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Hester drew in her breath to bargain with him.
“Thank you,” Callandra said quickly, cutting her off. “We’ll have them immediately. And if you know of any other tradesman who would be prepared to assist, please send him to us.”
“Yeah,” Mr. Stabb agreed thoughtfully, his face failing to mask a few rapid calculations.
Further deliberations were prevented by the arrival of several bales of straw and canvas sheets, old sails and sacking, anything that might be used to form acceptable beds, and blankets to cover them.
Hester left to set about procuring fuel for the two potbellied black stoves, which must be kept alight as much of the time as possible, not only for warmth but in order to boil water and cook gruel, or whatever other food was obtainable for anyone who might be well enough to take nourishment. Typhoid being a disease of the intestines, that might not be many, but if any survived the worst of it, they would need strengthening after the crisis. And fluid of any sort was of the utmost importance. Frequently it was what made the difference between life and death.
Meat, milk and fruit were unobtainable, as were green vegetables. They might be fortunate with potatoes, although it was a difficult season for them. They would probably have to make do with bread, dried peas and tea, like everyone else in the area. They might find a little bacon, although one had to be very careful. Frequently meat of any sort came from animals which had died of disease, but even then it was extremely scarce. In most families it was only the working man who had such luxuries. It was necessary for everyone’s survival that he maintain as much of his strength as he could.
Patients were brought in over the next hours, and indeed all through the night, sometimes one at a time, sometimes several. There was little even Kristian could do for them, except try to keep them as clean and as comfortable as possible with such limited facilities, to wash them with cool water and vinegar to keep the fever down. Several quite quickly lapsed into delirium.
All night, Hester, Callandra and Enid Ravensbrook walked between the makeshift pallets carrying bowls of water and cloths. Kristian had returned to the hospital where he practiced. Mary and another woman went back and forth emptying the ironmonger’s buckets into the cesspool and returning. At about half past one there was some easing and Hester took the opportunity to prepare a hot gruel and use half of one of the bottles of gin to clean some dishes and utensils.
There was a noise in the doorway and she looked up to see Mary come limping in carrying two pails of water she had drawn from the well in the next street. In the candlelight she looked like a grotesque milkmaid, her shoulders bent, her hair blowing over her face from the wind and rain outside. Her plain stuff dress was wet across the top and her skirts trailed in the mud. She lived locally and had come to help because her sister was one of those afflicted. She set the pails down with an involuntary grunt of relief, then smiled at Hester.
“There y’are, miss. Bit o’ rain in ’em, but I s’pose that don’t ’urt none. Yer want them ’ot?”
“Yes, I’ll add them to this,” Hester accepted, indicating the cauldron she was stirring on top of one of the potbellied stoves.
“Were it like this in the Crimea?” Mary asked in a husky whisper, just in case some poor creature should be sleeping rather than insensible.
“Yes, a bit,” Hester replied. “Except, of course, we had gunshot wounds as well, and amputations, and gangrene. But we had lots of fever too.”
“Think I’d like to ’ave bin there,” Mary said, stretching and bending her back after the weight of the water. “Gotta be better than ’ere. Nearly married a sol’jer once.” She smiled fleetingly at the memory of romance. “Then I went and married Ernie instead. Just a brickie, ’e were, but sort o’ gentle.” She sniffed. “ ’E’d a’ never made the army. ’Is legs was bad. Rickets w’en ’e were a kid. Does that to yer, rickets does.” She stretched again and moved closer to the stove, her wet skirts slapping against her legs, her boots squelching. “Died o’ consumption, ’e did. ’E could read, could Ernie. Captain o’ the Men o’ Death, ’e called it. Consumption, I mean. Read that somewhere, ’e did.” She eyed the gruel and lifted one of the pails to pour in a gallon of water to thin it.
“Thank you,” Hester acknowledged. “He sounds special.”
“ ’E were,” Mary said stoically. “Miss ’im I do, poor bleeder. Me sister Dora wanted to get out of ’ere. Never thought it’d be in a coffin, leastways not yet. Not that there’s many as gets out ter anythink much different. There were Ginny Motson. Pretty, she were, an’ smart as yer like. Dunno wot ’appened to ’er, nor w’ere she went, but up west somewhere. Real bettered ’erself, she did. Learned ter talk proper, an’ be’ave like a lady, or least summink like.”
Hester refrained from speculating that it was probably into a brothel. The dream of freedom was too precious to destroy.
“Reckon as she got married,” Mary went on. “ ’Ope so. Liked ’er I did. D’yer want more water, miss?”
“Not yet, thank you.”
“Oh—there’s someone sick, poor devil.” Mary darted forward to pick up a pan and go to assist. Enid came out of the shadows on the far side, her face white, her thick and naturally wavy hair piled a little crooked, and a long splash of candle tallow on the bosom of her dress.
“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, s
oldiers 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.”
