Page 18 of Sure as Shooting

Chapter Eight

“So, Dr. Whitney. Please tell me more about this treatment for womb hysteria.”

This time, the doctor didn’t seem abashed. Perhaps because they were better acquainted now, he merely nodded and tugged the blanket closer around Belle’s shoulders. She had just swam in the Agua Fria Creek to revitalize her blood, and probably to erase all evidence of her past filthy life with those “devils in the forest,” as she’d heard men term Indians when visiting Major Ashbury’s trading post. They sat now on the bank, Belle nude under the blanket, and the doctor said, “Whit. Please call me Whit. My first name is Whitman. I know, I know—what a horrible gag for my parents to play on me. Whitman Whitney, Holy Mother of Joseph.”

“But they both contain Whit, so it’s very memorable,” Belle said.

“Exactly. So you would be interested in knowing more about womb hysteria?”

“Well. I think I already know too much about it, if you know what I mean. The physician back in Missouri diagnosed me with womb hysteria and said the best solution was to get pregnant. My husband told him that he discovered my Chinese pillow book, so the physician told me that women actually desire maternity, not sex.”

Whit leaned back on his palms laughing, his handsome face open and serene. His competence gave Belle great comfort and security. Perhaps that feeling was enhanced by the bottle of laudanum he had given her yesterday. “Yes, that’s the excuse many doctors give for when they don’t wish to ‘waste’ the time and effort on the treatment. Maternity or marriage—your physician’s way of saying ‘sex’— does not always cure the hysterical disease. The treatment espoused by Hippocrates is the only thing proven to work.” Whit assumed an air of confidentiality as he leaned in closer to her. “Why do you think almost all patients return for more treatments? Many doctors have taken up the practice because it’s the most prevalent female disease, so there is never any shortage of patients. But the doctors really detest doing it. I, however, am quite fascinated by studying the various women’s different responses to the treatment. Back in New York I was sought-after for my skills.”

Belle felt so at ease she even ventured to say, “Perhaps you were so sought-after because there is something taboo, and therefore exciting, in displaying one’s most intimate self to such a handsome physician. A handsome half-caste physician. You must admit, there is quite the forbidden thrill of having a man who ten years ago might have been your servant putting his hands on you.”

Whit didn’t appear angry at having been reminded of this. In fact, he readily agreed with her. “Yes, I had several patients who were very nearly overwhelmed with womb hysteria. Their poor, haggard husbands would bring them to my office looking as though the devil himself had been tossing them about to the four corners of the world, as though they hadn’t slept in weeks. Some husbands would be begging me to correct the problem. Some of these women…well, let’s just say they enthusiastically flung themselves on my table, quite hysterical, spewing obscene filth that would shock a courtier. Many doctors believe that is the disease talking, but I think the hysteria just brought out that aspect of a woman that had been deeply hidden for many years. And yes, some patients would be specifically begging for my ‘red man’s hands’ to be placed upon them, or my ‘colored’ hands.” Whit shrugged modestly. “Perhaps consorting with the forbidden is the secret fantasy of some ladies. It’s unfortunate it has to be such a deeply buried secret, for as a half-caste I’ve found no one willing to be openly courted.”

Belle frowned. “Even though you’re an esteemed physician?”

“Yes. Even then.” Whit paused. “It was a choice I made when I determined to be the first colored physician in America. I knew there would be prices to pay. Now, about that Chinese pillow book you had.”

Belle flushed deeply. “Yes. The paintings depicted many different sexual positions that were suggested as ways for a wife to satisfy a husband.”

“And your husband didn’t see the value in that?”

“No. He was mortified. The Chinese maintain that a woman searches for a good sexual partner when choosing a husband, and places that above looks or financial position. I suppose my husband thought I’d leave him to find someone more talented.”

“Yes, I’ve seen some of those pillow books in Paris. In China, sex is seen as a beautiful thing, not shameful. As I recall, the female organs are referred to by quite lovely names, such as ‘Open Peony Blossom’ or ‘Golden Lotus.’”

Belle warmed to her subject. “Yes, yes! And the male organs…well.” Shame overcame her then, and she turned to a slightly different subject. “Whit. I had my Chinese pillow book with me in my ochum—wigwam, whatever Yankees call it—when your men raided our so-called Battle Mountain. Is there any chance of recovering them?”

Whit chuckled. “First, you’d have to admit that you owned such an item. Is that really something you want the men of the Mariposa Battalion to know about you?”

“Not really.”

“But I can ask around. Maybe let it be known that some San Francisco collector would be interested in paying a good price for such an item. Men will brag. I’ll hear about it soon enough.” Whit patted her knee. “Speaking of the battalion, I’d best get back. That colonel arrived, and we’re mustering into service today. I must formally report for duty.” He looked up skeptically at the gray clouds laden with rain that had been increasingly racing their way. The obscured sun created shifting patterns of darkness across his dignified, refined face.

Belle rose, shrugged off the blanket, and attired herself in her new skirt and shirt. They walked up the creek bed, viewing the wide valley just turning bright green from winter rains. “This might be the big storm Huntley warned of. In which case, nobody is doing anything for the next several days, as rain down here means snow in the mountains.” He smiled at her. “As you probably are familiar with.”

Belle pinched his sleeve between her fingers. “Whit. This medical massage, the treatment you mentioned. I’ve never heard of it. Well, my Missouri physician certainly never brought it up. Would it be possible for you to try it on me?”

“Of course. I have a new theory I’m trying out as well, so you’d be of great assistance to me.”

“What theory?”

Whit spread his hand out, palm toward the ground, as if about to reveal something monstrous. They slowed their pace as they came within view of Major Ashbury’s—their—house, his trading post, the tenpin alley, the express office, the hotel. “You see, I’m almost entirely alone in my belief that this pelvic massage is actually producing a female orgasm. Yes, yes, I know, a shameful deduction. But the uterus becomes engorged with seed and the only way to solve the hysteria is through coaxing the patient to orgasm. Sexual penetration alone does not achieve this in most women. Most physicians just call it a ‘crisis,’ but almost no one admits it’s actually a female orgasm, and it releases a flood of seed and blood to other beneficial parts of the body, much as it does in men.” He smiled, more relaxed now, perhaps because she had not protested in shock or anger. “I merely deduced this from witnessing many hundreds of patients after treatment. They come to me complaining of anxiety, sleeplessness, heaviness in the abdomen, congestion of the pelvis. After the initial loss of consciousness, they leave my office with flushed skin, and maybe a bit of confusion after having lost control for a minute. Now, what does that sound like to you?”

Belle could easily guess. “A woman who wanted sex. And finally obtained it.”

“Exactly. Not sex so much per se, but the elusive orgasm that expelled the unexpended seed.”

Belle nodded. “I see. Well. This does sound like something that could benefit me.”

A crowd of about two hundred men milled around Ashbury’s store. This would be the Mariposa Battalion, who had achieved a sort of symmetrical look with the donning of mostly red shirts. They all seemed to have good rifles but shockingly bad hats. An array of headgear was displayed—beaver top hats, straw hats, a couple of Scotch bonnets, even a patent leather hunter’s cap. By far the most intriguing choices, though, were the mountain men who thought it the height of dandyism to wear curled-up, dead animals on their heads.

Belle was fascinated by all the trappings of modern society she had missed out on for a year, and she wished to stay and observe. But Huntley Ashbury was heading their way, waving them to the knot of men around his store. Today he was ebullient and convivial, and didn’t even lose his smile when he glanced at Belle.

“The commissioners have arrived,” Ashbury said. “We’ve divided into three companies, made captains out of Boling and Din. They’re making such a raid upon my eatables it might’ve been cheaper to be attacked by Diggers. The commissioners have selected a spot on the Fresno River about twenty miles from here as a reservation for the Diggers. One of King Joseph’s former men, Vowchester, has agreed to act as our interpreter and general peacemaker. He’s promised to bring all his people. I know he took part in the raid on Greeley’s store, but I have to believe in someone, eh? The scouting parties we’ve sent out have only pushed the Indians farther into the mountains. We could use another guide,” he said, glancing again at Belle.