The Lincoln Conspiracy Read Online Free Page A

space. Even then, many of the cots sat white and empty, floating parallel to the marble floor like a field of tumbled gravestones. Fiona, along with Springer and the other surgeons, had moved to smaller side rooms when the government renovated the gallery for Lincoln’s second inaugural ball, a month before he was shot.
    Though death had clung to its walls, Fiona knew that Springer felt the Patent Office to be the grandest of spaces, and in moments when they had little to say to each other, he took pleasure in reminding her of his affection for the building. She turned to find him pleased that she was contemplating the office’s collections.
    “President Lincoln thought our patent system a singular achievement, Mrs. McFadden, and—”
    “I wish I could say the same of our medical system,” Fiona said, cutting him off.
    “As I was saying, we are in a building that celebrates invention. And you have an inventive, independent mind. I commend you.”
    “We are in a building that has been a hospital for the past four years. Very little of what we have done here has been inventive.”
    “May I remind you that I am a doctor and that you are here to assist me?”
    “Of course you may, Dr. Springer, though, as I’m sure you know, I am a graduate of Syracuse Medical College.”
    “You are not a doctor.”
    “I have studied medicine,” Fiona replied, her cheeks flushing. “I have studied medicine with men who claim to be doctors. And I have studied with a woman who actually is a very fine doctor.”
    “Ah, Mrs. Walker.”
    “Yes.”
    “She wears trousers.”
    “Mary Edwards Walker is a dedicated doctor.”
    “Mrs. Barton and Mrs. Dix would agree with you,” said Springer, the corners of his mouth turning up into a broad grin. “But the thing remains: Mrs. Walker wears trousers!”
    “As I do at times, Doctor. A dress and a corset make it impossible to work.”
    “I’ve offended you,” Springer said, his eyes still twinkling.
    “Please, sir, make your rounds in a corset for a day. You’ll understand.”
    “What I don’t understand is your aversion to amputation.”
    “I fail to see what it accomplishes. We probe the wounds with dirty fingers, and we operate with pus and blood on our gowns. We scrape the bone and tissue away and pack the abscess with soiled cotton. It’s all so … septic.”
    “A minié ball tears flesh like a reaper. If we don’t cut, the rot sets in.”
    “We don’t try anything else, Doctor. How do we know?”
    “Inventive, Mrs. McFadden, always inventive. As I said, good that you are toiling here, surrounded by the promise of innovation. You are averse to pus, but some pus is laudable. It means the wound is curing.”
    “Then why do they die? Why did this one die? Pus seeped from his leg four days ago, then stopped; the poor man went into a fever, and now he’s dead.”
    Fiona turned away from the table. Springer’s favorite cures were lined along a shelf on the wall—carbolic acid, bichloride of mercury, quinine, sodium hypochlorite, Dover’s powder—next to bottles of anesthetics such as chloroform, morphine, and laudanum that Springer dispensed generously whenever he felt compelled to slice into soldiers’ limbs.
    “The war is over,” Fiona said softly, still facing the wall. “The only ones we treat now are the occasionals, the ones that Seceshsnipers and other holdouts fire on. We could do better than this. They deserve to get home alive now that the war is done.”
    “You and your fellow Sanitary Commission members shouldn’t be overly fond of your own prescriptions on hygiene, Mrs. McFadden. It got General Hammond into trouble, didn’t it?”
    “I believe that Secretary Stanton got General Hammond into trouble. The secretary seems to share your views on medical practices in our military.”
    “I’ll let the secretary of war know your displeasure. I’m sure he’ll find it of utmost importance.”
    Fiona wheeled around. “Dr. Springer—”
    She stopped.