Gut Feeling

By Philip Buckman

Frederick Cragg is a surgeon living in the medical dark ages of 19th-century America. He is gifted with a patient; one who brings scientific promise and tender friendship. When Cragg brings the wounded man home, he risks losing his just and faithful wife. Based on a true story, this novella explores the bonds between the injured and the caregiving.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Philip Buckman
• Release date: Jan 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224241187

Book preview

1.

In the hazy pillars of light marking morning, Guy St. Leroux finished the last of his jerky and rose from his haunches. Glinting wearily at the horizon, he made a guess at the time of day, and was satisfied with his estimation. After resting in a grove of spruce, he was eager to unload some merchandise at the post. He held too many pelts, his knapsack was becoming quite burdensome, and a drink was calling to him. He eyed the smoking embers to take inventory of his tools, many of which were rusted and in need of repair. His favorite knife was neatly placed between the starch glue and the cords of rope. Rabbit cadavers hung from a spit, thoroughly dried from hours of smoke treatment. Blood and gristle had boiled and burnt off into the air, leaving a tarred matte. With his knife, Guy scraped it from the pelts, shook them vigorously, and packed them with the others.

As he gathered his belongings, leaves cracked under his boots. They were army-issued and purchased early in the spring. With any luck, they would last him into next summer. He put his tools away and folded his bedding into a dusty, wrinkled ball of Hessian burlap. Before leaving camp, Guy pissed on the burnt ashes, drawing playful figures with a stream of bright yellow urine. He smiled, fastened his pants, and plowed  toward his destination with equipment in tow.

Warblers echoed alongside the rhythmic march of Guy's feet. He sucked on a sugar cube and scratched at his groin as he walked to the island outpost. It had been over a year since he landed on Mackinac, and he cursed the frequent chigger bites. At least they were smaller than the plump vampires he used to find along the Mississippi. That life was well behind him. Memories of that life helped him gauge his current successes. Memories of that life also measured the extent of his failures.

Scant family was left behind on the mainland. They had never owned much of anything, but by miracle of luck, his parents were gifted a farm. They had passed before his adulthood, and an aunt came to live with him for a few pleasant years of youth. Through some legal magic, she took the farm from him. Instead of living on her good will, he learned to hunt, learned to fish, and left as soon as he could. Aside from this aunt, a nephew in Georgia, and a few men serving time in prison, St. Leroux had no connections.

Summer was but one luxury of living on the island. Another was isolation, if a man sought such retreat. St. Leroux basked in both, knowing he would not see another soul until the post. Droplets of dew were cool upon his brow. Spitting the remnants of his sugar cube, Guy hastened his pace in the early day. Hating to leave such tranquility, he scowled thinking of the frequent bargaining at the post. Other men might hunger for the interaction, but not him. Boredom was a sensation Guy had conquered many years ago.

About two hours shy of noon, he arrived at the post. The first bodies he recognized were soldiers from Fort Mackinac. The military was always present on Mackinac, and for good reason. The development of this island touched on two themes. Recently forgotten, there was the slaughter of countless Chippewa. Recently remembered, there was the war. As Guy approached, he could hear a young soldier asking an older one about fighting the Brits.

Mackinac was also eternally dusty and moldy. The young buildings were in disrepair, sagging and smelling of ozone. Activity was seasonal in nature, and rot was quick with few men tending the post in the wet winters. From a distance, it all resembled those ancient Danish villages, etched into lithographs, the people holding old souls and pink cheeks. The trapper made passage between two vertical constructs, lumber poles that served as an entrance to the post. At the flank of each timber there were rounded white stones, lined up in symmetrical fashion, and resembling teeth poking out of the earth. At the mouth of this apparatus, Guy was approached by a woman holding a pile of paper, each page screaming with wide, bold print. She called to him, Young man, have you heard the good news? Jesus has risen and is patient in waiting for your salvation!

Guy was weary of this brand of American gospel, but humored her anyway. He halted his pace and answered, Indeed I have heard, Ma'am, and I am saved. Fine thing for you to spread the word, and mighty appreciated.

It is good to hear, sir. You can help! The woman held the papers up and explained, Our pastor is handing these out. He says that these words are the key to understanding the Lake of Fire. As she handed the bill to Guy, he noticed that she had an extra finger. His eyes widened in curiosity. Noticing his interest, she smiled and noted, It's the same on my other hand. I was born with them. She tucked the papers under her armpit and held up her other hand.

Twelve fingers, Guy said with amusement.

Well, now that you've had your entertainment, what say you read the bill?

I'm sorry, Ma'am. I can't.

She paused and commented, I see.

I would be happy to hand a few out, if you'd like, Guy offered.

The woman beamed, That would be wonderful! She pulled a few from the pile and gave them to Guy. Make sure they get into the hands of non-believers!

Will do, Ma'am.

With a nod, Guy turned and left the woman at the toothed entrance. He forced a cloud of frustrated breath into his thin mustache and made a groaning sound in his throat. It was his goal to connect with people, but there were always obstacles. The fact of his illiteracy skirted the borders of pride and pain in his mind. Of course, there was his faith to consider, and he depended on pastors to access The Book. He spoke little on such matters, only citing the parables he knew to avoid true discourse. Some of the newer denominations didn't take kindly to Catholics. St. Leroux sat on that fence, high enough to see and smell the brimstone, but anchored away from any form of devoutness. Still, he wanted to have a better relationship with God. It ate at him; his belief in biblical words, without the reciprocal action of reading them.  There was another, more present, matter of faith. Like many other men in the region, Guy gave currency to the ghost myths. It was the constant interaction with fauna; hearing them at night, seeing them act oddly in the day, making them die. It was also close proximity to the tribes, and knowing of their tales. He was as convinced as anyone else stationed here; wraiths skim these lakes and warrior spirits roam these low, sloping hills. These ideas do not blaspheme. Sometimes, it was wise to be integrative, most of all in spiritual matters. He looked at the papers and stuffed them into his knapsack.

2.

The central square of the post was a small, bustling avenue. It held a few wagons and harbored pedestrian traffic. Guy figured a total of twenty people, hashing it up and making a living. He heard the braying of stabled horses mixed with the dull drone of marching feet and the occasional spoken word. A girl called out to the transients, selling lilac and wild mint. Paving stones forked into several paths. One path led to a saloon; an island of stone and wood surrounded by vegetable gardens. Another path led trappers and fishmongers to a small exchange.

Guy had sold here on several occasions. The patrons paid reasonable prices. It was a cheap place to get drunk. Despite the military presence, women were a common sight at the post. Reason stands to say they were selling their best as well. Guy did not expect to see the Welsh maid that had kept him company on prior visits. Rumors hinted at her marrying and settling down in Detroit. After briefly lamenting the maid, Guy made his way to the market. As he walked, he heard the grunting and breathing of two men replacing a wheel on a carriage. One of them was very tall and gaunt, like a veteran miner who had rarely seen sunlight. Guy was amused as they barked orders at one another. They were couriers of correspondence and salted beef, judging from their wardrobe. The shorter man retracted his hand from the axle. Damn it all! You're going to leave me amputated and destitute, Ray!

Oh, sing it to the birds. The wheel is on. Let's get going.  The tall man Ray removed a small splinter from his wrist, dusted his hands, and started loading cargo. We've got to make it to the ferry before tomorrow night, Ignaz.

That's your deadline, not mine. This wheel isn't fitted right. Let's try again.

Guy passed the couriers and could smell the vinegar of wine coming from the men, along with faint traces of curing agents and shit. They were men like him, eternally dusted and sodded. All of the earthy colors swirled, catching reflections from the grit. The rustling of goods was steady, even above the bickering couriers. Guy continued to the market. His skin was dry and ashy, freckles indicating his Gallic roots. Pasty phlegm was the only taste on his tongue.

Guy caught the sight of his clerk. Hustling toward his trade, he loosened his bag and started