I FALL ILL OF FEVER.--GERMANS LEAVE ORLEANS.--MY BROTHER ARRIVES FROM
HOME.--END OF MY EXPERIENCES AS A FIELD SURGEON.
One bright evening, as I was out walking on the bank of the Loire, I had
felt a dead dull pain at the back of my head and in my back. On my
return the pain became so intense that I was obliged to go straight to
bed. All night and next day I felt very unwell, and Dr. Bouglet was sent
for. He pronounced me to be in fever, of what kind he could not exactly
tell; but as small-pox was prevalent in Orleans, he feared it might be
that. Subsequently he came to the conclusion that it was low fever of a
typhoid sort.
On the 6th, I felt very ill indeed, and beyond a dim recollection of
saying good-bye to my _confrères_, and the consciousness that my old
friends Warren and Hayden were continually at my bedside, I can recall
but little of what passed around me for the next fortnight.
In a few days all the members of the Anglo-American Ambulance, who had
been my friends and companions throughout this adventurous campaign,
were off to Paris. So there was I in No. 12 Rue Royale, away from home,
and prostrated by a dangerous illness. To those who read this, it may
appear that I was alone and friendless. But it was not so. For no
father's care could have been more tender, no mother's solicitude more
lavish, than that bestowed upon me by M. and Madame Proust, on the one
hand, and, on the other, by my guardian angel and nurse, Soeur Berthe,
from Notre Dame des Récouvrances.
During five long weeks, this indefatigable woman never left my bedside
day or night, save for an interval of an hour or so. She had been
working under me in the Hospitals, attending the wounded for many
months; and to her valuable and skilful aid I owe any success which may
have attended my efforts on behalf of the patients in those wards. Now
this good sister saw me, a stranger, but a fellow-labourer in the same
cause, struck down at the end of the campaign; and she bestowed upon me,
as she was wont to bestow upon them, with that grace of manner and
beaming kindness which characterised all she undertook, the same devoted
attentions. It was a privilege to be ill in her hands. I learned much
from her; and I should be ungrateful indeed, were I to forget the
lessons which her refinement, self-sacrifice, and unwearied good temper
printed on my mind and heart during those weeks.
Dr. Bouglet came and went, sometimes making a second visit the same day.
Evidently he thought my case a serious one. At the end of about ten days
from the beginning of my illness, I became so stupid and lethargic that
I remembered nothing for the next fortnight, save that during one of my
lucid intervals I saw Hayden, Parker, and Warren at my bedside, the
first two having come from Paris for the express purpose of seeing me.
Warren stayed until I was getting better, and wrote home for me. He
finished his letter, but almost failed in getting the address from me,
so weak was my mind at the time. Hayden, on being questioned by one of
the townspeople as to the chances of my recovery, answered, that it was
all up with me. Soeur Berthe, likewise, wrote to Scarteen in my name;
but I could do nothing of the kind myself.
About the fourth week I had completely regained consciousness, and was
daily getting stronger; but that was not saying much, for I could
neither turn in bed, nor lift an arm. I was simply skin and bone, and
used to wonder how my knuckles did not come through the skin. When I
looked at my limbs, I began to cry like a child, and this loss of
control over my feelings was particularly distressing to me. They never
let me see myself in the mirror until I was far advanced on the road to
recovery; and then I beheld what looked more like a corpse than my
living self, and was much taken aback. When allowed to speak, many hours
were spent in pleasant conversation with Madame and M. Proust, and with
Soeur Berthe, who was always an interesting and lively companion. She
used to pray with me, read to me, both serious and amusing books, and
instruct me in the secrets of the science of which she was mistress. She
would bring me flowers and fruit according to my fancy. And so the weeks
passed by, and, with the assistance of such good friends, they were
pleasant enough.
Before my brain got quite clear, I used to imagine that I saw numbers of
my friends at home, and was talking with them. Nor were the persons
phantoms. For I spoke to those who happened to be paying me a visit to
see how I was going on. Upon discovering my mistake, I felt it bitterly,
but was soon put into good humour again by Soeur Berthe. I have not yet
said much of my hostess Madame Proust; not because she was wanting in
any way,--far from it, indeed. That kind lady put her house and all
therein at my disposal, and was a most agreeable and sympathetic friend.
Occasionally, after returning from her walk in the town, she would tell
me of the people who were inquiring for me, which was an equal pleasure
and help to a convalescent.
Just about this stage of my illness the Germans evacuated Orleans. I
can remember well hearing the last of their bands playing in one
direction; while the French were advancing in the other. This was
succeeded after a while by frantic cheering, by the din of music, and
the tramp of soldiery,--a tramp which I knew to be very different from
the measured tread that I had heard an hour previously. And so had come
and gone the second German occupation of Orleans,--an epoch in the life
of those who took any share in it which is indelibly stamped on their
memories.
As time wore on I was removed to the arm-chair by the open window, where
I used to remain for several hours every day, when the weather
permitted, propped up with pillows and covered against the cold. Many of
the passers-by seemed to think me worth looking at, for quite a number
stopped in very French fashion to stare up at me. This was only
curiosity, and by no means rudeness. At last I was able to go out, or
rather to hobble out; and for the first few days had enough to do to
keep on my legs while shaking hands with the many kind and friendly
townspeople who came forward to greet me. I would go into one shop and
rest there for a few minutes, and then move a few doors further on. Thus
I spent some hours every day. Many of our old Ambulance friends and
acquaintances came also to pay me a visit. There was no end, I may truly
say, to the kindness I met with on all sides.
One day I went to the Church of St. Aignan, which is at the end of the
Quai du Châtelet, to hear a grand High Mass, offered up for the
regeneration of France, which was attended by the _élite_ of Orleans. I
settled myself in a chair at the end of the church, and presently the
ceremonies began by a procession. As it passed me a priest stepped out
of the ranks, and, taking me by the arm, led me up the church, and, to
my great confusion, showed me into one of the stalls in the Sanctuary. I
never saw the priest before or since.
When I look back on those days of trial and sickness, and how I lay on
that bed unable to stir hand or foot, I remember what a longing came
over me for the sight of one familiar face, though but for a few
minutes. One was still in one's youth; and I fancied, whilst my head was
buried in the pillow, that if I could but speak just a few words to my
mother, or to some one at home, it would be enough to cure me. Until
then, I never knew how much I loved my native land, or realised my
heart's deep devotion to that little spot called home, and to all those
dear friends about it.
Little by little I came round. I used to drive out with M. Proust to his
lovely little country house near Olivet, and visited the camellia houses
and orange groves, all of which were under glass, at the great château
there. But during my convalescence, the event of the day was the
morning post, which brought my letters and newspapers, every line of
which I read and re-read with the greatest avidity, until I knew them by
heart. One letter in particular, from a great friend of mine, was so
amusing, and had such a reviving effect on me, that I read it certainly
a score of times, and I laughed as much the last time as the first.
I was strictly prohibited by the doctor from writing; but in spite of
his orders I coaxed Soeur Berthe to let me have pen and ink. Her
consternation was great when she saw me fainting from the exertion. One
letter I wrote to my mother while my hand was held on the paper, placed
on a desk before me; so that I had only, as it were, to form the
characters. I used to write a sentence or two every day, and so put them
together bit by bit. I compiled several commonplace and uninteresting
productions, and sent them home in great glee at the success of my
performance. I could not guess how startled they would be at receiving
these curious epistles, some of which afterwards came back into my
hands. They resolved to send my brother Arthur to fetch me home; and he
travelled immediately to Orleans, where he received a hearty welcome
from M. and Madame Proust and my other friends.
I insert as an Appendix, from the journal which my brother kept, the
impressions made on us both by a visit we paid to the field of
Coulmiers.
It was my last view of the scenes in which I had taken part.
My brother arrived on 8th April, and on the 21st we bade farewell to our
home in the Rue Royale, and the friends who had made it such, and set
out on our journey to Ireland.