Saints and Sinners

by Karen V. Wasylowski

  “You mustn’t cry for me, angel.”

  “No, I’m not crying. Yes, well, a little. I thought we’d lost you last evening; your fever was rather high.”

  “Tears of happiness then… whatever is wrong with my voice? I sound like a frog.”

  She laughed a little. “A dry throat I suspect. Would you care for another sip of water?”

  He nodded, agreeing more from the need to feel her near him, the desire to rest his cheek against her soft bosom as he sipped – rather than actual thirst. A moment ago I thought I was dead, and now I’m trying to push my head between her breasts. The water did taste bloody refreshing though. She gave him only a few sips at first, then a few more. “Thank you, that’s better.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Horrendous. Sore. Drained. Take your pick. What happened to me?”

  “No one knows, except that you were found badly beaten and somehow surviving a great deal of blood loss.”

  “I… I don’t remember anything. Where am I?”

  “You are at St. Thomas Hospital.”

  “About as far from heaven as one can be then.”

  She laughed and nodded. “Definitely. A voluntary hospital that serves the poor is not anything akin to a celestial cloud.”

  “I must be poor then.”

  “No idea. You had, literally, nothing when you were found. We rather hoped you could tell us more when you awoke.”

  “Oh. Haven’t a clue. How long have I been here?”

  “Twenty-six hours and twenty minutes.”

  “Twenty-six hours? Impossible.” A sudden coughing fit racked his body, making him gasp in pain because of his damaged ribs.

  “Here, another sip of water. Slowly. I’m afraid it’s true about both the twenty-six hours and having no money. We’ve no idea how long you were lying unconscious on the street before you were found.”

  “Bloody hell. Excuse my language.” She gave him a few more sips of water.

  “Quite all right, you’ve earned the privilege. Mustn’t let Matron hear you cursing, though. She’ll wash your mouth out with soap. Now, can you tell me your name so that we may contact your family?” It was completely wrong of her, but she prayed he hadn’t a wife somewhere waiting for him, or children frightened for their father.

  “My name? My name. I have no idea. Family? I don’t even know if I have a family.”

  “Well, you received several blows to your head, lost a great deal of blood. Your memory should return as you recover; and, recover you shall, if I have anything to say about it!”

  “Wasn’t there any identification in my clothes? Something. Anything.”

  “No.” Her face pinked up; she cleared her throat. “Actually, when you were found you’d already been, um, relieved of your clothing. Perhaps you were robbed.”

  “Well, here’s hoping. I’d hate to think I make it a habit to walk around buck naked – cruel vision to inflict on livestock.” Her surprised laughter was adorable. She covered her mouth and looked about, her eyes twinkling. Oh, those rosy cheeks gladdened his heart, stirred him. But, bloody hell, he had no strength in him to follow through.

  “Weak as a damn kitten,” he griped.

  “Not surprising with all the blood you’ve lost. Be that as it may, that is nothing for you to worry about. Thankfully your fever is much lower now.”

  “What are these marks on my arms? They hurt like the very devil.”

  “Yes, well, the physician making rounds last evening, Mr. Bridges, has a fondness for bleeding patients, unfortunately. I was away having my supper when he arrived, earlier than usual. Perhaps being Christmas Eve he was in a hurry and therefore never read my notes because I had written everything down on your chart, including a very precise account of your excessive blood loss. He was nearly finished before the Ward Watcher could locate me.”

  She and the doctor had had a dreadful row the night before, exacerbating an already poor relationship between them. In addition to Mr. Bridge’s usual abrasive manner, he was furious with her for rebuffing his flirtations the week before. Many physicians believed nurses to be loose women with little medical knowledge. But Martha Clarke was a trained Nightingale nurse, professional from head to toe. “Gross neglect of duty is what it was. He makes me quite angry. I shall just have to be more vigilant from now on. I shall watch you like a hawk.”

  He smiled. “You’re a regular spitfire when you get angry, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I believe I am!” She brightened up in surprise. “That’s another first for me.”

  “Your eyes are growing misty again, we can’t have that.”

  “My eyes are not misty in the least,” she sniffled.

  “Thank you for helping me.”

  “It’s been my pleasure.” She wasn’t usually so emotional, but this patient was different, and she had no idea why, only that she’d felt a deep connection with him from the start.

  She is very pretty, he thought; delicate and feminine. It was damned humiliating to be so weak in front of her. “Dreadfully awkward being helpless like this. If I can just rest for a bit I should be able to care for myself. Don’t like you having to worry about me any longer.” He squeezed her hand. “What I’m trying to say is although I love having you here and holding my hand, I feel quite unmanned. I should be your guardian, not the other way round.”

  “Well, until you can at least urinate on your own, we’d better leave the protecting to me.” Seeing his eyes open wide at that comment she pinked up again. “Sorry. Nurses tend to be blunt about bodily functions. I mean I don’t mind at all looking after you. I mean…” Smoothing a hand over his brow she smiled. “Sad to say but caring for you has made this one of the most blessed Christmas’s I’ve had in quite a while.”

  “Good.” Her touch was soothing. “Christmas? Is today Christmas?”

  She continued to run her fingers through his hair. “Yes it is, Bob Cratchit.”

  “Is that my name, I wonder?”

  “I very much doubt it.”

  “Christmas Day, I’ll be damned.”

  “It is, in fact, four o’clock on Christmas Day. Hasn’t been such a good Christmas for you though, has it?” She enjoyed touching his hair – too much perhaps. “Would you like some broth?”

  He brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed it. “Not now, angel. I truly am rather tired…” He was fast asleep before the last word ended.

  The ward watcher came quietly up behind her and patted her shoulder. “Poor lad looked better yesterday, even unconscious as he was. Ah well, you should borrow a page from him and rest now, Sister. You look exhausted, standing guard by his side for hours like you have. Mind, I don’t blame you one whit! After that madman bled him last evening, I feared Bob here wouldn’t survive at all. What was Bridges thinking?”

  “He wasn’t, that is his main problem – the bleeding itself was too excessive as well, never mind the fact that the patient had already lost a good deal of blood. I sometimes believe physicians should be compensated to be on staff, instead of voluntary. They’re too independent, too eager to use the poor as experiments for their wealthy clientele.”

  “That’s the truth; however, best not say that out loud. Anyway, at least this one survived a Bridges Bleeding, some don’t. Be thankful.”

  “Oh, I am. As long as he does not bleed him again.”

  “A second bleeding? Heaven forbid.” The woman crossed herself. “Well, I should make my rounds. You go on up to your room and sleep, Sister. Boxing Day tomorrow, always a busy day, that.”

  She nodded, but after the ward attendant left Martha remained, pulling a nearby screen around the foot of his bed so she could sit without being observed. Having nursed him for hours on end she felt a possessiveness for the fellow, nothing else. All right, perhaps there was an unfamiliar desire to know him better, even a physical attraction. How long since she’d had a man in her life, felt a man’s touch? Years. Since her husband’s passing.

  Her attraction to him was p
erfectly logical. Why, without the bruises, the scruff, the… alcoholic odor… any woman would consider him handsome, well-spoken, respectful. All right, enough of this. Evidently, she was more tired than she thought, as well as suddenly love-starved. Whatever it was, this emotion certainly could not be true affection. She knew nothing about the man, and he claimed to remember nothing. That did not mean, however, that a wife or sweetheart wasn’t out there, somewhere.

  How depressing.

  She felt his forehead. Thank the good lord the fever wasn’t returning. No, she couldn’t agree with Mr. Bridges that this man was a common drunk, or a destitute. True, his skin was darkened by sun as any cutpurse’s might; but she had listened to his mutterings for several hours. Nothing he had said was off putting, or even remotely illicit. Resting her chin on her hand she continued to stare at him. More likely he was a sea captain who had been set upon, or a builder perhaps – a man who spent a good deal of time outdoors working. He had been well cared for, that was certain. His nails were clean and shaped, his teeth good, his heart strong, his body muscular. She sighed, he had someone around to fuss over him.

  Her eyes stung at that thought. Good heavens what was the matter with her! Surely, all she needed was a short nap and she’d feel much better. After tucking the sheet in around him she closed her eyes, wearier than ever before in her life. Was it just yesterday morning, on Christmas Eve, when her life had turned upside down? It had been snowing that day, and cold …

  Martha Clarke eyed a comfy looking chair, unoccupied in a corner of her ward, and determined a moment’s rest was in order before picking up pen to update patient charts. The afternoon meal had been distributed without one volatile incident; those in her care – the destitute, the drunkards, the mentally ill – all quiet and grateful to be inside now the winter snows had begun.

  Besides, the loss of their Prince had closed most of the taverns in the city. It was Christmas Eve, 1861, just another work day at St. Thomas’ Voluntary Hospital. Until…

  A scream in the distance stopped her heart cold. “Whatever was that, Matron?”

  “Oh dear. And here I was just thinking how nice and quiet it has been.” Sighing, the Ward Matron hurried to one of the tall windows facing the street. “Nothing unusual I can see.”

  Matron Sheady, head of the new Nightingale nursing staff at St. Thomas Hospital, had been planning on spending Christmas visiting her ailing brother, her first visit with him in years, and possibly her last as well. She would be leaving in a few hours, as long as nothing dire happened in the meantime. Another scream filled the air.

  “Gracious. Shall I go out and see what’s causing the ruckus?”

  “Certainly not. Wouldn’t do to send a young woman into a crowd of intoxicated revelers. Where’s Young Charlie? Ah, there he is – Charles, rouse yourself and come here please.” Matron motioned over a young boy napping in the corner. “Go outside, would you, there’s a good lad. See if you can shoo whomever it is away. Be careful, mind you. If you sense they’re ruffians come back inside immediately.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Know just what to do. I can chase ‘em across to Guy’s ‘ospital.”

  “No, Charlie, that is not what I meant –. Oh bother.” The boy had scurried out the door before an exasperated Matron could stop him. “Sister Clarke, see to your patient, please, before he discharges a lung. And stop chuckling.”

  “Yes, Matron.” Martha was still smiling as she approached the coughing man. “Shall I bring you another pillow, Mr. Hobbs?” The poor dear had been suffering from chilblain and chin cough for several days. “You may be able to rest easier with your head elevated.”

  He spit into a bowl. “Lord luv ye, lass, but I’m just after clearin’ m’pipes. Besides, best not get accustomed to that sort o’ luxury.”

  Nearby a man broke wind, causing those around him to groan and swear. Martha turned away, trying hard not to gasp for breath herself. “Oh, dear, Mr. Kingston. I sense your stomach is bothering you.”

  “Not no more, Sister. Not no more.”

  “T’would be merciful if someone opened window,” called out a voice from another bed. “What in bloody ‘ell did ye eat, Ralph?”

  “We’ll be findin’ out in a minute, mebbe.”

  Suddenly, more screams and shouts erupted from the hospital courtyard terrifying everyone and Young Charlie burst into the room, panting with excitement. He leaned over to catch his breath.

  “Good gracious!” Matron hurried to the boy. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeh, o’course Matron; though I nearly copped a mouse just now, it’s fair collie shangles downstairs.”

  Sheady stared at the lad for a moment before turning to Martha. “Was that even English?”

  “Well, yes, a version of it – appears Charlie very nearly received a blackened eye. Apparently, there’s a row brewing downstairs.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Dead gent coppers just brung to mortuary tweren’t dead at all! Sat straight up on slab. Scared the bloomin’ trousers off old Flynn!”

  “Here, drink this and catch your breath.” Martha handed him a glass of water.

  “What in the world are you saying, Charlie? Dead man, come to life?” Matron plopped onto a chair in front of him and pushed the hair from his eyes. “Ridiculous.”

  “Matron, saw ‘im meself, din’ I? Naked as the day ‘e was born too, blood all over ‘is ‘ead, and black and blue everywhere else.”

  “Oh, the poor man. Was he in an accident?”

  “It’s a odd sort ‘o accident what strips a man o’is skivvies. Nah, ‘e was probably on the ran-tan, fell in w’bad uns, and got ‘imself a good slatin’.”

  Again, matron turned to Martha for clarification.

  “He was possibly inebriated and then severely beaten.”

  “Ah. Tell me, Charlie, have the perpetrators been apprehended by the constabulary?”

  The boy blinked several times at his beloved Matron Sheady then looked to Martha with the same quizzical brow.

  “Did the beaks catch the ones who did the slating?”

  “Oh. No, they be dead as well. I gather these two blokes tried t’back slang it, trippin’ up when they stopped to fight over a sort o’ packet. Heard they kept screamin’ and hollerin’ at each other, grabbin’ it all back an’ forth and such, runnin’ – got a big crowd followin’ ‘em by this time. And, don’t ye know, they was both gingers – that’s always trouble! Look it up. Well, what do ye think ‘appened next Matron?”

  “I still haven’t a clue what happened before. Why don’t you recite the entire episode to Sister Clarke and I shall try and garner the pertinent information from her.”

  “Hmm?”

  Martha put her hand on his shoulder. “Tell me, and I’ll explain it to Matron.”

  “Aye. Where was I? Oh, yeah – there were a right batty fang over the bundle, whole crowd cheerin’ ‘em on to off each other, a proper fifteen puzzle, when whole kit goes flyin’ into river – pinched clothes, boots, coat – includin’ very packet what they was fightin’ over. Well, that done it - ‘ole crowd starts jumpin’ into river then, everyone fightin’ for one thing or t’other! Them bloody robbers was so mad, what d’ye think! Drew knives and ended up killin’ each other!”

  “Good heavens. I imagine whatever it is you just said was horrific.”

  “Oh, yeah. They was both rat bags, but didn’ deserve to be dead meat. Anyways, ends up wif one stabbed in stomach and t’other with ‘is throat sliced.”

  “The sad plight of the penurious.”

  “If that be gingers, then yeah.”

  “One moment, please, Charlie. Now, what exactly is a ginger, Sister Clarke?”

  “Someone with reddish colored hair, Matron.”

  “Oh.”

  “I got more. Once them peelers scatter crowd they sends for a dead wagon. Turns out there was one already around, ‘ad picked up a bloke nearby – lots ‘o action tonight, I’m thinkin’ – so coppers toss the gingers atop ‘im.”

  “Your verb
iage is horrendous.”

  “Sorry. Swear I washed my face just this mornin’, Matron.”

  “Please go on, Charlie.”

  “Yes, ma’am. The bloke what was already in the dead wagon ‘ad been found in nearby stairwell, naked as a babe, an’ it turns out – wait for it – ‘e’s got an ‘andful of ginger ‘air clutched in ‘is paw, so coppers figure two dead ‘uns ‘ad a fallin’ out with naked one, beat ‘im up and stole everythin’ from ‘im, includin’ the clothes off his back.”

  “Does the naked gentleman have ginger hair?”

  “Nowhere I could see, Matron. Both top an’ tallywags was thick brown.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Like a bloomin’ forest…”

  “I do have the idea now, Charlie, please go on.”

  “Yes, ma’am, after a mo, wagon driver ‘ears a groan from the dead pile! Yeah! Scared the shite – excuse me, matron, that was a… sneeze – scared the driver somfin’ fierce. ‘e jumps off wagon and runs screamin’ mad as hops smack back to them peelers. T’was then they bundled up poor bloke and brung ‘im straight ‘ere. Poor ol’ Flynn knew nofin an’ walked in just as the bloke sat up when coppers settle ‘im on table, all covered like ‘e was dead. Sister, can I ‘ave me tea now?”

  “Pardon? Oh, yes, of course.”

  Other patients had by now approached the boy, excitedly speaking at once and asking questions. “What in the world are you all doing?” Matron clapped her hands. “Back to your beds!” Motioning for Martha to follow she then headed for the door. “Sister Kelly, please remain here with the patients. We shall return as soon as possible.”

  “But, Matron, I’m finished with my shift.”

  She waved away the young nursing trainee. “Yes, and I am supposed to be leaving for my brother’s home. I do realize you are off duty, Kelly; however, if you wish to succeed in your chosen profession, if you wish to be a Nightingale nurse, you will always place your patient’s well-being before your own. Sister Clarke, follow me. Charlie, you lead the way.”

  Chapter 12

  It took time for the two women to properly clean the beaten man of all the dirt and blood, wash and dress his wounds, then bundle him with blankets to warm him. With no physician attending Christmas Eve, and several nurses absent to visit family, the available staff was minimal.