Her Defiant Heart Read online

  Christian stepped to one side as the attendants dragged the tub out of the room. He managed to casually bump one of them so water sloshed out of the tub. Some of it splashed on the back of his hand. It had all the warmth of freshly melted ice. He spared another glance for Jane Doe. She was breathing shallowly, her eyes closed. Her ash-white skin was pulled taut over the fine bones of her face. In contrast, her lips had taken on a bluish hue and even her heavy lashes could not hide the jaundiced cast of shadows beneath her eyes. Where the blanket did not cover her arms, the flesh was pale and pimply with cold. "Shouldn't someone change her shift?" Christian asked. "Dry her hair?"

  "It's all part of the treatment. The bracing cold helps her make contact with reality."

  Make contact with pneumonia, Christian thought. He kept this to himself and took out his notepad and pencil again. "How often does she have these treatments?"

  "Once a week is recommended until there's been noticeable improvement. This is her fifth—no—sixth plunge bath."

  Christian made a note of it. "How many other patients are receiving this course of treatment?"

  "Four. As I told you before we came down here, this method is not prescribed for all lunatics. You know from the tour that lunatics account for a very small fraction of our patient population. I wouldn't recommend this treatment for patients suffering from, let us say, melancholia, certain phobias, idiocy, or torpid madness. Does that give you an idea of the select nature of the treatment?"

  Christian nodded briefly. He limped toward the door to take advantage of the light from the single lantern the attendants had left behind. "Tell me again about the use of terror. I think I am in a better position to understand it now that I've seen its application." It was easy for Christian to imagine that Perry Glenn was pleased by his renewed curiosity. The doctor had the self-congratulatory air of a man who believed that not only had he made a convincing case for this treatment, but that his professional credentials and competency also spoke well of his practices.

  Ignoring the dampness of the wall, Christian leaned his shoulder against it, striking a relaxed, interested pose that he had found effective for inviting conversation. He was a little startled that he remembered how to do it. It had been a long time since he'd cared enough to bother.

  Dr. Glenn moved to the circle of lantern light. His stocky shadow fell against the wall. He maintained a comfortable distance so he didn't have to strain his neck looking up at Christian. Without realizing he had fallen into the old habit, the doctor tugged lightly on his beard as he spoke.

  "The use of terror as a treatment method had its origin in the old asylums of France and England centuries ago. It was thought at the time that lunatics, particularly the violent ones, were men and women who had, at the deepest point of madness, become no different than wild beasts." He chuckled lightly as he considered the folly of thought of his professional forebears. "We know now that this isn't true—at least not to the extent it was once thought to be. The treatment then was meant to break the lunatics' spirit—tame them, as it were. Food deprivation and methods better suited to breaking wild horses were often used."

  "Forgive me," Christian said politely, "but I don't see much difference in those methods and the way in which that young woman was just treated."

  "Oh, but there is." The cold-water plunge is meant to induce the most powerful, primitive fear known to humankind—the fear of death. It is respected medical theory that fear is a passion which diminishes excitement. I believe Dr. Cullen said that a century ago."

  "I'm not familiar with that name," Christian said as he made a few notes. Without looking at the bed, he began making sketches of Jane Doe. His pencil worked quickly but not so fast that Dr. Glenn would suspect what he was doing. The simple line drawings came from memory.

  "Dr. Cullen was a teacher of Benjamin Rush. You know who he was, don't you?"

  "A signer of the Declaration, if I'm not mistaken."

  "That and more. He was a doctor, scholar, and pioneer in the care and treatment of persons suffering from insane and disordered minds. Like many men of his time he advocated the therapeutic use of terror. He recommended the use of a tranquilizing chair—his own invention, by the way—which keeps the patient in a fixed, upright position for hours at a time. It reduces the heart rate because it limits muscular action and motor activity. He found the mad jacket, as it was called then, an unreliable and unnecessarily cruel device. Far from being an advocate of torture, Dr. Rush was a leader in the move toward rational humanitarianism. He understood that terror is a powerful agent on the body and the conduit is the mind."

  "Rush must have died some forty years ago," Christian pointed out. "It's logical to assume that some of his methods would be dated by now. I know there are physicians who would ridicule Rush's practices."

  "But who is to say they're right and he was wrong?" Dr. Glenn asked rhetorically. "The work I'm doing with my patients—work I am documenting, I might add—will speak to my fellow physicians and finally to the general public about the value of terror as a treatment. I propose that lunatics can be frightened into their wits, so to speak."

  Christian flipped the page of his notepad and began sketching another scene, the one he had witnessed upon entering the room when poor, mad Jane Doe struggled without any hope of being released in the solid arms of the two attendants. Her dark brown eyes had seemed impossibly large in her narrow face, glassy with fear, yet strangely lusterless. For an infinitesimal span of time, her eyes had held his, and he had known her helplessness, resignation, and despair. It had touched him, and it touched him now as she took shape under his pencil. He did not thank her for it when he finished drawing and saw how successful he had been in capturing her terror. He preferred to feel nothing. The picture he had created caused his chest to tighten uneasily, and his thoughts went immediately to the bottle waiting for him at home. It helped to go there. "What about the other methods of terror? I believe the plunge bath is not the only one in use."

  "Oh, no. Of course not. We use it here because it's the simplest method of invoking the fear of death by drowning. It is also the safest. The patient can easily be scooped out of the tub, and therefore we virtually eliminate the possibility of actual drowning. Some asylums still use the well cure."

  "What's that?"

  "The patient is chained to the bottom of an empty well. Water is slowly poured in to instill the fear."

  "The well cure," Christian murmured to himself. "No pun intended, I'm sure."

  "Hmm? What was that?"

  "Nothing. I'm sorry. You were saying..."

  Dr. Glenn took his stethoscope out of his coat pocket and slipped it around his neck. "There is the so-called bath of surprise," he said as he walked over to his patient. He checked her pulse and heartbeat and then resumed his explanation. "That consists of a trapdoor which can be opened under an unsuspecting patient. It drops him into a pool of cool water, frequently deep enough to force him to save himself by swimming or treading water. You can imagine that such a method meets with its share of fatalities." Dr. Glenn moved back to the pool of yellow lantern light, took up the sea captain pose once more, and rocked slightly on the balls of his feet. "There have been many ingenious devices invented. There is a particularly powerful water pump that is manned by four men. The patient is chained to the wall and a highly pressurized stream of water is focused on the lunatic's spine."

  "My God," Christian said softly, wondering at the mind that had thought of such a terror-inspiring and painful mode of treatment. It was difficult to know who the real madmen were.

  Dr. Glenn echoed Christian's sentiments. "I am happy to tell you it is not a widely used device today. Terror, not pain, is the preferred therapy. The gyrator is employed here from time to time. Again, its use is practiced judiciously. The gyrator was never intended as a cure-all."

  "What is it?"

  "I could let you see it," Dr. Glenn said, taking a step toward the door.

  "No... no, that's all right." Christian was quit
e sure he did not want to see it. "Just explain how it works. A general description will do for my article."

  The doctor shrugged. "It's a relatively simple device. It consists of a rotating board on which the patient is strapped, his head farthest from the center. The board spins at a high rate of speed, causing blood to rush to the patient's head. Its effect is the opposite of the tranquilizing chair. I feel compelled to emphasize that none of the treatments I've described are employed indiscriminately. The gyrator, for instance, is used with patients who are sluggish, inactive, or unresponsive. What we call torpid madness. To use it on our Jane Doe here would be practicing the worst kind of medicine. Jane is in an almost constant state of excitement. I realize you didn't have the benefit of seeing her prior to treatment so you must trust my word. She is invariably agitated and restless. When not restrained she paces the hall on the lunatic ward. She has screamed so often and with such fervor that her speaking voice is now a bleak and biting whisper. We despair of it healing."

  "What's to become of her?"

  "As to that, I can't say. We're hopeful the treatment will work, of course. We have our share of successes, you know. In that case our plan would be to release her to family or friends once she can identify herself."

  "And if she's unable to do that?"

  "Then we would try to arrange for some type of employment."

  Christian's steady gaze fell on the pathetic young woman again. He couldn't imagine who could be induced to hire her after they learned her history. Most likely she would end up on the streets, wandering the Five Points again and making her living on her back. "And if the treatment doesn't work?" Or if it kills her? he wondered silently. "What then?"

  "As I mentioned before, we're able to keep a small number of charity patients, though in time I believe she would be removed to one of the city's public asylums to make room for someone who can be helped here."

  "I see," Christian murmured. He began to ask another question but stopped himself as the sound of urgent, heavy footsteps echoed in the passageway.

  One of the attendants who had assisted in Jane Doe's plunge bath flung open the door. His expression was harried, his breathing labored, as he sought out the doctor. "It's Mr. Drummond, Dr. Glenn," he said, tripping over his words in an effort to get them out quickly. "He's havin' himself a fit. Cornered two of the guards in the ward and he's holdin' them off with a broken chair leg. The other patients are cryin' or screamin'. Everyone wants to know about the princess." His chin jerked briefly in the direction of the cot to indicate Jane Doe. "I told 'em she was fine but—"

  Dr. Glenn laid his hand on the attendant's forearm. "They can't be reasoned with when they're agitated, Billy. Take the lantern and wait for me in the hallway, I'll be with you in a moment." He turned to Christian. "I'm sorry, Mr. Marshall, but you can appreciate that these sorts of incidents are never timed to anyone's convenience. I'll have to go with Billy. You're welcome to wait in my office if you have more questions, or show yourself out if you're done. I'm afraid you can't stay here."

  For all the doctor's air of calm, Christian could see that he was anxious to be gone and just as anxious that Christian wouldn't press him for permission to accompany him back to the lunatic ward. Christian tucked away his notebook and pencil and stepped into the hallway. "Don't let me keep you. I'll certainly find my own way out." He held out his hand to Dr. Glenn, who grasped it and shook it firmly. The attendant moved around them and took a small iron ring of keys from his pocket. He sifted through them, found what he wanted, and shut and locked the door to the treatment room. As an extra precaution he threw the bolt. The door was designed not to let the unauthorized in or the patient out. From the corner of his eye Christian watched the orderly pocket the keys again. The pressure of his grip on the doctor's hand increased slightly as Christian's fingers itched to hold those keys. "I appreciate the time you've taken with me, Dr. Glenn. It's been most interesting."

  Dr. Glenn hesitated momentarily and glanced at his pocket watch. "You're quite welcome. If you'll excuse me, Billy will see you to the first floor lobby." He turned, holding up his lantern, and hurried up the narrow hallway.

  Billy started to follow almost immediately, but Christian held him back by taking out his pencil and surreptitiously dropping it. "Just a minute, I lost something." He made a pretense of looking for it while Billy showered the area with light. When Christian heard the door at the end of the hall close and Dr. Glenn's steps recede in the stairwell, he found the pencil under his shoe. "Here it is," he said sheepishly. "Don't know how I managed that."

  The attendant impatiently shifted his weight from one foot to the other and swung the lantern so light chased shadow in an arc along the dank and moldering corridor. "If you don't mind, Mr. Marshall, we really have t'go. The doctor'll be needin' me."

  Christian nodded while he considered the best way to proceed. At another time Billy's determination to attend to his duties would have been admirable. Now it put them at cross-purposes. Christian slipped the pencil behind his ear, where it was immediately lost in his thick, copper struck hair.

  "I'm ready," he said, stepping to Billy's side. As they began to walk down the hallway, Christian exaggerated his limp and subtly manipulated the attendant to slow his accompanying steps. "It's the dampness," he apologized, taking a moment to stretch his leg. "Can't think how the princess survives it," he added offhandedly.

  "The princess?"

  "Yes. Jane Doe. That's what you called her, isn't it?"

  "Did I?" He frowned, and his steps slowed even more as his thoughts clouded. "I didn't mean to. Habit, I suppose. Dr. Glenn won't like it. Wonder if he noticed."

  Christian ignored the attendant's questions and pressed his own. "Do the other patients call her princess?"

  "What?" Billy asked distractedly. "Oh, sorry... yeah, they do. Only it's more of a title than a name, if you take my meaning... you know, when people think she's out of earshot they use it. Ain't never heard no one call her princess to her face. Old Alice Vanderstell give her the title. That one's as loony as they come, but she has her moments. Started callin' our Jane the princess right off. Everyone repeated it 'cause it suited her. We're not supposed to do it, though. Doc Glenn says it's bound to confuse Jane."

  Christian couldn't see that it would confuse her any more than being called Jane if her name were actually Mary. He withheld comment. "Alice Vanderstell," he said consideringly. "Any relation to Gordon Vanderstell? His mother perhaps?"

  "His aunt," Billy said. "A regular harpy she is, too. It's no wonder he tucked her away here."

  Christian was aware that Jennings Memorial counted a number of wealthy, influential people among its patients, but Alice Vanderstell's presence on the lunatic ward took him slightly aback. Which madwoman had she been? The one who rocked an imaginary babe in her arms? The one who stared sightlessly out of her window?

  Christian tried to recall what he knew about her and had to acknowledge it was little enough. He rarely took notice of what was printed in the Chronicle's society pages. Or any of its pages for that matter. Deciding he could berate himself later, preferably while nursing that bottle he had promised himself, Christian returned to the particulars he did know.

  Though he had never met Alice Vanderstell personally, Christian knew she had had at least a nodding acquaintance with his late parents. The Vanderstell name was synonymous with old money. Very old money. It was rumored that when Manhattan was sold for a few strings of beads, the Vanderstells were there monitoring the transaction. There probably wasn't a grain of truth to the story, but it underscored the depth of the roots the Vanderstell family had laid down in the city. There was power and prestige in the name and, Christian believed, more than a few skeletons in the closet as well.

  "His aunt?" Christian mused aloud. "I thought she died more than a year ago."

  The attendant cleared his throat, realizing he had said more than he should have. "This way, Mr. Marshall." He opened the door to the stairwell. "I really must be goin'."r />
  "Don't let me stop you," Christian said, waving Billy up ahead. He saw that he had delayed the orderly enough to make him even more anxious to return to Dr. Glenn's side. "I can find my own way out."

  Billy hesitated again, glancing up the narrow stairwell. Gas jets dimly lighted the passageway at the entrance to each floor. The wing for lunatics occupied half of the fourth and highest floor of the hospital. He offered his lantern.

  "No." He held out his hand, palm up. "I don't need it. You go on."

  The orderly's dull eyes dropped to Christian's game leg.

  "I know what you're thinking, but the stairs are no problem," Christian told him. In a slow movement that was almost against his will, Christian dropped his hand to his left thigh and massaged the spot where the Confederate lead ball had struck flesh and bone. "Gettysburg."

  An embarrassed flush stole over Billy's square-cut features. "G'day, Mr. Marshall." He turned quickly and hurried up the stairs.

  Christian followed at a pace that had nothing to do with his old wound. Something that felt very much like excitement fired his nerves, and he ceased to notice the nagging ache in his leg. If he had stopped to think about it, he would have been much struck by this occurrence. Now he didn't give it a thought. He could only think of the risk he was planning to take. Nothing else mattered. Above him, he heard Billy pause on the stairs. Christian looked up to see the attendant peering over the railing. Christian gave him a cursory salute to indicate everything was fine. The door on the fourth floor opened and closed. Billy was gone.

  Christian's limp was hardly noticeable as he retraced his steps to the treatment room. With his right hand he followed the contours of the wall, counting four recesses that marked doors to other rooms. He stopped at the fifth and knelt in front of the treatment room. From the moment he had seen the keys Billy used to lock it, he knew his task would be a simple one. A determined child could pick it with the right tool. In this case the only tool required was a pencil. Christian inserted it into the wide keyhole, manipulated it with a deft touch, and consequently broke the pencil.