his case, the surgeon selected a scalpel. "After I make the incision, I'm going to dissect the muscle around the wound." As he spoke, he cut straight across the scar tissue, opening it, then stroked through the inflamed muscle beneath. He wiped his brow again and studied the exposed tissue. "Looks like the bullet went this way," he murmured, taking the dissection forceps to pull back the muscle. "Here, hold this, will you?" he told Walsh. "Keep it out of my way."
"Yes, sir."
He picked up the scalpel again. "Must be a piece of lead in here somewhere," he mumbled to himself as he cut deeply, taking the incision all the way to the bone. The knife punctured a pocket of pus, and the foul-smelling green exudate spurted. While both Nash and Walsh gagged, Sprenger began whistling softly. After placing the scalpel on a tray, he dipped his finger into an iodine solution and probed the path of the bullet, feeling around the bone.
"Rough as a cob," he murmured. "Bone slivers everywhere—damned thing was in pieces. And there's lead in there, a lot of it." Hooking his finger, he pulled it up, bringing a bit of bone with it. "No wonder it didn't heal inside. There's constant irritation there. Must've hurt like the devil all the time. Give me the sequestrum," he ordered.
Parker produced the probe, then leaned over to watch as Sprenger used it to dig where his finger had been. One by one the surgeon pulled out several bone splinters, then the first lead fragment, and laid them on the tray. Within minutes, he'd added six more bits of bullet to the collection.
"Ever see anything like this, son?" he asked Parker. "No, sir."
"Well, when I was with the 9th Massachusetts, I saw a lot of 'em. It was hell, son. I was cutting off limbs at four to the hour some days. Wasn't much else we could do in the field. No time so save 'em if I could've done it. Had a fifty-two percent fatality rate, which was about two percent better than the average, so I guess I did about as well as most of my colleagues."
"You going to have to take this one?" Nash wanted to know.
"If it doesn't heal. But I'm going to try to save it first. Parker, how's the pulse?"
"Even, sir."
"If he so much as blinks or looks like he's coming around, give him another snort of the chloroform. Aha, yeah." This time Sprenger managed to pull out a large part of the bullet. "Doesn't look like anybody even tried to get it out, does it?" he muttered. "Makes you wonder what they teach in medical college anymore. Not much about lead poisoning, by the looks of it. Remind me to mention this to Boydston, will you? If he did this, he ought to be told about it, and if he didn't, he shouldn't have left the bullet in, anyway." He pulled the last piece out, then looked up triumphantly. "I'll bet if I put all of this together, I'd have about a .50—what do you think, soldier?"
"I couldn't say, sir. They just look like lead fragments to me."
"Yes, indeed. I'd say that Comanchero had himself a buffalo gun," Sprenger decided. "I'll have to show that to Hap when he wakes up." Wiping his face with his other sleeve, he returned to the wound. "Too late to do too much with the bone other than clean it up a bit, I guess." Looking up, he addressed Walsh. "You can put away the dissecting forceps, son, and make up about a cup of ten percent iodine solution. I'm going to flush this before I stitch it up. And I'm going to leave a little bit of the incision open—why is that, soldier?"
"You're asking me, sir?"
" 'Course I am. How's a man to learn anything if he doesn't think about it? Now, why would I want it to keep draining?"
"So the abscess won't form again, I expect."
"Damned right."
Whistling a peppy tune now, the surgeon quickly wiped the pus away with a cloth, then squirted the antiseptic into the area with a trocar several times. Finally, he patted the area as dry as he could and started stitching deftly. When he looked up, the three men were exchanging glances.
"Something the matter?" he
"Yes, sir."
He picked up the scalpel again. "Must be a piece of lead in here somewhere," he mumbled to himself as he cut deeply, taking the incision all the way to the bone. The knife punctured a pocket of pus, and the foul-smelling green exudate spurted. While both Nash and Walsh gagged, Sprenger began whistling softly. After placing the scalpel on a tray, he dipped his finger into an iodine solution and probed the path of the bullet, feeling around the bone.
"Rough as a cob," he murmured. "Bone slivers everywhere—damned thing was in pieces. And there's lead in there, a lot of it." Hooking his finger, he pulled it up, bringing a bit of bone with it. "No wonder it didn't heal inside. There's constant irritation there. Must've hurt like the devil all the time. Give me the sequestrum," he ordered.
Parker produced the probe, then leaned over to watch as Sprenger used it to dig where his finger had been. One by one the surgeon pulled out several bone splinters, then the first lead fragment, and laid them on the tray. Within minutes, he'd added six more bits of bullet to the collection.
"Ever see anything like this, son?" he asked Parker. "No, sir."
"Well, when I was with the 9th Massachusetts, I saw a lot of 'em. It was hell, son. I was cutting off limbs at four to the hour some days. Wasn't much else we could do in the field. No time so save 'em if I could've done it. Had a fifty-two percent fatality rate, which was about two percent better than the average, so I guess I did about as well as most of my colleagues."
"You going to have to take this one?" Nash wanted to know.
"If it doesn't heal. But I'm going to try to save it first. Parker, how's the pulse?"
"Even, sir."
"If he so much as blinks or looks like he's coming around, give him another snort of the chloroform. Aha, yeah." This time Sprenger managed to pull out a large part of the bullet. "Doesn't look like anybody even tried to get it out, does it?" he muttered. "Makes you wonder what they teach in medical college anymore. Not much about lead poisoning, by the looks of it. Remind me to mention this to Boydston, will you? If he did this, he ought to be told about it, and if he didn't, he shouldn't have left the bullet in, anyway." He pulled the last piece out, then looked up triumphantly. "I'll bet if I put all of this together, I'd have about a .50—what do you think, soldier?"
"I couldn't say, sir. They just look like lead fragments to me."
"Yes, indeed. I'd say that Comanchero had himself a buffalo gun," Sprenger decided. "I'll have to show that to Hap when he wakes up." Wiping his face with his other sleeve, he returned to the wound. "Too late to do too much with the bone other than clean it up a bit, I guess." Looking up, he addressed Walsh. "You can put away the dissecting forceps, son, and make up about a cup of ten percent iodine solution. I'm going to flush this before I stitch it up. And I'm going to leave a little bit of the incision open—why is that, soldier?"
"You're asking me, sir?"
" 'Course I am. How's a man to learn anything if he doesn't think about it? Now, why would I want it to keep draining?"
"So the abscess won't form again, I expect."
"Damned right."
Whistling a peppy tune now, the surgeon quickly wiped the pus away with a cloth, then squirted the antiseptic into the area with a trocar several times. Finally, he patted the area as dry as he could and started stitching deftly. When he looked up, the three men were exchanging glances.
"Something the matter?" he
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