There was a high-pitched, ear-splitting series of barks. Snoot shot out of the door from the laundry as it opened and Sutton appeared.
“Wot the ’ell is . . .” he started.
Martha was the first to her feet. “Let me go!” she shrieked. “I gotta get out of ’ere! Let me . . .” And again she plunged towards the back door.
Hester tried to shout, but she could not draw her breath.
“Don’t!” Sutton yelled. “Don’t do it!”
But Martha was beyond reach; in her own mind she must escape or die. The plague was here in this house, and beyond in the night was freedom and life. She ran barefoot out into the yard.
Hester propped herself up onto her hands and knees.
Sutton gritted his teeth and closed his eyes for a second, then he opened them again. “Get ’er!” he shouted.
Martha was floundering across the cobbles of the yard. Out of the shadows from two different directions shot two pit bull terriers. They leapt just as she shrieked, and their weight carried her down hard and heavily. As instinct and training taught them, they went for her throat.
Hester screamed. “No! No! Oh, God no!” She lurched to her feet.
Claudine was standing as well, one hand across her mouth, the other clenched over her stomach where she had fallen against the table corner.
Sutton stumbled to the door and out into the darkness. The men were calling their dogs off. Martha lay motionless, her white nightgown stained with widening blotches of crimson.
Sutton reached her and bent down. He touched her gently, feeling for a pulse. The two dog owners stood by, hands on their animals, reassuring them they had not done wrong, but their voices trembled and Hester knew they were talking as much to themselves as to their animals.
Sutton looked up at them from where he knelt.
“Thanks, Joe, Arnie. That can’t be easy ter do, but yer did right. Please ’eaven yer won’t ’ave ter do it no more, but if yer do, then yer must.” He turned to Hester, who was now outside in the light rain almost beside him. “She in’t dead, but she’s bleedin’ summink ’orrible. Still, I s’pose yer seen that before, yer bein’ in the army an’ all. We’d best get ’er inside an’ see if yer can stitch ’er up, poor little cow. I dunno wot for. This’d be an easier way to go, Gawd ’elp us.”
Claudine was outside now as well. She was gasping for breath, trying to control the hysteria rising in her.
“You murderer!” She choked out the words, staring transfixed with horror at Sutton.
“No he isn’t!” Hester protested, her own voice thick with held-in anguish.
“He set the dogs on her!” Claudine said coldly. “You saw it! God! Look at her! They’ve torn her throat out.”
“No, they haven’t.” Hester bent down to her knees to look at the mangled, scarlet mess, praying that what she said was true. Or maybe that it wasn’t.
Claudine began to gasp for breath, the air scraping and wheezing in her chest.
Sutton put his arm around her and with the other struck her hard on the back.
She turned on him in fury. “Going to kill me now, are you?” she shrieked, raising both her fists as if to strike him in the face.
“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.”
