Man-Midwife

By Dawn Lowe

Bartholomew Mosse: Barber-surgeon, soldier, midwife

Leeches, anyone?
Follow the medical career of 18th-century Irish barber-surgeon Bartholomew Mosse, educated by apprenticeship to shave beards and heal wounds. Establishing himself as a successful Dublin surgeon, Mosse might have lived there contentedly if his wife had not died in childbirth. Grief drives him away from Ireland for a career as an army surgeon on the high seas, where he accidentally discovers his true calling: midwifery. He returns to Dublin with cutting-edge knowledge gleaned from his European travels and becomes one of Ireland’s first man-midwives.
Man-Midwife is a fictional memoir inspired by true events in the life of Bartholomew Mosse, a man who abhorred the suffering he witnessed in impoverished Ireland, where midwifery was traditionally the province of uneducated women. Determined to build a place where poor and disadvantaged mothers could safely give birth, he drove himself into debt and exhaustion creating his hospital, the Rotunda, which is still in operation today and the birthplace of hundreds of thousands.
Peopled with fictional and real-life characters, Man-Midwife explores Mosse’s relationship with composer George Frederic Handel and renowned architect Richard Castle. Molly the leech-collector and her unhappy family are part of Mosse’s tale, as well as his best friend Nobbly, an artist who must endure mundane occupations in order to survive.
Bartholomew Mosse’s struggle to succeed often drew the ridicule of his peers. Centuries later, this novel celebrates a man whose dream saved countless lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dawn Lowe
• Release date: Sep 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005085940

Dawn Lowe

Dawn Lowe is a retired journalist and director of Brilliant Flash Fiction, a nonprofit organization dedicated to publishing stories told in 1,000 words or less. She is the author of KidStuff About Hawaii (as Dawn Goto), Mutual Publishing, and Parent of Suicide, available on Amazon.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Dublin

1742

H ere? I asked Mary, confused.

She led me through the muck to the ruin of a burnt-out house. I’d met Mary only a half-hour earlier, when she’d appeared on my doorstep begging me to help her sister.

Down below, she said.

Carrying my midwifery satchel, I followed her down a set of uneven stairs to a makeshift wooden door. When she shouldered it open, I saw four people inside a flooded cellar: a woman, great with child, lying on a lopsided table, and three little girls. The oldest girl held the pregnant woman’s hand, while two younger ones slept in a pile of straw on the muddy floor. It was raining steadily and had been all day, so the dirt walls of this cellar were melting gradually away, and the air inside was thick and cold. I’d seen farm animals given better shelter.

Here, sir, this is what I brought you to see, Mary said, tears forming in her eyes. This is my poor sister Ann lying on the table, and these three girls are her daughters. A lady midwife tried to deliver Ann, but gave up in despair. Mary wiped her red, tired eyes. I went to the doctor’s house to beg for his help, but he sent me to find you instead.

The doctor was right to send you to me. I looked at Mary, who appeared exhausted. I can save your sister, I told her. Do you have the strength to assist me?

Suppressing a sob, she wiped her eyes and nodded. Her stance straightened, and we approached the laboring mother together. I set my satchel on the rickety table beside the pregnant woman and wiped the muddy dampness from her forehead with a handkerchief. Her eyelids, clenched shut, fluttered open.

Can you speak, Ann? I asked the woman on the table. She moaned in response and shivered. I opened my satchel and found a blanket to place over her. Ann’s oldest daughter, still clinging to her mother’s hand, asked me, Is Mam going to die?

The girl’s eyes were huge, her lips bluish from the cold. I took off my coat and wrapped it round her shoulders, disengaging her hand from her mother’s.

Lie down with your sisters and keep them warm, I told her.

But Mam—

Mary intervened. Do as the gentleman says.

Yes, Aunt Mary, she said, moving away.

Throughout this exchange, Mary appeared to be studying me with unease.

Forgive me, sir, she said. You are kind, but young.

I am thirty years old, and experienced in these matters. I rolled up my sleeves. Rain pelted overhead. Moisture beaded in my eyes, dripping from my forehead; my boots slipped in the mud as I looked down at Ann.

How long has she been in distress? I asked her sister.

Mary looked at her wits’ end. Two days and nights, and still the child will not come.

Ann cried out as she heard us talking and lifted her head. Who is this man? she asked, her voice feverish. A priest?

Mary gripped her sister’s shoulder. This gentleman is Bartholomew Mosse. He is a man-midwife.

Man … midwife? Ann whispered.

He is the only one who would come. Mary gave her sister a thin smile.

I touched Ann’s shoulder. Lie still now and allow me to check the child inside you.

She looked frightened but nodded, covering her face with her hands.

After a brief examination, I determined the baby’s head was trapped inside the birth canal. Ann’s pelvic opening had shrunk due to rickets.

I turned to Mary.

Where is the baby’s father? I asked.

I do not know, she said. The lady midwife sent him away.

A rivulet of dirty water washed down the wall near my head; steady rain beat monotonously on the leaking floorboards overhead as the odor of moldy straw and an unemptied chamber pot assaulted my senses.

Mary, I said. You must hold your sister’s shoulders while I deliver the child, which is dead. Gently as I could, I explained to her that I had tools in my satchel—tools a female midwife cannot use—that would enable me to decrease the size of the babe’s head in order to extract it from the birth canal.

Mary stared at me, expressionless. Finally, she said, With your tools, you will crush the child’s head?

Yes, in order to save Ann’s life, I said.

Rain continued to beat down. The timbers overhead creaked ominously.

When the babe’s father returns, I said, he ought to take all of you to the workhouse.

He won’t, Mary said. Ann groaned in anguished agreement.

Hold your sister still, I told Mary.

Straightening her stance, she nodded, gripping Ann’s shoulders tight.

Withdrawing tools from my satchel, I punctured the infant’s skull with perforating scissors and crushed it with forceps. Bracing my boots in the slippery mud against the table legs, I hooked the shattered infant’s head with a crochet, pulling the baby out to the shoulders. Ann gave a mighty scream, and her sister held her with difficulty as I struggled to free the rest of the child’s body. I heard rain fall overhead with greater intensity as I grit my teeth and pulled.

Mam! Mam! all three of Ann’s daughters leapt up and cried out in alarm, wakened by their mother’s scream.

Stay back, I said, when I felt the girls’ thin arms encircle my legs.

Go back and lie down, Mary said, and I heard them move away.

In the damp cellar, cold perspiration dripped into my eyes. I held fast to the crochet and continued pulling on the babe without success. Not wanting to disfigure the infant’s body further, I urged Ann to push it out.

She has no strength, Mary said, still holding her sister’s shoulders.

Push, I urged Ann. One great push, and your suffering will end.

The brave mother screwed up her face and cried out in agony as she put her last bit of energy into complying with my request. She balled her fists and shrieked. Working in time with her effort, I was able to free the babe at last.

Ann was crying in pain and blood covered my hands, but the child was out.

Dear God, we thank Thee, Mary said, releasing her sister’s shoulders.

I severed the umbilical cord and found a cloth to wrap the baby.

As I waited for expulsion of the afterbirth, I laid the dead babe in Mary’s arms and tried to console Ann, for she was weeping and shaking her head.

Oh, sir, please tell me, she wept. Was it another girl?

No. A boy this time.

Oh Lord, she sobbed.

You can have another, Mary said quietly, holding the wrapped babe.

Ann raised her head off the table with effort and stared at her. Oh, no, she said, wiping away tears.

Try to rest, I urged her.

We heard rain pattering the floorboards overhead and one of the little girls burst into tears. Mam, she cried. I’m so cold.

Come here to me then, Ann said, holding her arms open. Her three daughters rushed to her at once and she did her best to embrace them, lying prone on the table. Her sister Mary watched this scene with tears in her eyes.

She laid the dead boy-child in the straw as a glob of slimy mud slid down the wall and landed at her feet. She said, "This is intolerable, Mr. Mosse. Don’t you agree? There ought to be a place—a decent place—where a poor woman like my sister can go to give birth."

A lying-in hospital, I said. I mean to establish such an institution.

God bless you, Mary said. I only hope it’s ready before my sister’s next labor.

I retrieved my coat from the straw where the little girls had left it and handed the coins in my pocket to Mary.

God bless you again, she said. I wish I had the pride to refuse.

I cleaned my tools as best I could, with Mary’s help, and repacked them.

Shall I take the babe with me, to arrange for burial? I asked Ann.

No, she said. The father should name him first.

I’ll return with medicine to help your healing, I told Ann. Until then, please rest as much as you can.

She nodded, surrounded by her three daughters.

As I walked out of this hovel into the rain, I wondered if Ann would live long enough to bear another child, and if she did not—would Mary take her place as mother to the girls?

My questions, however, were never answered.

The next time I visited that place, the floor over the cellar had collapsed and the family was gone.

PART ONE

Barber-Surgeon

CHAPTER 1

My Future Planned

When I was seventeen years old, Father called me into his library to outline the path he had chosen for me to follow the rest of my life.

He was seated behind the massive oak desk where he wrote his sermons, his leather-bound tithe book open before him. Everyone in our Anglican parish (including Presbyterians, Catholics and Quakers) was compelled to tithe a tenth of their property to maintain our church and pay Father’s salary as rector, because Ireland belongs to England, and the Church of England reigns supreme.

Father was wealthy enough to have property and keep servants, but not extravagantly so. The fact that he kept checking his book made me think that he worried about his income and didn’t trust the bullies he employed to collect his church tithes.

A pleasant exception was Mr. Nobbly, a soft-hearted young man Father had hired on the premise that he might collect tithes more easily through kindness than cruelty. I liked it when Mr. Nobbly visited the house, because he brought me little animals he had carved, or else miniature paintings. I’d seen him selling these miniature landscapes around Maryborough. He sold quite a few and when his stock was depleted, I saw him scrambling through the woods in search of new inspiration. He was an artist, and I wanted to be one, too.

To this end, I persuaded him to give me art lessons in the garden, on Wednesday afternoons when Father locked himself in the library to write Sunday’s sermon.

You must hold the brush like this, he instructed me, and it seemed my hand had been formed naturally to hold it. Painting came easily to me.

Why are you a tithe-collector, when you can paint? I asked him.

He laughed. A tithe collector is paid regularly, and can eat.

He showed me how he mixed his paints, and how he cut canvas into many pieces, to create the maximum amount of artwork for the smallest investment. I was impressed that he was blessed with mathematical as well as artistic talent. He was necessarily frugal, as his means were limited.

You must be more careful, Nobbly told me when he feared I might ruin a precious bit of canvas. Proceed slowly. Do not rush.

Yes, yes, I mumbled, intent on the task. Mr. Nobbly and I spent many pleasant hours painting in the garden, and a good thing we did it there, because it proved to be a messy business. Though I was a competent craftsman, Nobbly had the soul of a true artist. When my picture was finished, he’d add tiny shadowing or a dab of color that made my acceptable offering into something magical.

Will you teach me to paint portraits? I asked.

I am sadly deficient in that area, he replied. That’s why I’m not more successful. If I painted a good portrait I might find a patron.

He cleaned paint from his fingers with a bit of cloth; his hands were scarred and calloused from years of labor in the fields.

Are you planning to marry? I asked him, for I had seen various young ladies buying his miniatures and complimenting him in the marketplace.

No. I can hardly afford to feed myself, he said. He was indeed thin as a cattail reed, but handsome, and kind to me. Looking back, I believe it was Nobbly’s patience that made him unsuitable as a tithe collector.

Where is the money? Father would demand of him, and then I would hear Nobbly’s excuses.

If you can wait a fortnight, he would say, they have promised to pay.

Two weeks later Nobbly would enter the house empty-handed again and Father would pace the library floor. I think Father was fond of Nobbly—if only because he was willing to accept less pay than the other collectors—but the arrangement was ultimately unprofitable.

Having concluded that kindness was not the best way to extort money from balky parishioners, Father discharged Nobbly, and this put an end to my art lessons.

I’m sorry to leave you, Nobbly told me. But it must be a sign from God that you are ready to find a better teacher.

He waved farewell when he was released from his position and handed me a little painting of our garden that I had done—one of my best efforts. Nobbly had sold my other paintings as payment for the lessons. Looking at this picture, I thought it was more than competent, and perhaps even brilliant. I took it to Father and revealed my talent.

Men of substance are not artists, Father said, holding my canvas. Gentlemen collect art—they appreciate art—but they do not dirty their hands with it, unless in leisure.

Mr. Nobbly says it is a sign from God, I explained, but he interrupted me.

I am better qualified to interpret God’s signs than Nobbly, he said. God and I will find work for your hands that is better suited for a rector’s son.

I was devastated by Father’s dismissal of my talent and knew I must pursue another profession, though I had no idea what it should be.

Father chose for me.

He was a formidable presence on that September day in 1729 when he told me. Seated on a chair built wide enough to hold his expanding girth, he wore floor-length black robes and a shoulder-length white wig.

A log fire crackled in the stone fireplace in front of him, and Father’s favorite white speckled hound lay stretched, long and lean, on the hearthrug. She raised her head when I entered the library and thumped her tail. I scratched her soft ears and the bitch’s liquid brown eyes gleamed in the firelight.

Sit down, Boy, Father commanded me.

I left the dog and approached him.

I knew this was a solemn occasion because Father was wearing his finest wig, the one made of real human hair. He possessed two others: One made of yak hair and the other of horsehair.

Father had told me that all men of substance wore wigs as a matter of course, since French King Louis XIV went bald and made the practice fashionable. Light-colored wigs were most popular, and Father had his powdered white with cornstarch.

Because Father was so fond of his wigs, I feared that he would ask me to become a periwig maker, thus ensuring him the finest in headwear for the rest of his life. But I soon found out that such was not the case.

The dog by the fireplace moaned and rolled on her back, extending all four paws in the air. I knew the dog was allowed in Father’s library because her antics amused him—although he tried to conceal any sign of such delight.

Bartholomew, Father said, leaning back in his chair and interlacing his fingers on his chest, Do you understand the nature of primogeniture?

A log in the fire snapped.

I think so, sir, I said, and he seemed displeased.

I need you to understand precisely, and so I will define the situation in detail for you. He cleared his throat. Primogeniture is the method by which men of property keep their estates intact for future generations.

I knew that, and tried to interrupt, but Father continued his lecture.

"Primogeniture means that my eldest son is my heir. When I die, your older brother Andrew will inherit all my wealth and property. And when he dies, he will in turn pass it on to his eldest son. In this way the estate remains large and bountiful … not to be split up amongst many beneficiaries. Because you are my second son and will not inherit a fortune, you must work hard to earn your wealth."

I nodded and scratched my ankle. Perhaps I’d picked up a flea from the dog. Thinking I might steer the conversation in favor of my previously trampled artistic ambitions, I took a Biblical approach.

But, Father. Doesn’t the Bible tell us that it is more difficult for a rich man to get into Heaven than for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle? Doesn’t God want us to dispose of our riches?

Father exhaled noisily and unlaced his fingers.

"When we die, all our earthly riches pass to the next generation and we are judged at Heaven’s gate only by the good works we have done. Without wealth, however, we are unable to do good works. What value is a beggar?"

I hunched my shoulders. Wasn’t Saint Paul poor? And the martyrs?

Father sighed in frustration. You are too bold by a half. He shook his head. "The point I am trying to make is that when I die, all my worldly goods will belong to your brother. I will give you an allowance, a regular supplement, but it won’t be large. It is up to you to make your own fortune."

The dog whimpered. The fire crackled like snapping twigs. I held my breath, waiting for Father’s next words. His broad cheeks were ruddy with the exertion of making his arguments to me and I regretted having vexed him.

Now, he continued, I want you to be part of a worthy profession. Because of your brashness, I cannot see you entering the clergy, nor do I see you reading the law because you lack a studious nature.

I was convinced that my future must certainly lie in the construction of wigs.

I have spoken to your tutor, and he suggests apprenticeship to a barber-surgeon. Thus I have bound you as apprentice to a barber-surgeon—John Stone, of Dublin. He has a good reputation, and seems patient enough to instruct you. You’ll meet him Friday, so you must pack your things.

Am I to live with him in Dublin? I asked. I’d spent my whole life in the walls of my father’s Maryborough rectory. I’d always had a comfortable life, schooled at home by tutors. Dublin was a half-day’s journey by stagecoach from Maryborough, but I’d rarely been allowed to travel there.

May I take one of the maids with me, Father?

Our servants took care of me. How would I manage without them?

No, Bartholomew, you may not, he said. Perhaps I have not spoken plainly enough. He paused and cleared his throat as he often did when coming to the point of a sermon. You are a man now, and you must make your own way in the world.

What if I am unable to learn this craft? I asked, wondering, if an artistic soul such as mine could reconcile itself with barber-surgery.

Your new master, Mr. Stone, requires only a strong lad willing to work and learn from him for five years.

I’ll work hard and learn well, I said. If that’s what you wish.

My father leaned back in his chair. One more thing, he said. I have arranged your marriage, which will follow your apprenticeship.

Because my apprenticeship would last five years, marriage seemed too far away to concern me. I was young and completely inexperienced in such things.

Who will I marry? I asked.

Elizabeth Mallory, he said. She admires you and her father is happy to ally his family with ours.

Since my childhood I remembered Elizabeth staring in my direction and then running away when I spoke to her. She was a quiet thing with brown hair, and I thought she would be as good a wife as any. Having no argument, I told Father that I accepted the arrangement.

I startled when I felt the dog lick my hand. She had risen from the hearth and was asking to be let out to relieve herself. I stroked the dog’s head and she panted. The fire was roaring now and it was becoming too warm in the room.

Leave now, and send in one of the servants to fix this fire, Father ordered. Take the dog with you when you leave. He had already turned his attention back to his account books, his brow furrowed.

As I left the library with the dog at my heels, I remember feeling powerless in the grip of my father’s well-laid plans. I felt akin to the dog; she was one of many possessed by my father, and none of them had names. I was one of his human possessions, an inconsequential son to be reared and sent away.

At that moment I vowed to be a person of consequence—someone who would reshape his