Shortly after the catastrophe just related, Charley opened his eyes to consciousness, and aroused himself out of a prolonged fainting fit, under the combined influence of a strong constitution and the medical treatment of his friends.
Medical treatment in the wilds of North America, by the way, is very original in its character, and is founded on principles so vague that no one has ever keen found capable of stating them clearly. Owing to the stubborn fact that there are no doctors in the country, men have been thrown upon their own resources, and as a natural consequence every man is a doctor. True, there are two, it may be three, real doctors in the Hudson’s Bay Company’s employment; but as one of these is resident on the shores of Hudson’s Bay, another in Oregon, and a third in Red River Settlement, they are not considered available for every case of emergency that may chance to occur in the hundreds of little outposts, scattered far and wide over the whole continent of North America, with miles and miles of primeval wilderness between each. We do not think, therefore, that when we say there are no doctors in the country, we use a culpable amount of exaggeration.
If a man gets ill, he goes on till he gets better; and if he doesn’t get better, he dies. To avert such an undesirable consummation, desperate and random efforts are made in an amateur way. The old proverb that “extremes meet” is verified. And in a land where no doctors are to be had for love or money, doctors meet you at every turn, ready to practise on everything, with anything, and all for nothing, on the shortest possible notice. As may be supposed, the practice is novel, and not unfrequently extremely wild. Tooth-drawing is considered child’s play—mere blacksmith’s work; bleeding is a general remedy for everything, when all else fails; castor oil, Epsom salts, and emetics are the three keynotes, the foundations, and the copestones of the system.
In Red River there is only one genuine doctor; and as the settlement is fully sixty miles long, he has enough to do, and is not always to be found when wanted, so that Charley had to rest content with amateur treatment in the meantime. Peter Mactavish was the first to try his powers. He was aware that laudanum had the effect of producing sleep, and seeing that Charley looked somewhat sleepy after recovering consciousness, he thought it advisable to help out that propensity to slumber, and went to the medicine chest, whence he extracted a small phial of tincture of rhubarb, the half of which he emptied into a wineglass, under the impression that it was laudanum, and poured down Charley’s throat! The poor boy swallowed a little, and sputtered the remainder over the bed-clothes. It may be remarked here that Mactavish was a wild, happy, half-mad sort of fellow—wonderfully erudite in regard to some things, and profoundly ignorant in regard to others. Medicine, it need scarcely be added, was not his forte. Having accomplished this feat to his satisfaction, he sat down to watch by the bedside of his friend. Peter had taken this opportunity to indulge in a little private practice just after several of the other gentlemen had left the office, under the impression that Charley had better remain quiet for a short time.
“Well, Peter,” whispered Mr Kennedy, senior, putting his head in at the door (it was Harry’s room in which Charley lay), “how is he now?”
“Oh! doing capitally,” replied Peter, in a hoarse whisper, at the same time rising and entering the office, while he gently closed the door behind him. “I gave him a small dose of physic, which I think has done him good. He’s sleeping like a top now.”
Mr Kennedy frowned slightly, and made one or two remarks in reference to physic which were not calculated to gratify the cars of a physician.
“What did you give him?” he inquired abruptly.
“Only a little laudanum.”
“Only, indeed! It’s all trash together, and that’s the worst kind of trash you could have given him. Humph!” and the old gentleman jerked his shoulders testily.