Man, being the curious beast, often gets more than bargained for.  One such man was German pharmacist Friedrich Saturner.  Opium was widely used as both medicinal and recreational tonics by the 19th century, but Saturner focused on the medicinal value, seeking a way to intensify its painkilling properties.  Around 1803, Saturner found that by dissolving opium in acid, and then neutralizing the result with ammonia, he produced an alkaloid ten times the strength of raw opium.  After sampling his creation, he named it morphine – after Morpheus, the god of dreams.

Morphine was a hit, quickly becoming a staple inside every doctor's little black bag.  And in a testament to their fundamental ignorance regarding addiction, many physicians believed it a non-addictive cure for alcoholism.  Yet even as that theory proved very wrong, morphine remained popular with those treating the disease: the new theory being an opiate habitué was preferable to an alcoholic.  Morphine users were sedate by definition, more often solitary in their practice and few, if any, beat the wife and kids – or each other.

Say what you want about that theory, but morphine proved its weight in gold as a painkiller.  Administered orally, or directly to the wound, it revolutionized surgery at a time when a good doctor was a fast doctor.  Amputation was common and performed on the wide-awake.  As good as morphine was, it took another curious fellow designing the first syringe, allowing the drug to reach its full potential.  That was in 1843, when Dr. Alexander Wood sought a better route of drug administration.  He discovered the effects of morphine, when injected intravenously, were instantaneous and far more potent than oral dosing.

And just in time for the Civil War.  Battlefield doctors used butcher knives, saws and wire-cutters to hack and snap away any limb with a bullet hole, a hard task made harder working around five or six soldiers restraining the screaming patient.  Imagine being that first surgeon to amputate an arm or leg of a soldier made calm by a syringe full of morphine.  Imagine your prayers being answered.  Just imagine what you would call this miracle.  Well, those battlefield docs called it GOM – God's Own Medicine.  And tens of thousands of Civil War amputees agreed.

But not for long.  While the Civil War settled things, sort of, it created a generation of men addicted to morphine.  Doctors came up with a name for that too.  They called it the Army's Disease.  Morphine was certainly not the cure, but it was all a crippled man had to ease the pain – and the painful memories.  So we gave it to them, all the while selling it to everyone else for $1.50: the Sears, Roebuck catalog price for a syringe, two needles and two vials of morphine, all delivered in a shiny carrying case.

The times they were a changin', though.  Bishop Brent and other religious leaders in cahoots with temperance crusaders preached not only the immorality of opiates, they condemned users as immoral.  Those who took opiates were judged as weak, a pox on society and acting against God's will.  And while the prospect of eternal damnation would seem dire consequence enough, a little hell on earth couldn't hurt.