The Shifting Tide - Anne Perry [119]
“I might do, missus,” he said grimly. “I really might do—but not yet. I’ll ’ave enough ter bury without you, an’ yer getting’ ter be more use every day, spite o’ yerself. Now get an’ ’elp Miss ’Ester wi’ this poor little cow. ’old the water or the needle or summink. Don’t stand there wi’ yer bleedin’ mouth open. In’t no flies ter catch this time o’ night.”
Claudine realized she was breathing clearly again. She was beside herself with rage. “You . . .” she started.
But Sutton was not listening to her. “Shut yer face an’ be useful, yer great lump!” he told her abruptly. “Afore she bleeds ter death ’ere in the yard an’ yer ’ave ter spend yer mornin’ wi’ a broom an’ vinegar tryin’ ter clean it up.”
Partly out of sheer surprise, Claudine obeyed. Together all three of them managed to carry Martha back inside and lay her on the kitchen table. In the light she looked even worse.
“Can yer stitch ’er?” Sutton whispered.
Hester looked at the blood-soiled clothes and the mangled flesh. Martha was still bleeding freely, but it was not with the brilliant scarlet of arterial blood, and it was still pumping, which meant that she was alive.
“I can try,” she answered. “But I need to be very quick. Claudine, you’ll have to help. Bessie’s got what looks like a broken nose, and Mercy’ll have to deal with that. Anyway, we’ve no time. Get my needle and silk out of the top drawer of the cupboard over by the sink.” As she spoke she was tearing out the other sleeve of Martha’s nightgown and rolling it up into a pad, holding it onto the worst of the wounds. “Sutton, fetch the bottle of brandy and pour some of it into a dish, then get more towels. Be quick.”
They were ashen-faced, their hands trembling, but they did exactly as she told them. Mercy came while they were busy, and said in a low voice that Bessie’s nose was broken, but she had managed to stop the bleeding. Bessie would be all right, and so would Squeaky. He was bruised, but nothing was broken. Flo was doing what she could for the rest of the sick women, and what would Hester like her to do now?
“Put a pot of tea outside for the men in the yard,” Hester answered. “And thank them. Tell them we are grateful.” She did not look away from her work. “Put your finger there,” she instructed Claudine, indicating a raw vein from which blood was running. “Hold it. I’ll stitch it as fast as I can. I’ve got to do this one first.”
Without hesitation Claudine stretched out her finger and pressed.
Hester was oblivious of time. It could have been a quarter of an hour, or three quarters, when she finally realized she had done all she could. With Claudine’s help she bound the last bandage on Martha’s neck and shoulder and the top of her arm. She looked only once at the purplish patch near the armpit. She did not know if it was a bruise or the beginning of a bubo. She did not want to know. They washed her the best they could, put a clean gown on her, then called for Squeaky to help them carry her to one of the downstairs rooms. They laid her on the bed and covered her over.
Claudine looked at Hester questioningly, but she did not ask if Martha would live or not. “I’ll go and clean up the kitchen,” she said ruefully. “It looks like a butcher’s shop.”
“Thank you,” Hester answered with profound sincerity. She did not add any praise. Claudine knew she had earned approval, and that was all that mattered to her. She went out, even smiling very slightly at Squeaky as she passed him on her way to the door.
Hester took the bloodstained clothes down to the laundry, where she found Sutton looking exhausted. His lean face was shadowed as if with bruising, his eyes hollow, the stubble on his chin patched with white.
“Was the Crimea like that?” he said with a twisted smile. “Gawd ’elp the army if it were.”
She thought of it with an effort. It seemed like another world now. She had been younger, had so much less that was precious to her to live for. One did not allow oneself to think about the violence and the pain in a rational way, or it became too