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“You’ve got to get ’im treated proper, Mr. Monk.” Orme’s voice was sharp with fear. “Just carin’ isn’t gonna be enough. That bullet’s gotter come out an’ the ’ole stitched up…an’ cleaned.”
“I know,” Monk answered, more sharply than he meant to. “Get a message to Crow and have him come to my house. My wife’s a battlefield nurse.”
Orme saw the futility of arguing when time was so desperately precious. He ran out into the street and stopped the first hansom passing, ordering the startled passenger out to find another hansom. This was police business. The man saw the injured child and made no demur.
Orme left to look for Crow.
It was a nightmare journey. Monk sat cradling Scuff in his arms, talking to him all the time about anything and nothing, wishing he knew how to help. The trip seemed to last forever, and yet it was perhaps no more than half an hour before he climbed out, paid the driver, and carried Scuff to the front door.
The house was dark, empty, and cold. God! Had she gone back to Portpool Lane already? He could have wept with fear and the aching loneliness of knowing he was inadequate to do what was needed. Where was Hester? Why was she not here? What could he do without her? He felt panicky and sick. There was no time to wait!
He must keep Scuff warm! He was slipping away, bleeding too fast. His face was gray and there was barely a flutter of his eyelids.
Monk must warm up the room, riddle the stove, put on more fuel. He should boil water to make it clean. Where was Hester? Why was she not here? He had no idea how to get a bullet out! He could kill Scuff just by trying!
He moved quickly, ramming the fire with the poke
r. He must be careful; if he added too much coal, he would put the fire out. Then it would take ages to light again. He blew on it, to make it draw. Then he filled the biggest pan with water, but changed his mind and put on a small one instead. It would be quicker.
Finally there was no excuse to wait any longer. He lifted Scuff from the chair where he had put him and laid him on the table under the light. He must take off his coat and remove the bit of scarf Orme had put in to pack the wound. It was soaked through with blood. His hands shook as he pulled it off and saw the scarlet hole in the white skin, still welling up scarlet inside. Scuff was unconscious and barely breathing. Perhaps it was too late already?
He did not even hear the front door. It was not until Hester was standing beside him that he realized his face was wet with tears of relief. He did not ask if she could save Scuff because he could not bear the answer.
She said nothing except to give orders: “Pass me the knife…clean this for me…cut up my petticoat, it’s soft…put the vinegar on this—yes, it’s clean. They used to use it in the navy, in ships of the line. Just do it!”
They worked together. She probed for the bullet, pulled it out, packed the wound, and finally drew the flesh closed and stitched it over with a darning needle dipped in boiling water. She used the only silk thread she had, a dark blue from a dress she had been altering. He obeyed, his teeth clenched, his body now shuddering with cold and exhaustion, his heart pounding with fear.
Finally they were finished. Scuff was bandaged and dressed in one of Hester’s nightgowns, which was the only thing that was anywhere near his size, and laid gently on her side of the bed. Only then did Monk finally ask. “Will he live?”
She did not lie to him. Her face was pinched with grief and tiredness, and her blue dress was irrevocably stained with blood. “I don’t know. We’ll just have to wait. I’ll sit here with him, try to keep his temperature down. There’s nothing else to do now except wait. Go and wash, and put dry clothes on.”
He had forgotten that he was still sodden himself, and the stench of the sewer probably filled the whole house. “But…,” he started, then realized she was right. There was nothing further he could do to help Scuff, and catching pneumonia himself would help no one. He was shaking with cold, his teeth chattering. He would change and then make them both a cup of tea. His stomach was empty and sick, and his arm was throbbing.
He was in the kitchen with the teapot when Crow arrived. “How is he?” he asked, searching Monk’s face. “God, you look awful!” His voice shook, his emotions too raw to hide.
“I don’t know,” Monk admitted. “Hester took the bullet out and stitched the wound, but he’s terribly weak. He’s upstairs, in my bed. Can you…”
Crow had a gladstone bag with him; he had not even put it down. He turned and went up the stairs two at a time. Monk followed him five minutes later with scalding hot tea.
Crow was standing beside the bed. Hester was still sitting on the chair, Scuff’s white hand in hers. Crow turned. “She did a good job,” he said simply. “There’s nothing more that I can do. It’s a bad wound, but the bullet’s out and it’s clean. It’s not bleeding much anymore. I’ve got bandages here and spirit to clean with, and a drop of port wine to lift him when he wakes.” He did not say if, but they all knew he meant it.
“Just…wait?” Monk wanted to do more than that. There must be something.
“Tea,” Crow said with a bleak smile.
Monk poured it, and they sat down to endure the long night.
Scuff tossed and turned. By midnight he was feverish. Monk fetched a bowl of cool water from the kitchen, and Hester kept sponging him down. By half past one Scuff was more settled, breathing shallowly but not thrashing around, and no longer covered with sweat.
Crow took off the bandage and repacked the wound. It looked clean, but it was still bleeding slowly. He tried to give Scuff a teaspoonful of wine, but the boy would not take it.
Monk dozed a little in the chair, then changed places with Hester by the bed, watching and waiting.
Outside the rain turned to sleet, then to snow.
At five o’clock Scuff opened his eyes, but he was only half awake. He did not speak, and it seemed as if he had little idea where he was. Hester lifted him very slightly and gave him a teaspoonful of wine. He choked on it, but she gave him some more, and the second time he smiled very faintly. Almost immediately he slipped back into unconsciousness, but his breathing was a little steadier.
Monk went down to build the stove up again and boil more water for tea.
