A NARROW ESCAPE AND A WONDERFUL EXPERIMENT.
It was the third day of January. A fearful storm had been raging for two
days, and now the weather was growing intensely cold.
It was late in the evening when a young man arrived at an hotel in
Boston, and registered as Truman H. Winthrop, M.D., New York city.
He was apparently twenty-five years of age, a tall, massively formed
fellow, yet so finely proportioned that he did not really seem so
powerful as he was. A fine brow surmounted by a wealth of curling brown
hair crowned a keen, clear-cut, and intelligent face. A pair of deep
blue eyes gleamed with a kindly light, yet seemed to take in, with swift
comprehensive glances, everything going on around him; while about the
sensitive mouth there lingered an expression of sweetness, which
betokened a tender heart and warm sympathies, though the somewhat heavy
chin betrayed an undercurrent of great strength and firmness of
character.
“Can you give me a comfortable room,” he inquired of the clerk, after he
had entered his name upon the hotel register.
“We are very full to-night,” was the answer, “and the best that I can do
for you will be to give you a room on the third floor over the hall.”
“Hum,” mused the young physician, with a somewhat disappointed look on
his fine face. “How is it heated?” he asked, after a moment of thought.
“By a stove. It was originally used as a storeroom, and steam was not
carried into it when we refitted the hotel,” replied the clerk.
“Well, if that is the best that you can give me, I shall be obliged to
put up with it for one night, as the storm is too severe for me to go
out to hunt up another,” the stranger returned with an air of
resignation.
“I can do better to-morrow, perhaps, as some of our guests may be
leaving,” said the clerk.
“All right, you may order a fire to be lighted at once, so that my room
will be warm by the time I am through supper,” responded the young
physician, and then he turned to follow a servant to the dining-room.
Half an hour later he retired to his room and to bed, having first given
orders to be called at eight o’clock the next morning.
“Make sure that I am awake,” he said to the call-boy, as he went
upstairs, “for I have an important engagement at nine.”
It was well for him that he gave this order, or he would never have
opened his eyes in this world again.
Promptly at eight the next morning the boy rapped upon the door.
There was no response.
Again he knocked, and more vigorously.
Still no answer from within.
“Hallo there!” he cried, at the same time using his knuckles with
redoubled energy. “Wake up, can’t you?”
But the occupant of the little room over the hall was either a very
heavy sleeper, or something was wrong with him.
The man put his ear to the keyhole, and could plainly detect the sound
of heavy breathing.
“Something is amiss; nobody could remain in any natural sleep during
such a racket as I’ve made,” muttered the man, an anxious look coming
into his face.
He hastened below, and reported to the clerk, and together they hurried
back to the physician’s room and tried a second time to arouse him.
It was in vain, however; there was not the slightest movement within,
although they could plainly detect the heavy breathing of the man.
“He’s in a fit of some kind, and we shall have to force the lock or
break the door,” said the clerk.
Both men put their shoulders against it and used all their strength for
this purpose; but in vain, for the door was stronger than they.
A step-ladder was then brought, and a boy with a rope around his body
was sent up to remove the transom, then told to crawl through, when they
would let him down inside the room to unlock the door.
This was soon accomplished, and the moment the clerk stepped inside the
door he comprehended the situation.
The room was full of coal gas.
The man upon the bed was asphyxiated.
Every window in the room was closed, and the damper in the stove-pipe
had, by either the force of a strong draught or a sudden gust of wind,
been shut, and thus the fumes from the burning coal had been thrown into
the room.
The young doctor lay flat upon his back, breathing stertorously, while
his face was ghastly, his skin clammy, and his pulse alarmingly feeble.
By this time quite an excitement prevailed on that floor of the hotel,
and a crowd of curious and awe-stricken people had gathered about, the
proprietor among them.
“A doctor—is there a doctor in the house?” cried some one who had not
been quite so fully paralyzed by the appalling discovery as the others.
This aroused the proprietor to a sense of his duty.
“No, there is none,” he said, “and none nearer than—street, that I know
of. But,” a bright idea suddenly occurring to him, “the City Hospital is
near by; it’ll take no longer to get him there than to get a physician
here, and they have every facility there for every kind of treatment.”
This plan seemed the most feasible of any, and accordingly the young
doctor was warmly wrapped in blankets, a carriage hastily summoned, and
both the proprietor and his clerk accompanied him to the hospital.
Immediately on their arrival, the most energetic measures were adopted
for the man’s recovery, although the attending physicians looked grave
and doubtful as they remarked the failing condition of their patient.
They gave him hypodermic injections of ether and brandy, besides
administering other remedies. His stomach was emptied of its contents,
and then a tube, connected with a great jar of oxygen, was inserted in
his mouth, so that he could breathe pure oxygen instead of air.
But all these efforts proved unavailing, and the doctors then held a
hurried consultation as to whether it would be wise and best to try, as
a last resort, the transfusion of blood.
“He cannot live as he is—it is his only chance, and it is worth
trying—if we can find any one who is willing to give up blood enough to
save him,” the head physician remarked, as he regarded with a sorrowful
glance the splendid physique and intellectual face of the man before
him.
He wanted to save his life, and he would gladly have given all that was
necessary of his own blood, but he knew that he alone could perform that
delicate and difficult operation successfully.
Then they began a hunt for some strong, well person among the nurses,
who would sacrifice some of his life-current.
But it seemed likely to prove a fruitless search, as no one appeared
willing to submit to the experiment of having his veins opened for the
benefit of another.
One man sullenly muttered that he “hadn’t any more blood than he needed
himself.” Others stared vacantly at the doctor, then shook their heads,
turned on their heels and walked away, and it seemed as if the
undertaking must be relinquished and the patient left to die; he seemed
very near death now, for every time he drew in a breath of oxygen his
body shook like a leaf.
“What shall we do? I cannot let him die,” the physician cried in an
agony of anxiety, for every moment was precious.
He turned away in disgust from the strong men who had refused his
appeal, walked to the door and looked out into the long corridor.
No one was in sight, but the next moment a light step in the distance
warned him that some one was approaching, and then one of the nurses
from the women’s department came tripping around the corner from another
hall.
“Ah, Dr. Hunt!” she exclaimed, as she caught sight of him, “I was just
seeking you—the head nurse in ward twelve wants you to come there
immediately—a new and critical case has just arrived.”
“I cannot go at present,” the physician answered. “I am in the greatest
extremity myself, just now, over a case of life or death, and only for
the want of a little pure blood which no one will give.”
Salome Howland, for she was the nurse, was all interest at once, and,
lifting her eager, earnest face to his, asked:
“What is it—tell me, please?”
She was a favorite with Dr. Hunt, and he explained the case to her.
“He’s a magnificent fellow, and it is the greatest pity in the world to
let him die, without giving him this chance,” he said in conclusion.
“And isn’t there anybody who will make so simple a sacrifice for him?”
the girl inquired, a curl of scorn wreathing her lips.
“No. I can’t find a man among all the nurses who has courage enough to
let me open a vein. I’d give my own blood gladly, only there is no one
else who can conduct the operation. Heavens! I am getting desperate
enough to gag and bind some one and forcibly take his blood,” Dr. Hunt
concluded, as he gnawed his under lip savagely.
There was a moment of silence; then the fair girl before him said,
quietly:
“Dr. Hunt, I will give this young man a chance for his life—you shall
take from my veins all the blood that you need.”
The physician started and regarded her with astonishment. He had not
thought of calling upon a woman for his experiment.
“Child!” he cried, “do you mean it?”
“I certainly do, doctor.”
“But,” scanning her face critically, “you do not look as if you had any
blood to spare.”
“Why—because I am pale?” she asked, then added: “That is natural to me,
as you ought to know by this time, though, perhaps, the excitement of
the moment has intensified my paleness a trifle. But I am well and
strong, and I know my blood is pure. I have never been ill. I have no
taint of disease about me. I have perfect confidence in you, Dr. Hunt,
and I know that if I am well cared for afterward my veins will soon be
so replenished as to make up for the blood that you take from me. Do not
hesitate—do not waste precious time, but save this man’s life if you
can,” she concluded, with an earnestness, yet with a calmness which won
both his gratitude and admiration.
He laid his fingers upon her pulse.
It beat full and strong beneath them, with the flowing of the pure
vigorous current of her life.
“You are a noble girl!” he cried, as he ushered her into the room from
which he had but just come. “There is the man who needs your blood!”
Dr. Hunt immediately dispatched a runner to tell the head nurse of the
ward Salome served in that he required her services for the present, and
her place must be filled by another.
Then he hastened the preparations for his vital experiment.
A second cot was moved close beside the one on which the young physician
lay, and a tall screen drawn around them, while all other necessary
appliances were hastily arranged.
Salome was then led forward to the patient.
The girl gazed upon him for a moment, taking in at a glance his grand
physique, his noble head and fine face, and a faint flush stole into her
cream-like cheeks.
“Oh, he must not die!” she cried in a low, intense tone, as she lifted a
pair of appealing eyes to the head physician. “Save him—save him, and be
quick, Dr. Hunt, or it may be too late!”
Then, without a thought of self, she lay down upon the cot prepared for
her, and allowed her sleeve to be cut from her dress, and her arm to be
tightly bandaged about the fleshy portion, even assisting in these
operations herself, without a tremor of fear or dread.
The arm of Dr. Winthrop was prepared in the same way; then a hypodermic
injection of cocaine was administered to Salome, to deaden the pain, and
all was ready for the final act.
With a firm and skilful hand, Dr. Hunt made an opening about two inches
in length in Dr. Winthrop’s right arm, on the outside, just at the bevel
in the elbow. He cut away until he freed the median cephalic vein from
the surrounding tissues, after which he treated Salome’s left arm in the
same manner.
Then taking a long rubber tube, with a bulb in the centre and a
sharp-pointed steel tube at each end, he connected the life-currents of
those two human beings lying side by side.
Successive compressions pumped the blood of the brave girl into the
veins of the strong but helpless man, and she never flinched or moved
once during the operation.
She lay with her eyes fixed in an anxious, eager look upon that ghastly
face opposite her, as if her whole soul was concentrated upon the one
thought of giving him life.
When some ten or twelve ounces of blood had been infused into the
patient, a change began to be perceptible in him; his pulse grew
stronger, and he partly regained consciousness.
The physician then withdrew the tubes, tied the veins, and sewed up the
wounds in the two arms; but before this work was finished the heroic
nurse had fainted from loss of blood and excitement, while, it became
evident that the young doctor was steadily improving, and stimulants,
mixed with strong beef-tea, were frequently administered to him.
With tears in his eyes, Dr. Hunt himself gathered Salome in his arms,
laid her upon a stretcher, and had her carried to one of the best
private rooms in the hospital, where, after restoring her to
consciousness, he gave her temporarily into the hands of another
physician and a competent nurse, while he went back to his other
patient.
It was evident that the experiment was destined to prove a success, for
he found the young man breathing naturally and conscious, although he
could not yet speak.
They continued to give him nourishment and stimulants at frequent
intervals throughout the day, and by evening he was much improved,
although still weak and languid from the terrible ordeal through which
he had passed.
He was able to converse a little with Dr. Hunt, who had worked so
faithfully to save him, when he made his last round for the night. He
told him that he was a physician from New York city, and had come to
Boston at the invitation of a brother physician, to visit the various
hospitals of the city, and they had planned to come that very day to the
institution where he was now a patient.
He said that he feared his friend must be suffering great anxiety upon
his account, as he had agreed to meet him at his office at nine o’clock
that morning, and he would not know where to look for him, as he had
sent him no word at what hotel he would stop.
Dr. Hunt, appreciating the situation, at once dispatched a messenger to
Dr. Cutler, who came early the next morning to the sick man.
But though Dr. Winthrop steadily improved, he was not able to leave his
bed for several days; his system had been so poisoned by the noxious gas
that it took time to eradicate it.
Meantime, he inquired and learned all about the circumstances attending
his critical condition and his almost marvellous restoration.
“That noble girl!” he had exclaimed, upon being told how willingly, even
eagerly, Salome Howland had given up her life-blood for him. “She will
have my everlasting gratitude. Who is she, and where can I find her when
I am able to get away from here?”
“She is one of our nurses,” Dr. Hunt replied, “a young woman of
remarkable nerve and strength of character, and eminently fitted for the
life she has chosen.”
From this brief description, Dr. Winthrop gained the impression that
Salome might have been some strong-minded, rather masculine woman, of
perhaps twenty-five or thirty years, with a heart and brain entirely
devoted to the study and practice of her profession.
He meant to see her as soon as he was able to leave his room, express
his hearty gratitude for the priceless boon she had bestowed upon him,
and assure her of his readiness to befriend her or hers to the extent of
his power, if she should ever require the services of a friend.
How soon and how strangely such a requirement would be forced on him, he
did not dream, neither could he have any suspicion how vitally these
incidents were to affect his whole future life.