Weakened by the severe hæmorrhages she had been having, Mary was in a condition of extreme shock. The least slip, Kenneth realized, and nothing could save her. Her face wan and drawn, Mary’s life hung precariously in the balance—the odds were all against her while the grim spectre of death crept slowly but surely upon her.
Beads of perspiration stood upon Kenneth’s brow as he fought for her life. Though he could not have done the operation himself, Dr. Bennett sensed the gravity of the situation. The older man leaned forward in his anxiety—hardly daring to breathe for fear of interrupting the deft, sure touch of the operator. Ten—fifteen—twenty—thirty—forty—fifty minutes crept by on lagging feet—to the two doctors and the nurse each minute seemed an hour.
Despite all his efforts, Kenneth knew Mary was rapidly sinking. The loss of blood and strength, the severity of the shock, the enervating spasms of pain she had suffered, had sapped her strength until all resistive power was gone. Kenneth knew that Dr. Bennett knew this too—even in the desperate struggle he wondered what the other would say and do—if the girl died. He tried to shake off the fear that seized him—fear of what would happen if it became known among the whites that Mary Ewing had died while a Negro was operating on her. No mortal could have done more. Even were that known and admitted, it would not save him, Kenneth knew.
The tense situation became too much for him. When he should have been steadiest, the double strain on his nerves caused his hand to slip. Blood spurted forth. Kenneth feverishly caught the bleeding artery with a hæmostatic and sought to repair the damage he had done.
“Tough luck,” muttered Dr. Bennett. Kenneth looked up at him. The older man grunted and smiled encouragingly. A burden seemed lifted from Kenneth’s shoulders. Mrs. Johnson wiped the perspiration that streamed from Kenneth’s face. She seemed endowed with a sixth sense that told her his needs almost before he was aware of them himself.
It was a strange sight. Anywhere in America. In Georgia it was amazing beyond belief. A white woman patient. A white anæsthetizer. A black nurse. A black surgeon. …
All things must come to an end. Kenneth rapidly sewed up the incision. He bandaged the wound tightly. She yet breathed.
Kenneth opened the door and admitted Ewing, who had paced the hall since the operation began. Every minute of the hour he had been there, he had had to fight hard to keep himself from bursting into the room and stopping the operation. He had been restrained by the positiveness with which he had been ejected from the room by Kenneth—there was something in the physician’s air that had warned him without words that he must not interfere. Something within him told him Kenneth was right—knew what he was doing. The colour and race of the surgeon had been almost forgotten in the strange circumstances. “Will she live?” he asked, his words whispered in so hoarse a tone they could hardly be heard.
“I don’t know—it’ll be forty-eight hours before we can tell—if she lives that long,” answered Kenneth. The strain had been greater than he had known. Kenneth felt a strange weakening—lassitude gripped his body—he felt a nausea that came with the reaction after the mental ordeal. Ewing stood by the table on which lay his child. Tears which he forgot to wipe away stood in his eyes as he watched her laboured breathing. Dr. Bennett put his hand on Ewing’s shoulder.
“He did all he could!” he declared, nodding at Kenneth. There was admiration in the old doctor’s voice.