The Bone Cutter

By G.F. Cope

It is somewhat unusual to read about the profession of surgery in the harsh conditions that were the world of physicians and surgeons who worked for the British Army. Graham Cope has given us an insight to this world but it isn't for the faint of heart, so the reader should brace themselves.

May 1793The Austrian Netherlands

Having ex

• Language: English
• Publisher: Penmore Press LLC
• Release date: Apr 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9781957851259

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cover-image, Cope GF -Ebook Bone Cutter_040824MJ_3

THE BONE CUTTER



THE BONE CUTTER

by

G. F. Cope



www.Penmorepress.com

The Bone Cutter

By G.F.Cope

Copyright © 2024.G.F.Cope

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

ISBN:978-1-957851-26-6( Paperback)

ISBN-13: 978-1-957851-25-9(e-book)

BISAC Subject Headings:

FIC014000FICTION / Historical

FIC032000FICTION / War & Military

FIC031020FICTION / Thrillers / Historical

Editor: Lauren McElroy

Cover Design:

EMILIJA RAKIĆ PR EMILYS WORLD OF DESIGN

Address all correspondence to:

Penmore Press LLC

920 N Javelina Pl

Tucson AZ 85748

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I am indebted to the following books and authors: Men of Steel by Michael Crumplin FRCS, Inside the Regiment by Carole Divall, The Noble Duke of York by Alfred H. Burne, Generals by Mark Urban, Sir James McGrigor: The Scalpel and the Sword – The Autobiography of the Father of Army Medicine by Mary McGrigor (Editor), Wellington’s Doctors by Dr Martin Howard, Larrey: Surgeon to Napoleon’s Imperial Guard by Robert G. Richardson, Memoir of His Late Royal Highness Frederick Duke of York by John Watkins. My thanks to Anwen Rees, and Bruce Wilson for their comments and advice in the early stages and Colin Cope, Huw Davies and Arwel Davies for their comments on completion of the manuscript. Special thanks to Sophie Buchaillard and Jonathan Macho for their literary and editorial advice, and Philip K. Allan and Graham Loveluck-Edwards for their advice regarding publishers and promotion. Special thanks to the York Army Museum, home to the 14th Foot, for granting access to their archives and artifacts and ongoing support. Finally, sincere thanks to my wife Gwenda for her literary advice and enduring support throughout this long project.



DEDICATION

To Osian and Efan

PREFACE

In 1789, Europe was thrown into turmoil. The French Revolution and the Reign of Terror brought the execution of King Louis XVI, his wife and many of the aristocracy, senior military figures, academics, and clergy. The new regime wanted to spread the revolution across Europe, and the kings and emperors feared for their lives. When, in February 1793, after France had declared war on the most powerful countries of Europe – Austria, Prussia and Britain – the rebel army swept north and invaded their neighbour, the Austrian Netherlands. Britain’s King George III, desperate to quell the Revolution, sent troops across the Channel to support his allies, but insisted that they be commanded by his second son, the young Prince Frederick, Duke of York and Albany. But the army was ill prepared and poorly equipped after defeat and humiliation just ten years earlier in the American War of Independence. Although the French army had lost most of their experienced generals, they were passionate, rebellious and unorthodox fighters. They quickly evolved into a coherent force that proved a match for the traditional regimented armies steeped in formality and rigid formations.

In the turmoil of war two men launched their careers, both from different rungs of the social ladder. One a young medical man down on his luck, the other a Prince of the Blood. Both were determined to prove their worth, with very differing results.

CHAPTER ONE

ARRIVAL

Tournai, Northern France. May 1793

Andrew Jardine was trying to listen to what his new companion was saying, but he was bewildered, taking in the enormity of the place. He had never witnessed anything like it. Aberdeen and Edinburgh were busy, but nothing like this. The massive grey, lichen-encrusted walls of the round towers of the fortress, with ferns growing out of the crevices, reached high into the sky. Pigeons swooped around the buildings, swarms of insects gathered, and flocks of swifts screeched as they glided above the turrets, seemingly disappearing into the clouds.

As he walked through the fortress, the bright sunlight was searing his eyes. He wiped away a tear from his cheek, then ran his hand through his short auburn hair as he watched the crowd of country folk going about their lives on market day. Men pulled their carts; women coaxed their children through the crowd as they carried baskets of fruit and vegetables. A putrid smell pervaded the whole area, arising from the sheep and goats tethered to every available post, and the chickens and small birds crammed into small willow cages. Just as pervasive was the incessant din from the myriad of people talking together and the stallholders shouting and yelling, drawing attention to their wares. All the while red-coated soldiers were moving between them, most walking in small groups, twos or threes, others leading their horses back to the stables.

As they walked, Jim looked across to Jardine, and in his distinctive Yorkshire drawl said, ‘Are you listening to me?! I’m trying my best here, trying to make your life a bit easier by telling you what goes on, and I don’t think you’ve heard a word I’ve said!’

Jardine looked down at his companion, who was rather short in stature, and replied with a sense of humility, ‘Sorry, friend, but my mind is spinning. I’ve just arrived from Greenwich, a journey far worse than I have ever experienced before. It took me four days, being tossed and hurled about at sea and then being unable to dock, and the road passage wasn’t much better. I’ve hardly slept. I’ve only just had time to drop off my kit in the mess, and here I am.’

‘Very well,’ said Craig ‘but you’re not going to get much rest yet. I’ll try and tell you about it later. We’re nearly there.’

At that moment Jardine was forced backwards, causing him to twist and stumble. An oncoming soldier had barged into his shoulder.

‘Oi! Watch where you’re going!’ Jardine shouted, glaring behind him at the retreating man.

‘Never mind him. He’s a bastard to everyone – Sergeant Henderson. Just keep out of his way.’

The two men left the market behind, walking through a labyrinth of alleyways and down flights of stone steps before stopping at the base of one of the round towers.

‘I hope you’re ready for this!’ exclaimed Craig with a smirk. The two young men entered through a heavy wooden door, passing under a low arch and into a dark, dank room. Jardine’s senses were assaulted, overwhelmed by moans and groans, loud, hacking coughing coming from all directions, and the smell of fetid air pervaded with an odour of human waste. He gagged as his eyes got accustomed to the darkness.

Craig moved forward, brushing away from his face some of the swarm of large black flies that buzzed about. He picked up one of the glowing lanterns from a shelf and held it aloft. With the soft orange glow Jardine could see prostrate bodies – too many to count – spread out before him. He could make out some on low, wooden beds, two men doubled up in each one, stretched out head to toe. Others lay on rough sacking mattresses, while those less fortunate lay on thin layers of dirty straw spread out on the hard stone floor.

The two men walked slowly into the room and approached a figure crouching down over a bed. He was probably in his late thirties, dressed in a grimy white shirt splattered with a few drops of dried blood, sleeves rolled to the elbow. His greasy, shoulder-length hair was dishevelled, partially covering his long, bony face.

Craig stood next him and said, ‘Sir, this is Andrew Jardine, our new mate. Just arrived.’ The man stood up, arched his back, pressed his blood-stained hands to the base of his spine, and let out a groan. Craig turned to Jardine and said, ‘And this is our regimental surgeon, Mister Anderson. He’s our chief.’

Anderson quickly took a glance at the two men and exclaimed, ‘Right! I haven’t got time right now, so get yourselves to work! You two can go over there.’ He pointed to the far corner.

Without another word Craig turned and started to walk across the room. Jardine followed and heard Craig say, in an almost inaudible voice, ‘He can be a bit sharp, but he’s alright.’ They made their way through the disorganised lines of the sick and injured. Craig pointed, saying, ‘These cases over here are continuous fever; the rest are mostly bloody flux. That’s the smell. What we have to do is bleed these poor sods, then Anderson will come along later with the powdered rhubarb purgatives and sulphate of magnesia emetics to flush out the bad humours from both ends. Make sure they have a bucket nearby.’

Jardine was knowledgeable enough to know the diseases Craig was talking about were typhus and dysentery. He replied, ‘Yes, I’ve had quite a lot of practice at bleeding. I’ve got my kit.’ He patted the bulge in his right-hand pocket. ‘All I need is a porringer and I should be fine.’

‘You’ll find one of them under the bed or near where they are sleeping.’

They walked towards a large man sitting on a bundle of straw, his broad shoulders resting against the dank wall. His round face was dirty and pale, his dark sunken eyes closed above several days’ growth of beard. His shirt was filthy, his white breeches badly stained.

‘Right, I’ll leave you to get on with this one’ Craig said, then walked to the next patient.

Jardine looked at the pitiful figure. He was probably in his late twenties. He moved languidly to brush the crawling flies away from his eyes, which he must have done a thousand times. The man glanced up with a despairing look. Jardine squatted down to speak to him and smelt the man’s offensive breath.

‘I am Mr. Jardine. What’s your name?’

‘Joseph Smith,’ the man replied, hardly stirring from his position.

‘I’ll do my best for you, Joseph. Let’s see what I can do.’ He started to unbutton and take off the man’s shirt. ‘I think a good wash will really do you good. And I’ll try and get you some clean clothes.’ As he removed the grime-encrusted chemise he could see that on the inside it was covered with small black dots. Body lice.

‘How long have you had this shirt on?’

The man, looking down, replied without any fuss, ‘Since I got here. About a week. For days I didn’t know what was going on. I can’t remember a thing, but I am feeling a bit better now and they say I’ll pull through.’

‘Good, good to hear...’

‘Oi! You! What the hell are you doing?’ Andrew turned and looked through the gloom towards the voice and saw Anderson striding quickly towards him. ‘I’ve been watching you. What do you think you’re doing, taking off that man’s shirt?’

‘I was going to try and get him a clean one and wash him down before I bleed him, sir.’

Anderson stopped within a few inches of Jardine’s face and said in a stern voice, ‘We haven’t got time for all that. Can’t you see?’ And he pointed around at the innumerable bodies lying about. ‘We haven’t got time for mollycoddling. Just get the bleeding job done and we can all get out of this hellhole more quickly! Now, get on with it!’

Jardine turned to the man, who was looking at him with a sorrowful face. ‘Sorry, Joseph, we’ll have to put your shirt back on and I’ll see what I can do for you later.’ He took up the shirt and gave it a good shake to rid it of its residents. Without saying anything, he looked at the man’s arms. Both were covered in loosely tied bandages. Carefully he unwound the dirty linen strips and saw that the skin was covered in red, weeping sores from all the incisions that had already taken place. But he had no choice. He had to bleed the man. Jardine took his new medical kit from his pocket, untied the tapes and rolled out the clean khaki cloth. The light from the candle shone on the row of gleaming steel instruments: needles, probe-like bistouries, scissors and scalpels, their sharp blades protected by waxy brown paper. Jardine was proud of his recently purchased equipment. They were the tools of his trade and had cost him dearly. He reached in and removed a small thumb lancet – a short blade with a small pearl handle – and from his other pocket he removed a cloth tourniquet with a small metal screw.

He lifted up the man’s right arm, placed the tourniquet over his bicep muscle, pulled the strap tight and turned the screw. Quickly the blood vessels of the forearm became engorged. Jardine was relieved. At least the man’s veins were clearly visible, which made bleeding easier. He carefully made a small incision into the radial vein, gently drawing the lancet across the skin. The path of the knife was immediately followed by a line of glistening red blood. Joseph made no sound or movement, as if he was accustomed to this happening. Jardine quickly realised he had forgotten the porringer; he looked on the floor and quickly picked up the old pottery dish, chipped around the edges, and placed it under the man’s arm. The blood flowed quickly and the large bowl slowly filled. Both men just stared at it in silence.

The glossy crimson blood slowly took on a dull sheen, as the liquid clotted. Jardine detected the familiar and distinctive smell of blood, a sweet metallic odour. He thought back to the hospital wards where he had learned his trade, with bleeding the most frequent activity he had undertaken. He thought it was as if he was draining the lifeblood of every patient he had ever treated.

Once the liquid had reached the required fifteen-ounce mark, Jardine placed his left middle finger over the vein to slow the flow. With his other hand he released the tourniquet, then took a lint pad from his kit and placed it over the wound. Holding it in place he took a roller bandage from his pocket and wound it tightly around the man’s forearm. He looked at the man’s face and saw a glimmer of expression in his sunken eyes.

‘I hope that helps. And I will be back.’

Jardine glanced around the gloomy room, lit faintly by just the odd lantern. A few yards away he could see two figures carrying a body, one securing the corpse under the arms, the other holding the legs by the ankles, the backside of the dead figure nearly scraping along the floor.

The moaning and groaning continued in the background, with frequent calls for water, but there was little help forthcoming from anyone else. Jardine took his time and moved from one man to another, giving water and speaking soft, quiet words of comfort and reassurance that help was on its way, but he felt strangely out of place. He sensed the situation in this hospital was hopeless, but he knew he had to have resolve, a determination that would have to carry him through this ordeal.

*****

Jardine and the other mates and surgeons worked their way through the meagre treatments they could offer; medicines were already in short supply and the orderlies who removed the dead were beyond caring. As his first arduous working day was thankfully coming to an end an orderly came up to him and told him he was needed in Anderson’s office. Jardine anxiously made his way wearily through the rows of casualties to the far side of the room where he had last seen the regimental surgeon. He found him, washing his hands in a round enamel bowl. As Anderson reached for a white rag at his side, he saw Jardine and beckoned him in. Once Jardine was inside, Anderson gestured towards an old wooden chair and Jardine sat down, looking around the room. Without a word Anderson walked towards a cupboard in the corner and pulled out a half-empty bottle of whisky. ‘Drink?’ he said.

‘No thank you, sir. I don’t drink.’

With surprise in his voice Anderson said, ‘What? An army man who doesn’t drink? And you a Scot. Well, I never.’ He sat down opposite Jardine and poured himself a sizeable amount of the amber liquid. He gathered up his clay pipe from the desk, and from a leather pouch took some brown powdered tobacco leaves to pack the bowl. Without looking up he asked, ‘So, where are you from, lad?’ He took the lighted candle from the edge of the table and lit the tobacco, drawing in three deep breaths.

‘I am from near Aberdeen, sir, and did my training there and in Edinburgh, two and a half years.’ After a slight pause, he continued, ‘But I had to leave before I finished, to take up this position.’

‘Edinburgh!’ Anderson exclaimed as he tilted his head upwards and exhaled the smoke. ‘My hometown. Whom were you apprenticed to there?’

‘George French in the County Infirmary,’ replied Jardine. ‘I learned a lot there. It was a good place.’

Anderson stroked his bristled chin and looked up, ‘I knew George. We trained together. Good man. Why did you leave?’

Jardine looked down at his clasped hands in his lap and frowned. ‘I needed to earn some money, sir. My wife died a little while ago and my parents agreed to look after my little girl, but only if I could earn some money. I couldn’t find a clinical place anywhere in Scotland so I decided to join up.’

There were a few seconds of silence as Anderson drew on his pipe and leaned back in his chair. ‘Sorry to hear that, lad.’ He blew out some more smoke, then leaned forward in his chair and placed his hands together, interlocking his fingers. 'Well, then! We’ll have to get you to make the most of it here and see if you can send some money back to your folks.’ He took another swig. ‘My boy, this is where your real education starts. You have a lot to learn, not least the fact that we don’t have enough hands to get through the cases, which are growing every day. The flux is taking hold and at the moment we are just about coping. Before long there’ll be many more, and we’ll be struggling.

‘Now a little about the 14th Foot. It is much like any other infantry regiment. Our commander is Lieutenant Colonel Doyle, who is a stickler for the rules and expects a lot of his men, but he’s fair. The officers are the usual bunch of incompetent rich boys. They don’t like us, and we don’t like them, but if you keep on the right side, you’ll be fine!’ He drew on his pipe again and continued. ‘Among our unit of medics you have met Craig. Nice lad – a bit lazy, and sometimes reckless, but reliable. At the top there’s Mr Bell. He’s been with the army a long time, a veteran of the American war, but I don’t think you’ll see much of him. Then there’s Mr Kearsley, my counterpart in the 53rd Foot, a good surgeon and a decent chap. And, finally, there’s Henry Walter. He’s our apothecary, and you go to him if you need any medicines.’ He stopped to think, ‘Oh, and there’s John Gunning, the purveyor. You get anything else you want from him, but keep an eye on him – he’s a bit shady. My advice is, try to fit in. Don’t moan too much, work hard and keep your head down.’

Anderson again pulled on his pipe, then there was a knock at the door and a young officer entered, a clean-shaven individual, smartly attired in his new red-coated uniform and not even twenty years old.

‘Ah, Adjutant Wilson. Come for the report?’

‘Yes sir,’ said the young man. He looked at Jardine but made no gesture.

‘Just a minute,’ Anderson said as he took up his pen, dipped it in his inkwell and paused. He made a few scratches on a blank sheet of paper and handed it to the young man.

Wilson took up the sheet, looked at the figures and said, ‘Up again, sir? Colonel Doyle is not going to be pleased.’ He turned, opened the door and left.

Jardine sensed a change in Anderson’s mood, realised the introduction was over and stood up. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He turned to leave.

As he reached the door handle Anderson said, ‘You can go back to the mess now. But before you go, tell me: why don’t you drink, lad?’

Jardine turned. ‘I saw too much of what drink can do in Edinburgh – the drunks, the poverty, the thieving. The final straw came when I saw a man killed in a drunken brawl. He was struck on the chin, fell down and hit his head on the floor. I went to help him, but there was little I could do. Other people came and he was taken away, but I heard after that he had died. Such a tragedy, but so common. That just put me off. Then there was the fact that my father didn’t drink. I just decided it was easier to leave it alone. It doesn’t bother me. Thank you again, sir.’ He opened the door and left.

*****

Jardine emerged from the hospital and made his way back to the barracks as best he could, asking passing soldiers the way. The sun was slowly setting, casting long shadows, pitching the alleyway of the tower into shade. The bustle had died down, with most of the residents gone from the courtyard, leaving just a few soldiers leading their horses or just walking through.

After quite a while he arrived back at the barracks. He felt as if his whole body was aching from tiredness. He just wanted to lie down and rest. He was glad to be back at the large, busy dormitory, with its pervading sweaty atmosphere, where he had hurriedly deposited his possessions. He came through the door and saw Craig lying on his low wooden bunk, one hand behind his head and his outstretched legs crossed, smoking his pipe. He then peered into the corner where he had dropped his own things. There was nothing there. He felt a churning in his stomach and suddenly felt light-headed. He cried out in desperation, ‘Where’re my bags? Where’s my chest?’

Craig shrugged his shoulders. ‘Don’t know.’

‘Someone’s taken them! That’s all I’ve got.’ Craig was unmoved, and just shook his head. ‘All my books, my instruments, my clothes.’ The look of sorrow on Jardine’s face was desperate.

Craig gave out a short laugh, shook his head and stood up. ‘It was me! I nicked ‘em! He looked Jardine in the face and said, ‘But don’t worry. They’re safe. Come with me.’ He took up a lantern and led Jardine into a gloomy corridor and to another door. Craig took out a key from his belt and turned it in the lock, and they entered the dark room. He exclaimed, ‘You are a silly arse! Fancy leaving your kit lying around. Good job I came back when I did or some bastard would surely have gone through it and taken anything he could sell.’

Jardine felt anger at being humiliated but said nothing. He relaxed a little and with a sigh of relief blurted, ‘I thought I had lost everything. My heart sank.’

‘Well, you never know your luck! But let me tell you this: anything of any value will walk unless you put it under lock and key or keep it about your person. The stores will have a footlocker which you put at the end of your bed, and only you have the key. You can keep your valuables and anything else that is precious to you there. So, see Gunning tomorrow.’ He pointed to a collection of bags on top of a flat-topped wooden trunk. ‘Over there – all your stuff is in the corner. Take what you need for now and see about your trunk tomorrow. Then it’s grub up.’

The look of relief on Jardine’s face was striking. ‘Thanks, Jim. Lesson duly learned.’

Jardine unpacked a few items and bundled them under his arm. Then they left, Jim locking the door again behind them. They went back to the bunks and Jardine put most of his goods under the blanket that lay on the straw-filled pallet.

‘Are we off to eat?’ Craig asked.

Jardine replied, ‘You show me where it is, but I’ve got something to do first.’

Once he knew where to go, he slipped out into the evening air and made his way back to the hospital. On arrival he took up one of the lanterns and walked towards the patient he had first worked on. The atmosphere in the room was more subdued; no medics were present, and few orderlies. The ambiance was still. The low moans and coughing were still there, but there were a few conversations going on, and the pipes of the men were smouldering as they lay for another night in their filthy squalor. It reminded Jardine of the glowing embers of a fire that was almost extinguished.

He made his way over to Joseph Smith, who was still propped up against the wall, and held up the lamp to illuminate his face. ‘How are you feeling?’

Joseph looked up, surprised to see him. ‘A bit better, thanks.’

‘I’ve come to finish the job. Please take off your dirty shirt and put this on.’ He handed him a clean garment from inside his tunic. ‘I think we are about the same size. I’ll see to the old one, then come back early tomorrow and give you a good wash. I am sure it will make you feel better.’ With that, Jardine made his way back to the mess for his first meal on foreign soil.

          *****

Sleep eluded Jardine for a long time. His bunk was hard and he felt cold, even though he was fully clothed apart from his boots. He was thinking of the home he had left behind, of his strange new surroundings, of many men together, some of whom were talking quietly, others snoring. Slowly his weariness eventually gave way to relaxation, which sent him off to sleep.

But from deep in his slumbers, he became aware of movement, movement inside his blankets. A mouse, a rat?! As he awoke, he realised it was a hand, a hand moving slowly inside his bedclothes. He made a grab at it and found fingers, which quickly retracted, but he managed to hold onto one and yanked it upwards as hard and as fast as he could. A muffled cry came from the owner of the hand – it was pulled away forcibly and the perpetrator was gone. It was too dark to see, but a human shape was moving quickly away.

Jardine quickly sat upright, his heart pounding, feeling sick. He started to shake. He looked under his pillow. His pocket watch, a leaving present from his father, was still there. His medical kit and the other items he knew he had to look after were safe. He stopped trembling and started to compose himself. There was nothing he could do about it now, and who would care, anyway? He considered his first day. The hospital was worse than he had thought possible, but he was thankful his new friend Jim was looking out for him. He knew he had the determination to make the best of his new life.

CHAPTER TWO

BRITISH HEADQUARTERS

A beam of early morning sunlight illuminated the gold thread of a hunting scene. The large Dutch