The_Resurrectionist_The_Lost_Work_of_Dr

1851–1868
CHILDHOOD
In my childish imagination, God’s wrathful arm was
ever-ready and ever-present.
—Spencer Black
Dr. Spencer Black and his older brother, Bernard, were born in Boston, Massachusetts, in
1851 and 1848, respectively. They were the sons of the renowned surgeon Gregory Black.
Their mother, Meredith Black, died while delivering Spencer; her passing caused a great
unrest in both boys throughout their childhood.
Gregory Black was a respected professor of anatomy at the Medical Arts College of Boston. He
conducted dissections for students at a time when cadavers were scarce and anatomists depended on
grave-robbing resurrectionists to further their research. He had some of his favorite cadavers
preserved, dressed, and propped up in a macabre anthropomorphic display in his office. As one of
the city’s leading professors, with an increasing number of students every year, his demand for bodies
surpassed the legal supply. He was one of the primary purchasers of stolen cadavers in the area, and
he dug up many additional bodies himself, with the assistance of his two young sons. Spencer Black
writes at length about these experiences in his journals.
I was no older than eleven when the ordeal began. The night I remember above
all, I was hurried out of bed after my brother, Bernard: my elder by three years. He
was always stirred awake first so he could help prepare the horse and tie up the
cart.
Hours before dawn, in the cool of the night, we walked away from our home and
went down to the river where we could cross a bridge; beyond which the road was
dark and obscured, an excellent place to enter and leave the cemetery unnoticed.
We were all quiet, for calling attention to ourselves would have done us no
service. It was damp and wet that night: it had rained earlier and I could smell
water still fresh in the air. We slowly moved along the bridge. I remember the
wheels of the cart, straining and creaking, threatening to arouse the nearby
residents and their curiosities with just one sudden noise. Steam rose off our aged
horse. The mist of her breath was comforting; she was an innocent creature—our
accomplice. The narrow stream below, too dark to see, trickled quietly. Any sound
that we made with our dreary march was muted as soon as we crossed the bridge
and went over the moss-covered earth framing the cemetery. Once inside the
perimeter my father was at ease, his humor improved, and with a calm gaiety he led
us to a newly established residence for some deceased soul. They called us