Cain His Brother - Anne Perry [24]
“The little boy at the end is very weak,” she said huskily. “I don’t think he’ll last the night. I almost wish he’d go quickly, to ease his suffering, and yet when he does, I’ll wish he hadn’t.” She sniffed and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Isn’t it ridiculous? I first saw him only a few hours ago, and yet I care so much it twists inside me. I’ve never even heard him speak.”
“Time has nothing to do with it,” Hester replied in a whisper, adding salt and sugar liberally to the gruel. It was necessary to replenish what the body lost. Her own memories crowded her mind, soldiers she had seen for perhaps only an hour or two, and yet their agonized faces remained in her memory, the courage with which some of them bore their wounds and the breaking of their own bodies. One was sharp before her vision even now. She could see his blood-smeared features superimposed in the cauldron of gruel she was stirring, the smile he forced on his lips, his fair mustache and the mangled mass where his right shoulder had been. He had bled to death, and there had been nothing she could do to help him.
“I suppose not.” Enid picked up the dishes, wrinkled her nose at the lingering odor of the gin, and began to ladle out a little gruel into about six of them. “I don’t know who can eat, but we’d better try.” She regarded it unhappily. “It’s very thin. Haven’t we any more oatmeal?”
“It’s better thin,” Hester answered. “They can’t take much nourishment; it’s just the liquid that’s of value.”
Enid drew in her breath, then perhaps realized why they did not simply use water. She would have gagged to drink it herself, more especially knowing where it came from. In silence she took the dishes and spoons and began the slow, distressing task of helping one person after another to swallow a mouthful and try to keep it.
The night wore on slowly. The smells and sounds of illness filled the huge room. Shadows passed to and fro in the flickering candlelight as the tallow burned down. About three in the morning Kristian returned. Callandra came over to Hester. There were dark smudges of weariness under her eyes and her skirts were soiled where she had been helping someone in extreme distress.
“Go and take a few hours’ sleep,” she said quietly. “Kristian and I can manage.” She said it so naturally, and yet Hester knew what it meant to her to be able to speak their names together in such a way. “We’ll call you towards morning.”
“A couple of hours,” Hester insisted. “Call me about five. What about Enid?”
“I’ve persuaded her.” Callandra smiled faintly. “Now go on. You can’t stay up indefinitely. If you don’t rest you’ll be no use. You’ve told me that often enough.”
Hester gave a rueful little shrug. There was no honesty or purpose in denial.
“Watch the boy over there on the left.” She gestured towards a figure lying crumpled, half on one side, about twenty feet away. “He’s got a dislocated shoulder. I’ve put it back, but it slips out if he leans on it when he sits up to retch.”
“Poor little creature.” Callandra sighed. “He looks no more than ten or twelve, but it’s hard to tell.”
“He said he was sixteen,” Hester replied. “But I don’t suppose he can count.”
“Did it happen recently? The shoulder, I mean?”
“I asked him. He said he got across Caleb Stone and got beaten for his cheek.”
Callandra winced. “There’s a woman on the far end with a knife scar on her face. She said that was Caleb Stone too. She didn’t say why. He seems to be a very violent man. She sounded still afraid of him.”
“Well, I don’t suppose we’ll see him in here,” Hester said dryly. “Unless he gets typhoid. Nobody comes to pest-houses to collect debts, however large—or to exact revenge either.” She glanced down the dark cavern of the warehouse. “No revenge could be worse than this,” she said softly.
“Go and rest,” Callandra ordered. “Or you won’t be fit to work when I sleep.”
Hester obeyed gratefully. She had not dared to think how