“Vas ist das?” Dr. Otto demanded of the chevalier de Clermont, who had plucked him off his patient and was dragging him toward Lafayette.
“The Marquis de Lafayette has been wounded,” de Clermont said brusquely. “Attend to him. Now.”
“You should have taken him to the mercantile,” Dr. Otto said. “This is a dressing station. We do not have—”
Dr. Cochran arrived with Dr. Frederick in tow.
“John. Thank God you’re here,” de Clermont said with visible relief.
“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.