The search for a cure to the white death.
Months earlier, after having been shot and watching my body fail from the Spanish flu, I had begun to contemplate my fate. Throughout my military career I had few dealings with the officers who served as chaplains. As a senior officer these men seemed to me to be morale officers more so than true soldiers, and my contact with them usually consisted of giving them their orders. I never had occasion to seek their counsel, not even in the treacherous French countryside.
As a child in the Chapel Hill community I had, along with my family and practically everyone else, attended a local church. The many homilies that were delivered spoke of righteousness, repentance, salvation, judgment and eternity. Such sermons had little effect on a young and invincible heart but later, as one who might soon enter the grave, they had come rushing back into my thoughts, suddenly relevant. It was then that I had begun to consider what might lie beyond. More to the point, I began to reflect on the benevolence—or judgment—of that Power into whose realm I might soon enter. At that time I started to speak fairly regularly with the minister of the Fairton Congregational Church. It was he with whom Ms. Ellsworth and I often prayed, and it was his church that ceaselessly offered up intercessory prayer on our behalf. Later, I developed a close friendship with the pastor of the Saint Michael’s Catholic Church, located in Clarkston. Our relationship was such that near the end, when my health further collapsed, I sent Vincent to inform the priest that he should prepare himself to visit one final time in order to administer the sacrament of last rites.
Before that time I had been in contact with many other pastors, priests, deacons, sympathetic church laymen, and even a Rabbi from far off Tenby. According to Vincent, a good man who always attempted to bring some cheer into our lives, Ms. Ellsworth and I had come to be named as objects of prayer in every Mackenson County church. I had no reason to doubt that good news—I was indeed pleased to hear it—but I must confess that in time my enthusiasm for prayer waned. Closer to death than ever before, I again began to contemplate. I had the disturbing notion that the prayers and rituals had failed, been ineffective, or been denied outright. Divine intervention was hoped for action; if it occurred we could be healed, but it was something over which we had no influence or control, and we could no longer be passive. Perhaps our hope for healing did not lie in the church. Perhaps our hope did not lie in conventional medical wisdom which would have us to languish on the rooftop of some sanatorium. Perhaps our cure, if it existed, depended upon some alternative medical treatment. Yet I remained unaware of any such treatment. As far as I could determine, all was just as the doctors had stated; no medicine known to man could heal our dying bodies.
Eventually I determined to engage in pursuits that were somewhat more...esoteric in nature. To be sure, I did not dismiss Dr. Sillsman or refuse the services of Dr. Heywood, who continued to direct our treatment from the Institute. I did, however, seek out medical treatments that can, at best, be described as unconventional in nature.
In this period of time, I investigated and attempted to obtain every possible means of healing of which I became aware, no matter how remote. Though my time is short, I shall give an overview of those treatments. My investigations began locally, and then expanded. Through the medium of Vincent King I was able to locate a certain Indian medicine-man who was noted for his ability to brew a substance, a potion, which was rumored to have the ability to heal all manner of sickness. This man was discovered in Barrett Parish where he dwelled alone deep inside a coastal marsh, and his services were obtained. The concoction he produced did have the ability to calm the mind, but not to heal the body.
Later, again with the services of Vincent, I obtained a certain kind of weed rumored to have the same healing properties, and again this treatment failed. The same thing occurred when he traveled to Mexico to obtain a native species of medicinal cactus, and again when he brought back the healing waters obtained from a sacred spring in the Arkansas hills. An adventure to West Texas procured the bark of a rare and mysterious kind of tree that was likewise rumored to have healing properties. The tea that was created from this bark also failed to be an effective treatment, as did the oil that came from the resin of a rare plant that grew on a certain riverbank in Mexico. The latter attempt required Vincent to undertake a river expedition through lawless territory after obtaining the services of a local guide as well as a party of armed men.
In time Vincent paid a dangerous visit to the Tenby docks in order to speak with some of the African longshoremen who were generally shunned by the citizens. It was rumored that these men could occasionally be found in the deep forest where they called on their native deities in the company of another man who they held to be both a healer and a priest. These secretive men would not speak of the matter and at first denied the existence of such a person, but the promise of a reward – in advance – secured their cooperation. Compensation likewise secured the assistance of the otherwise unwilling priest, who had at first claimed ignorance and then professed that whatever power he might be able to wield could only be employed in the service of his people. The healer came to Chapel Hill with an ointment that he had crafted by his art and a collection of African congregants, each of whom bore a peculiar kind of flute or whistle and a drum. The ointment was a medicine that only the priest could apply, and then only during a midnight dance as the healer chanted and the patient lay in the center of an elaborately drawn emblem or symbol that was created by sprinkling earth upon the floor. The treatment, like the others before it, ended in failure.
It must be said that what has been recounted here represents a very broad treatment of my quest, and so it is incomplete. I will not elaborate upon my association with an Icelandic immigrant who, as had the African priest, conducted a long and drawn out rite which involved the use of curiously inscribed staves. I shall not expound on the covert visit that I myself undertook to Mackenson Institute in order to consult the rare tomes that I knew to be kept, locked away, in an underground vault. Nor will I mention the failure of many other “cures” that involved the use of fetishes, beverages, brews, opiates, bark, resins, tonics, oils, ointments, spirituous potions, or other forms of what I took to be thinly veiled sorcery. I will merely maintain that all such concoctions were employed in good faith and out of desperation, though all failed.
While Vincent traveled in my stead to seek out the substances and services I required, I continued to frequent my father’s extensive library at Chapel Hill so that I might continue learning as much as I could about the white death. With Ms. Ellsworth close beside me, I spent much time in my study where I immersed myself in the writings of such ancient authorities as Hippocrates and Pliny the Elder, and here I learned much about the historical treatment of the pallor. Frankly, my studies did not impart to me a great amount of hope, learning as I did that even the mighty Pharaohs, with all the sciences and wealth of Egypt at their disposal, were powerless to relieve the suffering caused by the terrible white plague. Even the physician Hippocrates, who in his native tongue styled the disease phthisis, lamented that most of his afflicted patients wasted away until they were no more.
When I had exhausted the ancient texts I continued to study the admittedly few records of later years. I examined such passages as were extant in medieval and then later literature, beginning with the former. I found, as I expected, that the historical record was filled with half-truths and errors. I discovered that consumptives were once feared, being foolishly identified as the undead—the uber or vampir of European folklore. Equally preposterous was the later notion that the touch of a monarch had the ability to heal those who were afflicted. If this were the case, why had the kings of Egypt been forced to stand by and watch as their citizens succumbed in great numbers? These and other ludicrous gems of backwater wisdom such as the identification of consumption as the “poet’s disease,” or the affliction of the aristocratic, were easily dismissed.
I trust that I have adequately elaborated upon the illness that Ms. Ellsworth and I shared in common. I have supplied an exposition of lives shaped by illness and governed by the desire for healing at any cost. The reader has been made aware that I have employed the services of the finest physicians and the basest salesmen of snake-oil. I have pursued healing in every avenue that is available, from prayer to science and all points in between. I will now explain, to the best of my ability, the story of our misadventure—the final chapter of my tale.
The story of my downfall begins when I moved beyond the old texts and began to inquire into the most recent historical literature. I found tucked away in the library a leather-bound book. The document was written in Spanish, but it was accompanied by the loose leaves of an English translation. The English began with a curious foreword. It claimed to be translated from the Spanish, which itself had been translated from Yucatecan Mayan. In the first part of this volume I found recorded the notes of a Mexican soldier named Rios. The second half of the book contained the writings of a Franciscan priest, one Montez. The soldier and the priest were leaders of an expedition into Northeast Texas. Though the translator did not supply any dates, their journey seems to have taken place a number of years before the more well known Teran Expedition.
The text went on to explain how that Rios had been commissioned by one Count Esteban to lead an expedition into the aforementioned territory. His orders were to survey the land and select seven sites on which church missions might be established. The Rios Expedition, as it was called and as I have previously stated, was to be led by both Rios and Montez. Rios would be the principal leader, in command of the military aspects of the mission, while the priest would have the authority to approve or refuse potential building sites. In short, Rios would command the soldiers and be responsible for the safety and security of the party, while Montez would have authority over all matters pertaining to the church.
The document before me revealed that the Rios Expedition journeyed west from the coast of Texas and then traveled northward until it finally reached the Yellow River. After crossing the Yellow River, the party continued north until it reached the Silver Creek River, which separates the modern states of Texas and Oklahoma. At the time of the group’s arrival the river was flooded, hazardous, and quite impassible. The party soon retreated southward, finally returning to Mexico City at an unknown time. Not even one suitable building site was identified, so the expedition was judged to be a failure.
Rios’s notes were the dry observations of a professional soldier who was attempting to follow orders. Father Montez’s writings, however, presented the careful observations of a religious leader who was both a naturalist and anthropologist. His journal described in great detail the geography, flora, and fauna of Texas. The would-be Texas evangelist likewise wrote an extensive account of the customs, appearances, and spiritual practices of the natives who were encountered as the party moved steadily north.
While this was fascinating, it was another theme found within the diary that piqued my interest. Interspersed throughout Montez’s journal were numerous criticisms of someone identified as Melgar. At first I took Melgar to be a friar, though I would later learn that he had been one of several Franciscan priests who traveled with Rios’s party. Melgar’s name first appears in conjunction with the discovery of a group of natives called the Kanis, a transliteration said to mean something like “Red Battle Sticks.” The Kanis village lay on the bank of what Father Montez calls the (aforementioned) “Yellow River,” and this tribe was ruled over by a young matriarch who seems to have been something of a queen and priestess.
It seems that Father Melgar had, somehow, caught the eye of the heathen priestess. He came to be on friendly terms with her to the point of fraternization, as was indicated by Montez’s scornful reference to him as “the consort.” When the party moved northward, the priestess and a sizable group of native warriors moved with it. In a short amount of time the expedition had reached the southern border of the Silver Creek River, and here the priests had evidently quarreled. The river could not be forded, as mentioned earlier, and it was considered unwise to tarry in lawless and dangerous territory. Montez, as the representative of the church, determined that the group should return again to Mexico, but Melgar had insisted that the party must continue northward when it became possible to cross the river. It seems that each man then approached Rios with their respective opinions, and Melgar’s request was declined. The developing feud ended in a manner that can be termed anticlimactic. Melgar, along with the priestess, the Kanis contingent, and a good supply of Spanish ponies (laden with supplies), withdrew from the camp on a moonless spring night. They could not be located, and so the expedition had been forced to leave Melgar behind.
In the heavily noted margin and again in the extensive footnotes I found first the glimmer, and then the shining hope for which I had been searching. The unidentified translator revealed that Father Melgar had, like Rios and Montez, kept a detailed journal of his exploits. Moreover it was revealed that the translator had access to these notes, for he quoted from them lengthy passages, including the tale of Melgar’s journey into what is now the state of Oklahoma.
According to Melgar, he had learned from the priestess the location of another Kanis village that lay amongst the mountains just east of an “immensely large stream” (the modern Little Pecan River) that began in Oklahoma and later turned south to eventually meet the Washita River in Arkansas. This village was situated “at or below” a series of caves that were revered for their power to heal the body of any and all sickness or trauma. To these caves were brought those with “disease or wasting, broken bones or the wounds of arrows, and it is certain that anyone near death is brought here apace if he would be well.” The notes went on to proclaim that “to rest en la caverna was to rise again whole, while to tarry was to remain stricken or perish.” It was also stated that determined efforts were made to escort the sick to the holy place, and many tribes “brought from afar those who had taken ill or had been struck with the sword.”
In the final pages of handwritten footnotes I made the discovery that would take me from the Chapel Hill community to the Oklahoma hills. Here the translator had noted:
“A subsequent expedition discovered and detained the rebellious priest, who was still living among the Kanis. Shortly thereafter he was returned to what is now the Monastery of The Hills near Mexico City, and from there he was later transported to Veracruz. Melgar did not greatly expound upon his association with the heathen woman, though he continued to insist that he had been the observer of notable miracles, including the restoration to life of a recently deceased woman who had been brought to the holy caves. His name does not appear in the record again after his presumed excommunication; his diaries and writings are said to remain in the care of the monastery. The village visited by Melgar later ceased to be a Spanish possession when it became part of the French empire. The territory was included in a vast tract which was, about one-hundred years later, sold to the United States. It appears that Melgar’s claims were dismissed as fancy. It seems certain that they were never investigated by the Mexican government or the Catholic Church, though they could have easily been. The village site is now the location of the Lower Mills Settlement which lies to the west of the ‘immensely large stream’ and northwest of the Washita River. The old Kanis caves may be seen to this very day.”
On March 7, 1919, Vincent King prepared to travel to what was once called the Lower Mills Settlement, now the town of Millstone Hills, Oklahoma. His departure coincided with a visit from Dr. Heywood, in whom I observed a noticeably visible reaction to our emaciated and ghostly appearances. Dr. Heywood, while being a man of science and therefore skeptical of any healing properties of caves, was nevertheless adamant that it would be in our best interest to travel to Oklahoma where we could finally be exposed to the air of the low mountains. This, he repeated to us, would be a much more suitable environment. In his typical straightforward manner he advised us to relocate as soon as word was received from Vincent, though he made it clear that we were in no condition to travel and a more than remote possibility existed that we might not survive.
By the time Vincent returned at the end of March, we had made preparations to relocate to Millstone Hills. Assuming that Vincent arrived with positive news, we would leave at once. If he had been unsuccessful in his journey or if in fact the caves no longer existed, I would send him again to purchase some local residence in or around Millstone Hills. One way or the other, even if I had to build a new home from the ground up, we were going to take our leave of Chapel Hill.
Fortunately, as it was thought at that time, Vincent had a successful trip. He had arrived in Millstone Hills and established by a visit with the mayor that the “old Indian caves” were in existence on the property of Mr. William Hames. A later meeting with the mayor and Mr. Hames, who claimed the rocky land to be “worthless” to him, secured a five year lease to the property after, naturally, a sum of earnest money had been bestowed upon the owner. It also came about that Vincent did not physically visit the caves, as they were not so near to the town as had been indicated in Melgar’s writings. Their actual location was in the mountains some distance east of the town, and to reach them it would be necessary to have the assistance of a guide and a fair-sized boat. Both the mayor and Hames had professed that this would be no issue, for there were several local men available to take on such an endeavor. The mayor then took it upon himself to ensure that such a person would be available when Ms. Ellsworth and I arrived. Finally, the mayor had given assurance that many of the locals owned suitable property on which to build a home, and it was likely that such property could be easily obtained should our retirement to Millstone Hills become permanent. In the meantime, Vincent arranged in advance for us to occupy a small townhouse owned by the Millstone Hotel. As far as the boat: Small steamboats, barges and even smaller river craft regularly traveled to and from Millstone Hills. It would be easy enough to secure passage on such a vessel.
On April 10, just a few weeks prior to the onset of the hot weather, we set out for Millstone Hills. Our company consisted of Dr. Eric Sillsman, Vincent King, Mrs. Whitehead, and the two weakened consumptives. Also traveling with us was Mr. Henry Taylor, who was brought to Chapel Hill the night before our departure by Dr. Heywood himself. Mr. Taylor was a longtime patient of Heywood’s who had arrived in Texas just a few days earlier in order to dwell closer to Dr. Heywood. He had been ill for some time with a “wasting disease” that Dr. Heywood had identified as the latter stage of consumption. Shortly after this diagnosis the doctor had prevailed upon him to journey with us to Oklahoma where he would be under the care of Dr. Sillsman until his case could be (like ours) studied in greater detail.
A typical journey to Millstone Hills would require little more than horses and a wagon. Due to the fact that those of us who were ill could not endure such travel for an extended period, we were forced to take a less direct route that would involve several forms of transportation. We boarded a northbound train in Clarkston and two days later we arrived in Hewville, Oklahoma. From Hewville we set out toward the east on a brief but harsh wagon ride. We headed steadily toward a mound of hills, the tops of which were just visible on the horizon. By the time of our arrival the hills had become low mountains and we had entered the county of Scott Hill, Oklahoma. Shortly thereafter we arrived in Farmington, just inside the foothills of the Washita Mountains.
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