. The chevalier had switched to Latin—at least Marcus was fairly sure it was Latin, since Dr. Otto and Dr. Cochran often conversed in the language when they didn’t want their patients to understand what they were saying—and was probably continuing his lecture on Hunter’s reluctance to amputate. One of the aides was staring at de Clermont with open admiration. Dr. Otto spoke in low tones to Dr. Frederick, who disappeared into the kitchen. Meanwhile the surgeons’ mates quietly exchanged bets on the outcome of the argument between de Clermont and Shippen.
Marcus took the knife and neatly sliced the boot from cuff to ankle. He peeled the leather away from the wound. It had clean edges and there was no sign of protruding bone. No compound fracture, Marcus thought. An amputation would have been necessary had that been the case, no matter what the chevalier said or Dr. Hunter believed.
Marcus probed the wound with his fingers, feeling for the telltale bump that would indicate that the musket ball was still in the wound, or that the bone had been chipped and a piece was lodged in the muscles. No lump, no resistance. That meant there was nothing in the wound that would aggravate the nerves, tendons, or muscles, and no foreign body that might cause the wound to fester.
The marquis stirred. Marcus’s touch was gentle, but the man had been shot and the pain must be intense.
“Shall I hit him again, Doc?” Pierre whispered. Like de Clermont, his English was flawless.
Marcus shook his head. His examination had confirmed what he already suspected: The only thing about the marquis’s condition that warranted immediate treatment was his aristocratic blood and high rank. The marquis was a fortunate man—far more so than Will Norman.
Marcus felt eyes on him, heavy and watchful. He looked up and met de Clermont’s stare. Shippen was sputtering about surgical methods and patient outcomes—the man had an unholy fondness for the knife—but it was Marcus, and not the esteemed doctors, who held the chevalier’s attention.
“No.” The single word from de Clermont cracked through the room. “You will not treat the Marquis de Lafayette, Dr. Shippen. Ruin the life of the man in the kitchen with your knives and saws, but the marquis will be seen to by Dr. Cochran.”
“I beg your—” Shippen blustered.
“It is a minor wound, Dr. Shippen,” Dr. Otto interjected. “Let your poor surgeons, Dr. Cochran and me, see to the marquis. Your greater skills are needed elsewhere. I believe the boy with the bad knees was recruited from General Washington’s estate.”
This got Shippen’s attention.
“My son is cleaning his wounds and is waiting to assist.” Dr. Otto stepped aside and swept a shallow bow.
“Indeed.” Shippen pulled on the edge of his waistcoat and straightened his wig, which he had worn to the field in spite of its impracticality. “A Virginian, you say?”
“He is one of the new riflemen,” Dr. Otto said, nodding. “Let me take you through.”
As soon as the doctors were clear of the room, everyone who remained swung into action. Cochran asked for lint, ointment, and a probe while he examined the marquis’s leg.
“You know better than to bait a quarrelsome animal when he has his dander up, Matthew,” Cochran said. “Hand me the turpentine, Doc.”
“So you are a doctor, just like the Dutchman said.” De Clermont studied Marcus with unblinking eyes.
“He could be,” Cochran said, swabbing at the marquis’s wounds, “were he given your education, taught Latin, and sent to medical school. Instead, Mr. Chauncey has absorbed more knowledge than most of Dr. Shippen’s students through an occult means that he will not divulge.”
De Clermont looked at Marcus appraisingly.
“Doc knows his anatomy and basic surgery, and has a good grasp of medicinal simples,” Cochran continued, as he carefully cleaned the hole in Lafayette’s leg. “His artillery company gave him the title Doc after the army withdrew from New York. Bodo captured him at Morristown and Mr. Chauncey reenlisted for a three-year term in the medical department.”
“So you’re a New Yorker, Mr. Chauncey,” de Clermont said.
“I’m a man of the world,” Marcus muttered, trying not to sneeze as Cochran applied fluffy lint to the wound. Man of the world, indeed. He was a cat with nine lives, and nothing more.
“We must get the marquis to safety, John,” de Clermont said. “The future of the war might depend on it. Without him advocating for the Americans, it will be hard to get the arms and supplies that you will need to beat the British army.”
Marcus’s job here was done. There were sick and wounded men outside. And Vanderslice was right: The battle was drawing dangerously near. He headed for the door.
“You’ll stay with the marquis, Chauncey,” de Clermont ordered, stopping Marcus in his tracks.
“I must see to Lieutenant Cuthbert,” Marcus protested. Cuthbert was still waiting for treatment and would not be left behind, even if Marcus had to carry him.
The Marquis de Lafayette stirred. “The Virginian. Where is he?”
Dr. Otto and Dr. Frederick appeared, carrying another stretcher bearing the wounded soldier from Virginia, still with both legs and still unconscious.
“Do not trouble yourself, Marquis,” Dr. Otto said cheerfully. “Dr. Shippen and Dr. Rush have gone somewhere out of the range of the British guns. For the better preservation of the wounded.”
“For the better preservation of the wounded,” Dr. Frederick solemnly repeated, though his lips twitched.
“If we remain here, our next operating theater will be inside a British prison,” Cochran warned. “Load those we can transport onto the wagons, Doc. Which way did Shippen and Rush go, Bodo?”
“Back to Philadelphia,” Dr. Otto replied.
Marcus wondered how long they would remain there.
Les Revenants, Letters and Papers of the Americas No. 2
Matthew de Clermont to Philippe de Clermont Bethlehem, Pennsylvania