20
I
WE were in London, — a maiden uncle and a presumably maiden aunt and I, — and I was showing my relatives the town, which I knew well, with a fine air of proprietorship. It happened years ago. There were omnibuses in those days —not huge, self-propelled motor-buses driven at a breakneck pace through the crowded streets, but gayly painted, lazy, rotund coaches like huge beetles, driven by men with a strong family resemblance to the elder Weller.
With my party I had been climbing from the top of a bus going east to the top of another going west, when the suggestion was made that the next sight should be a bit of the roast beef of Old England. We were for a moment off the beaten track of the buses, and the only vehicle in sight was a disreputable-looking four-wheel cab, usually denominated a ‘growler,’ no doubt from the character of the driver. Rather against my judgment, we entered it and I gave the order, ‘Simpson’s, in the Strand. The driver roused himself and his beast, and we started, but had gone only a short distance when, in some inexplicable way, the man, who was subsequently discovered to be drunk, locked the wheels of the cab in attempting to make a sharp turn, and completely upset t he ramshackle vehicle. Within there was great confusion. Just how it happened I never knew, but in some way my foot got outside the broken window; the horse moved, I heard something snap, felt a sharp pain, and knew that my leg was broken.
A crowd gathered, but the omnipresent. policeman was on the spot in a moment, and order was quickly brought out of confusion. My companions were unhurt, but it was instantly realized that I was in real trouble. More policemen arrived, numbers were taken, explanations demanded and attempted; but accidents happen in the crowded streets of London at the rate of one a minute or so, and the rules are well understood. A shrill blast on a whistle brought several hansoms dashing to the scene. I had become the property of the Corporation of the City of London in general and of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital in particular. The custom is that, when one is hurt in the streets of London, one is taken at once to the nearest hospital. His not to reason why: ‘It’s an ’ard and faast rule.’
Fortunately, the hospital was near at hand, and in a very few moments I found myself lying on a bench in the casualty ward, writhing in agony, surrounded by a crowd of young men curious to know how it happened. The general opinion, as voiced by a young cockney, who seemed to be in authority, was that I had had a ‘naasty one,’ and that Mr. Pattison would probably ‘take it hoff at the knee.’ It was my intention to expostulate with Mr. Pattison when he arrived, and I hoped he would come quickly; but when he appeared, he seemed so intelligent and sympathetic that I indulged myself in the hope that I and ‘ it ’ would be safe in his hands.
The entrance of a seriously injured man into a London hospital confers no distinction upon him — he is regarded, not as an individual, but simply as another casualty, making six, or sixteen, taken to the operating-room that morning. My arrival, therefore, was taken quite as a matter of course. A few questions were asked by a recorder, and as soon as I had told him who I was, where I lived, my age and best friend, I was picked up, placed on a stretcher, and carried away, I knew not whither.
Within the hospital there was neither surprise, confusion, nor delay. They might have been expecting me. Almost before I knew it I was being rapidly but skillfully undressed. I say undressed, but in point of fact my trousers and one shoe were being removed with the aid of several pairs of shears in skillful hands. I was curious to see for myself the extent of the injury which seemed so interesting to those about me, but this was not permitted. Someone ventured the opinion, for which I thanked him, that, as I was young and clean, I had more than an even chance to save my leg; another remarked that there was no place in the world like ‘Bart’s’ for fractures, and that with luck my wound might begin to heal ‘by first intention.’ Meanwhile I divined rather than saw that preparations for a serious operation were under way. Nurses with ominous-looking instruments wrapped up in towels made their appearance, and I heard the word ‘chloroform ’ used several times; then a rubber pad was put over my face, I felt someone fumbling at my wrist, and was told to take a deep breath. In a moment I was overcome by a sickening sensation occasioned by something sweetish; I felt lifted higher, higher, higher, until suddenly something seemed to snap in my head, and I awoke in exquisite pain and very sick at the stomach.
Several hours had elapsed; I found myself quite undressed, and in a bed in a large room in which were many other beds similar to mine, most of them occupied. Leaning over me was a whitecapped nurse, and at the foot of the bed was a very kindly-looking woman, a lady of mature years wearing an elaborate cap, whom I heard addressed as ‘ Sister.’ I had lost my identity and had become merely 20, Pitcairn Ward, St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, — one of the oldest and, as I was to discover, one of the best hospitals in the world.
I was in great agony and very lonely. Things had happened with such rapidity that I could scarcely realize how I came to be where I was. I inquired for my relatives and was told that they would ‘be here presently.’ I asked for Dr. Pattison, and was told that he, too, would ‘be here presently.’ From the pain I felt I made no doubt that he had after all taken ‘it’ off at the knee, as prophesied.
‘Presently’ I heard outside the door a great scuffling of feet, as of the approach of a considerable crowd; then the door opened, and there entered a group of students, led by an elderly and distinguished-looking man who, visiting a row of cots in turn, finally came to mine, and, without speaking to me, took my chart from a nurse and studied it attentively. A moment later Mr. Pattison came up and explained what he had done, to all of which the distinguished man, addressed as Mr. Willett, listened closely, expressing his satisfaction and saying ‘exactly’ several times.
Finally Mr. Willet addressed the crowd gathered in a semi-circle about my bed. ‘The patient is suffering from a compound comminuted fracture of the tibia and fibula; he was fished out of an overturned four-wheeler just by the Charterhouse Gate. Mr. Pattison has just performed an operation. He has—’ Here followed a rapid and technical account of what had been done to me,—and it seemed ample, — what complications might ensue, and what was hoped for, ending by congratulating Mr. Pattison on having made a very good job. ‘Six hundred yards of plaster bandage, eh? Good, very good.’
I was in great pain and too ill to listen with much attention to what more he said. At last, as an afterthought, Mr. Willett again took the chart from the nurse and, glancing at it indifferently for a moment, said, ‘Ah, an American, eh?’ Then, turning to me, he added, ‘ They’ve brought you to the right shop for fractures, my lad; there’s no place in the world where you would be better off than just where you are, and Mr. Pattison has made as clean a job as the best surgeon in’ — glancing at the chart again — ‘Philadelphia could have done.’
‘But, doctor,’ I piped (I did not then know that surgeons in England are always addressed as Mister), ‘it’s not to be forgotten that Dr. Pattison has been working on excellent American material.’
Mr. Willett almost dropped the chart in amazement, and Sister told me to ‘Sh-h, don’t talk back.’ Such a thing was unheard of, for a poor devil lying on a cot in a great charity hospital of London to bandy words with one of the greatest surgeons in England.
Mr. Willett was too surprised to say anything; he simply turned on his heel and walked away, followed by his students and the Sister, leaving the nurse to tell me that I must never, never talk back to Mr. Willett again. ‘He’s never to be spoke to ’nless he asks a question.’
At half-past five supper was served. I did n’t get any, did n’t want any. By eight o’clock we were being prepared for the night. How I dreaded it! We were a lot of poor, forlorn men and boys, twenty-four of us, all more or less broken somewhere, all suffering; some groaning and complaining, some silently bearing their agony. In the cot next to mine there was a great burly fellow who called me ‘Matey’ and said I was in luck. I did n’t care much to pursue the subject, but asked him how he made that out. ‘You’ve ’ad one leg broke twice, Hi ’ear; that hain’t nuthin’. Hi ’ve ’ad both legs hoff at the knee, and Hi’ve a missus and six kiddies.’
I was inclined to agree with him; but a Susan-Nipper-like person said, ‘No talking,’ and I was glad she did.
The pain was dreadful. I wanted a great many little attentions, and got them from a nurse whose name after all these years I here record with respect and affection—Nurse Hare. Midnight came; I was suffering terribly; finally I asked Nurse if I could not have a hypodermic. She said she thought I could, and presently came and jabbed a little needle into my arm, at the same time telling me to be very quiet in order that the drug might take effect. At last I fell into a troubled sleep, only to start out of it again. Still, I got a little sleep from time to time, and finally morning came. A few days later, when Nurse Hare and I were exchanging confidences, she told me the hypodermic was of cold water only. ‘I couldn’t ’ave given you a ’ypodermic without orders,’ she said.
Morning comes slowly in London; sometimes in December it can hardly be said to come at all; but breakfast comes. By six o’clock the gas was lit, hot water and basins and towels were passed about to those who could use them. Confusion took the place of comparative quiet. I had not tasted food for almost twenty-four hours. I was hungry. The pain in my leg was a deep throbbing pain, but it could be borne. I began to look about me; someone said, ‘Good morning, Twenty,’ and I replied, ‘Good morning, Seventeen. What kind of a night did you have?’ Rotten; ’ad the ump.’ It occurred to me that I had always wanted to talk a pure and undefiled cockney, and that I now had an excellent opportunity to learn. Breakfast, which came to me on a tray, was delicious: porridge and milk, tea, bread, butter, and jam. I wanted a second round, but something was said about temperature, and I was forced to be content.
Late in the day, as it seemed, but actually about nine o’clock, my uncle came to see me. Poor fellow, he too had passed a sleepless night and showed it. What he could do for me? There was just one man I wanted to see above all others, my friend Hutt, — or as he himself pronounced it, ’Utt,—the bookseller in Clements Inn Passage. Would my uncle go and bring him to me? He would; he did not say so, but he would have fetched me a toothpick from the farthest inch of Asia if I had asked for it. He had never seen Mr. Hutt, he had only been in London some fortyeight hours, he did not know his way around, and was as nervous as a hen. I told him as well as I could where Hutt’s shop was, and he started off; as he went, I noticed he was carrying my umbrella, which had a rather curious horn handle studded with round-headed silver tacks — quite an unusuallooking handle. I am telling the exact truth when I say that my uncle promptly lost his way, and an hour later my friend Hutt, hurrying along the crowded Strand, saw a man wandering about, apparently looking for someone or something, and carrying my umbrella, went up, and calling my uncle by name (he had heard me speak of him), asked if he could direct him anywhere. My uncle was amazed, as well he might be, and conducted my friend, or rather was conducted by him, to my bedside.
When Mr. Willett came in on his rounds later in the day, my uncle entered upon a rather acrimonious discussion with him on the subject of my being a charity patient in a public ward. Mr. Willett explained very patiently that I should have every attention, but as for private rooms, there were none. Whatever I needed the hospital would supply, but under the rules nothing could be brought in to me, nothing of any kind or character, and no tips or fees were permitted. Finally my uncle, dear old man, broke down and cried, and then Mr. Willett, like the gentleman he was, said, —
‘I tell you what I ’ll do. There are no private rooms, but so sure am I that your nephew would not in a week’s time go into one if there were, that I promise that, when he can be moved without danger, I will personally put him in a nursing home and take care of him myself if he wishes it; but I know from experience that your nephew will find so much of interest going on about him that he will wish to remain hero. We have had gentlemen here before why, sir, nobility even.’
With this we were forced to be content, and it turned out exactly as Mr. Willett prophesied.
My greatest discomfort arose from being compelled to remain always in one position. With my leg in a plaster cast, in which there were two windows through which my wounds were observed and dressed, and securely fastened in a cradle, I was compelled to remain on my back, and I could move only my upper body without assistance. At first I found this desperately irksome, but I gradually became accustomed to it. I was greatly helped by a simple device which I thought at the time a great blessing; and I have never seen it elsewhere, and wonder why. In the wall about eight feet above the head of each bed was set a stout iron bracket, a bracket strong enough to bear the weight of a heavy man. From the end of the bracket, about thirty inches from the wall, hung a rope, perhaps five feet long; a handle-bar, with a hole in it, through which the rope passed, enabled one to adjust the handle at any height desired above the bed. A knot at the end of the rope prevented the handle slipping off and fixed the lower limit of its travel, but it could be adjusted by another knot at any higher point desired. The primary object of this device, which was called a pulley, was to enable the patient to lift himself up in bed without subjecting his lower body to strain of any kind. But it had many other purposes. From it one could hang one’s newspaper, watch, or handkerchief, and it served also as a harmless plaything. Have you seen a kitten play with a ball of wool? In like manner have I seen great men relieve the monotony with their pulley, spinning it, swinging it, sliding the handle up and down, for hours at a time.
II
Without suggesting that I was in any way a conspicuous person in the ward,
I am bound to say that my fellow patients treated me as a ‘toff,’ in other words, as a swell. This was due solely to the fact that I had a watch. Such a possession in a public ward of a London hospital is like keeping a carriage or a gig; to use Carlyle’s word, it is a mark of respectability. Frequently during the night I would hear some poor sleepless sufferer say, ‘Hi siay, Twenty, wot time his it?’ It occurred to me that it would be a nice thing to have one of my friends go to Sir John Bennett’s, the famous clockmaker, and buy a small clock with a very soft strike, which would mark the hours without disturbing anyone. I spoke to Nurse Hare about it, and she to someone in authority. The answer came; no gifts could be accepted while I was in the hospital. After my discharge any gifts I might see fit to make should be sent to the hospital to be used as the authorities thought best, and not to any ward in particular. Another ‘ ’ard and faast rule,’ and a good one.
Before a week had passed, Christmas was upon us. The afternoon before, I sent out for a copy of ‘The Christmas Carol,’ which I had read so often before and have read so often since on Christmas Eve. Through this little book Dickens has, more than any other man, given Christmas its character of cheer and good-will; but it reads better in London than elsewhere.
’How’s the weather outside? ’ I asked, looking up from my book, of a ‘dresser’ who had just come in.
‘There’s snow on the ground and a regular “London particular” [fog], and it’s beginning to sleet.’
I thanked my lucky stars that I was in bed as warm as toast, and wondered what I would got for a ‘Christmas box,’that is to say, a Christmas present, for we were all looking forward to something. There was to be a tree in the adjoining ward, but as I could not be moved, I was to have my presents brought to me. I can still see the gifts I received from kindly disposed ladies! Useful gifts! A little game of cards played with scripture texts, a handkerchief primarily intended for mental stimulation, with the alphabet and numbers up to ten printed thereon, a pair of socks, hand-knitted, of a yarn of the consistency of coarse twine, a pair of pulse-warmers, and a book, — a copy of The British Workman, — and last, but not least, a pair of stout, hob-nailed shoes. Ladies, too, came and offered to read to me, assuming that I could not read to myself, and in other ways showed their kindness of heart. God bless them every one!
No one ever worked harder at a foreign language than I did at learning cockney. I drawled my o’s and i’s, and lengthened my a’s, and dropped my h’s and picked them up again and put them in the wrong place, and I had the best instructors in London. A few in the ward could read, but more could not, and almost without exception they spoke that peculiar dialect which is the curious inheritance of the Londoner. Those of us whose memories go back twenty-five years or so remember it as the medium of that great music-hall artist, Albert Chevalier. His songs were then all the rage, as were, too, Gus Ellen’s. As we became better acquainted, we sang them together, and I then acquired an accomplishment which has even yet not entirely deserted me. (I should have said that it was the custom for the surgical wards of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital to take in accident cases continuously until all the beds were full; as a result, most of the patients entered about the same time, and we came to know one another, by number, very intimately in the twoor fouror six-weeks’ residence.)
Mr. Willett was quite right, I would not have been moved into a private room for something handsome. There were so many men worse off than myself, that I forgot myself in thinking of others. ‘Twenty-one’ lost both feet; I certainly was fortunate compared with him. ‘Seventeen,’ while cleaning a plate-glass window from a ladder, had slipped and plunged through the window, damaging himself horribly in half a dozen ways; I certainly was lucky compared with him. ‘ Eight ’ had undergone three serious operations and another one was contemplated. In short, as soon as I became reasonably comfortable, I began to feel quite at home. I had my books, papers, and magazines, and spent hours in playing checkers for a penny a game with a poor chap who had lost an arm. He almost always beat me, but a shilling was not much to pay for an afternoon’s diversion.
No one could spend two months or so in St. Bartholomew’s Hospital without seeking to know something of its history. Its origin is shrouded in antiquity. In the church of St. Bartholomew the Great, wedged into a corner of Smithfield just outside t he gate, is the tomb of its founder, Rahere, a minstrel or court-jester of Henry I. While on a pilgrimage to Rome, he was stricken with a serious illness, during which he made a vow that, if he lived to get back to London, he would build a hospital in thanksgiving. Thus it was that in the year 1102 a priory and hospital were founded. Thanks to the protests of the citizens of London, it not only escaped the attentions of Henry VIII, when he entered upon his period of destruction, but it was even said to have been reëstablished by him. Thenceforth it came to be regarded as the first of royal hospitals. In receipt of a princely income, it has from time out of mind been the scene of great events in surgical and medical science. Harvey, physician of Charles I, and discoverer of the circulation of the blood, was chief physician of the hospital for more than thirty years. A roll of the distinguished names would be tedious, but Mr. Willett was quite right when he said that I had come to the right shop for fractures. ‘We make a specialty of fractures’ might have been adopted as a slogan, had slogans been in vogue when the famous surgeon, Percival Pott, was thrown from his horse and sustained a compound fracture, and with difficulty prevented a brother surgeon from giving him first aid with a knife and saw. How he directed the treatment of his own case and saved his leg, is one of the many legends of the place.
But to return to Pitcairn Ward. It was a large room with a high ceiling, with two rows of beds, twelve to a row, on either side of a wide aisle. It was heated by a soft-coal-burning device, something like a range, but with a large open grate, the smoke from which curled lazily up the chimney. One morning it was discovered that the fire was out; and as this seemed to indicate neglect and certainly meant work for the wardmaid, each patient as he awoke and made this discovery sang out cheerily, ‘Fire’s out.’ To these remarks the maid usually replied by asking the speaker to mind his own business; or perhaps she contented herself by making faces or sticking her tongue out at him.
Presently a curious sound was heard from the chimney, as of a fluttering of birds, followed by a curious cry, ‘Peep, peep, peep,’ which was instantly recognized by those familiar with it as being the professional call of the chimneysweep. Someone cried, ‘Sweeps!’ The effect was instantaneous. As, when one discovers a ship in mid-ocean and announces the fact, all rush to the rail, so all who could crowded in wheel-chairs around the fireplace, only to be told to ‘Be hoff ’ by the ward-maid, who did not like to have the morning’s routine interfered with.
Soon the sounds grew louder until, at last, a tall, slender lad, black with soot from head to foot, armed with brushes and brooms, slid down into the grate, leaped out, gave a little scream, bowed, and disappeared almost before we could clap our eyes upon him. My intention had been to ask the little urchin to get into a bed next to mine, at that moment vacant, and to give an imitation of Charles Lamb’s chimneysweep ‘asleep like a young Howard in the state bed of Arundel Castle.’ I probably saved myself a lot of trouble by being so surprised at this quick entrance and get-away that I said not a single word. ‘A chimney-sweeper quickly makes his way through a crowd by being dirty.’
Anything kinder, anything more considerate than the authorities of the hospital, from Mr. Willett down to the ward-maid, could hardly be imagined. There was, however, one ordeal against which I set my face like flint: namely, shaving. Shaving was, I think, an extra; its cost, a penny. Every day a man and a boy entered the ward, the boy carrying a small tub filled with thick soapsuds, the man with a razor, incredibly sharp. One cried, ‘Shaves?’ and perhaps from two or half a dozen beds came the word, ‘Yus.’ No time was lost in preliminaries. A common towel was tied around one’s neck, and a brush like a large, round paint-brush was dipped into the thick lather. With a quick movement, the result of much practice, the boy made a pass or two from ear to ear; with a twist and a return movement, the cheeks, lips, mouth, and chin were covered with soap. The man wielded a razor in much the same manner, and the victim spent the next hour or two patting his face with his hands, then withdrawing them and looking at them, as if he expected to see them covered with blood. The operation was complete.
I use the word ‘operation’ advisedly; although chloroform was not administered, I always insisted that it should have been. The first surgeons were barbers; at least, the two trades were closely allied, and in England they seem to be allied still. Thanks to the kindness of one of the ‘ dressers,’ when I became well enough to be shaved, I had a real barber in from a nearby shop. It cost me half a crown and was a prolonged agony rather than a brief one — that was the chief difference; in essentials the operation was the same. Is it surprising that in England gentlemen invariably shave themselves?
Some men make excellent patients, I am told, when they are very ill, and allow their bad traits to come to the surface as they become convalescent. It was so in my case. I grew tired of the life, and began inquiring how much longer my leg was to be kept in plaster. Fortunately I had no idea of the ordeal of removing a plaster cast which reached from one’s toes to one’s hip. At last the day came, and I shall never forget it. I had first been permitted to limp around the ward on crutches for a few days, and soon learned to manage them very nicely; and when a time was set for my leg to come out of plaster, I was very thankful. It was the work of hours; every tiny hair on my leg was firmly set in plaster of Paris, and the removal of the cast occasioned such continuous pain that several times I thought I should faint. At last, however, the task was accomplished, and I looked down at the leg which had been the subject of so much discussion, which had been ‘dressed’ so often. It was a poor thing, but mine own; no one else would have had it: a poor, shrunken, shortened, emaciated member, but whole, thank God! I did not then know that a year after the accident happened I should be walking as well as ever; and let me say that I have never had a twinge of pain in it since. Mr. Willett and Mr. Pattison, and ‘Sister’ and Nurse Hare, I doff my hat to you.
Measurements were taken for a leather stocking, which was a work of art; and finally a date was set for my dismissal. A room had been secured for me in a not distant lodging, for I still had to go to the hospital once or twice a week to have the rapidly healing wounds dressed. I made my departure from the hospital early one afternoon, in what was called a private ambulance; but I am certain that the vehicle was generally used as a hearse. The stretcher on which I was laid was on casters, and was pushed into the rear door of a long low contrivance with glass sides.
As we prepared to drive away from the hospital gate, an effigy, that of Henry, the Eighth of that name, looked down upon me from his niche over Smithfield Gate. A crowd gathered, and from my horizontal position the unusual sight of so many people moving about in perpendicular made me dizzy. I closed my eyes and heard someone inquire, ‘Is he dead?’
I was very unhappy, and still more so when, half an hour later, I found myself in a very tiny bedroom, as it seemed to me, and in a bed with no pulley. I could have cried; indeed, I think I did. I wanted to go back to the hospital; I felt, that I was being neglected and would die of suffocation. A maid came in and asked if I wanted anything.
‘ Want anything!’ I certainly did, and I gave her a list of things I wanted in the most approved cockney. As she left my room, I heard her say to another maid just outside the door, ‘ ’Ave you ’eard that bloke hin there talk? Faancy ’im tryin’ to paass ’isself hoff as comin’ from New York!’