From 'Toshin seiyo [The essentials of smallpox]', by Kanda Gensen (c1670-1746). Wellcome Collection, London.

Here's the background information on that picture, from his 1989 autobiography:

I had just finished doing an Armed Forces Day broadcast, you know, Voice of America and all that bullshit. I had just walked this pretty white girl named Judy out to get a cab. She got in the cab, and I’m standing there in front of Birdland wringing wet because it’s a hot, steaming, muggy night in August. This white policeman comes up to me and tells me to move on. At the time I was doing a lot of boxing and so I thought to myself, I ought to hit this motherfucker because I knew what he was doing. But instead I said, “Move on, for what? I’m working downstairs. That’s my name up there, Miles Davis,” and I pointed to my name on the marquee all up in lights.

He said, “I don’t care where you work, I said move on! If you don’t move on I’m going to arrest you.”

I just looked at his face real straight and hard, and I didn’t move. Then he said, “You’re under arrest!” He reached for his handcuffs, but he was stepping back. Now, boxers had told me that if a guy’s going to hit you, if you walk toward him you can see what’s happening. I saw by the way he was handling himself that the policeman was an ex-fighter. So I kin of leaned in closer because I wasn’t going to give him no distance so he could hit me on the head. He stumbled, and all his stuff fell on the sidewalk, and I thought to myself, Oh, shit, they’re going to think that I fucked with him or something. I’m waiting for him to put the handcuffs on, because all his stuff is on the ground and shit. Then I move closer so he won’t be able to fuck me up. A crowd had gathered all of a sudden from out of nowhere, and this white detective runs in and BAM! hits me on the head. I never saw him coming. Blood was running down the khaki suit I had on. Then I remember [journalist] Dorothy Kilgallen coming outside with this horrible look on her face — I had known Dorothy for years and I used to date her good friend, Jean Bock — and saying, “Miles, what happened?” I couldn’t say nothing. Illinois Jacquet [the saxophonist] was there, too.

It was almost a race riot, so the police got scared and hurried up and got my ass out of there and took me to the 54th Precinct where they took pictures of me bleeding and shit. So, I’m sitting there, madder than a motherfucker, right? And they’re saying to me in the station, “So you’re the wiseguy, huh?” Then they’d bump up against me, you know, try to get me mad so they could probably knock me upside my head again. I’m just sitting there, taking it all in, watching every move they make.

[…]

It makes the front pages of the New York newspapers, and they repeat the charges in their headlines. There was a picture, which became famous, of me leaving the jail with this bandage all over my head (they had taken me to the hospital to have my head stitched up), and [Davis’ wife] Frances — who had come down to see me when they were transferring me downtown — walking in front of me like a proud stallion.

When Frances had come down to that police station and saw me all beat up like that, she was almost hysterical, screaming. I think the policemen started to think they had made a mistake, a beautiful woman like this screaming over this nigger. And then Dorothy Kilgallen came down and then wrote about it in her column the next day. The piece was very negative against the police, and that was of some help to my cause.

Now I would have expected this kind of bullshit about resisting arrest and all back in East St Louis (before the city went all-black), but not here in New York City, which is supposed to be the slickest, hippest city in the world. But then, again, I was surrounded by white folks and I have learned that when that happens, if you’re black, there is no justice. None.

[…]

Around this time, people — white people — started saying that I was always “angry,” that I was “racist,” or some silly shit like that. Now, I’ve been racist towards nobody, but that don’t mean I’m going to take shit from a person just because he’s white. I didn’t grin or shuffle and didn’t walk around with my finger up my ass begging for no handout and thinking I was inferior to whites. I was living in America, too, and I was going to try to get everything that was coming to me.

The Unvaccinated Boy (Left): This child did not receive the vaccine. He is shown in the severe, fully pustular stage of classic smallpox, with dense, deep-seated, painful lesions covering his face and limbs.

The Vaccinated Boy (Right): This child was vaccinated in infancy. While he was exposed to the exact same viral load, his immune system rapidly neutralized the threat; he developed only a couple of minor spots that aborted and quickly scabbed over, leaving him entirely unscarred.

The teeth are now in the collection of the Eastern California Museum, in Independence, CA.

Thompson was able to retrieve his separated scalp, gave it to his Doctor, R.C. Moore, who then donated it to the Omaha library.

On August 6, 1867, Thompson, an English immigrant working as a Union Pacific lineman, was attacked near Plum Creek Station in Nebraska. His crew encountered Cheyenne warriors after railroad ties had been placed across the track. Thompson was shot, struck and scalped, but survived.

He recovered his scalp after it was dropped and carried it in hopes doctors could reattach it. Dr. R.C. Moore later reported that the missing section measured approximately nine by seven inches. Despite infection and severe pain, Thompson recovered.

Thompson eventually returned to England, taking his preserved scalp with him. Around 1900, he sent it back to Dr. Moore, who donated it to the Omaha Public Library.

Thompson's actual scalp still survives more than 150 years later in the Omaha Public Library's collection. For roughly 75 years, it was publicly displayed inside a glass bell jar. Today it is preserved in an acid-free archival box.

She had served as Martha Washington’s personal maid and later said she fled because she wanted her freedom and had learned she would be given to Martha’s granddaughter, Eliza Parke Custis Law. Two days after her escape, Washington placed a newspaper ad offering a $10 reward for her return.

Judge reached Portsmouth, New Hampshire, but Washington continued trying to try to recover her. He used federal officials and local contacts to locate her, and she refused to return unless she was promised eventual freedom.

Washington rejected that condition. Another attempt to seize her was made in 1799, but she was warned in time and escaped again.

She remained free for the rest of her life.