Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Colin Bell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: "'Go back,' he said."]
THE RED BOOK OF HEROES
BY MRS. LANG
EDITED BY ANDREW LANG
[Illustration]
WITH 8 COLOURED PLATES AND NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS
BY A. WALLIS MILLS
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON
NEW YORK, BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA
1909
All rights reserved
PREFACE
'Life is not all beer and skittles,' said a reflective sportsman, and
all books are not fairy tales. In an imperfect state of existence, 'the
peety of it is that we cannot have all things as we would like them.'
Undeniably we would like all books to be fairy tales or novels, and at
present most of them are. But there is another side to things, and we
must face it. '"Life is real, life is earnest," as Tennyson tells us,'
said an orator to whom I listened lately, and though Longfellow, not
Tennyson, wrote the famous line quoted by the earnest speaker, yet there
is a good deal of truth in it. The word 'earnest,' like many other good
words, has been overdone. It is common to sneer at 'earnest workers,'
yet where would we be without them, especially in our climate?
In a Polynesian island, where the skies for ever smile, and the blacks
for ever dance, earnestness is superfluous. The bread-fruit tree
delivers its rolls punctually every morning, strawberries or other
fruits, as nice, spring beneath the feet of the dancers; the cavern in
the forest provides a roof and shelter from the sun; the sea supplies a
swimming-bath, and man, in time of peace, has only to enjoy himself, eat
and drink, laugh and love, sing songs and tell fairy tales. His drapery
is woven of fragrant flowers, nobody is poor and anxious about food,
nobody is rich and afraid of losing his money, nobody needs to think of
helping others; he has only to put forth his hand, or draw his bow or
swing his fishing-rod, and help himself. To be sure, in time of war, man
has just got to be earnest, and think out plans for catching and
spearing his enemies, and drill his troops and improve his weapons, in
fact to do some work, or have his throat cut, and be put in the oven and
eaten. Thus it is really hard for the most fortunate people to avoid
being earnest now and then.
The people whose stories are told in this book were very different from
each other in many ways. The child abbess, Mère Angélique, ruling her
convent, and at war with naughty abbesses who hated being earnest, does
not at once remind us of Hannibal. The great Montrose, with his poems
and his scented love-locks, his devotion to his cause, his chivalry, his
death, to which he went gaily clad like a bridegroom to meet his bride,
does not seem a companion for Palissy the Potter, all black and shrunk
and wrinkled, and bowed over his furnaces. It is a long way from gentle
Miss Nightingale, tending wounded dogs when a child, and wounded
soldiers when a woman, to Charles Gordon playing wild tricks at school,
leading a Chinese army, watching alone at Khartoum, in a circle of cruel
foes, for the sight of the British colours, and the sounds of the
bagpipes that never met his eyes and ears.
But these people, and all the others whose stories are told, had this in
common, that they were in earnest, though we may be sure that they did
not go about with talk of earnestness for ever in their mouths. It came
natural to them, they could not help it, they liked it, their hearts
were set on two things: to do their very best, and to keep their honour.
The Constant Prince suffered hunger and cold and long imprisonment all
'to keep the bird in his bosom,' as the old Cavalier said, to be true to
honour. 'I will carry with me honour and fidelity to the grave,' said
Montrose; and he kept his word, though his enemies gave him no grave,
but placed his head and limbs on spikes in various towns of his country.
But now his grave, in St. Giles's Church in Edinburgh, is the most
beautiful and honourable in Scotland, adorned with his stainless
scutcheon, and with those of Napiers and Grahams, his kindred and his
friends.
"The grave of March, the grave of Gwythar,
The grave of Gugann Gleddyvrudd,
A mystery to the world, the grave of Arthur,"
says the old Welsh poem, and unknown as the grave of Arthur is the grave
of Gordon. The desert wind may mingle his dust with the sand, the Nile
may sweep it to the sea, as the Seine bore the ashes of that martyr of
honour, the Maid of France. 'The whole earth is brave men's common
sepulchre,' says the Greek, their tombs may be without mark or monument,
but 'honour comes a pilgrim grey' to the sacred places where men cannot
go in pilgrimage.
We see what honour they had of men; the head of Sir Thomas More, the
head of Montrose, were exposed to mockery in public places, the ashes of
Jeanne d'Arc were thrown into the river, Gordon's body lies unknown; but
their honour is eternal in human memory. It was really for honour that
Sir Thomas More suffered; it was not possible for him to live without
the knowledge that his shield was stainless. It was for honour rather
than for religion that the child Angélique Arnauld gave up amusement and
pleasure, and everything that is dear to a girl, young, witty,
beautiful, and gay, and put on the dress of a nun. Later she worked for
the sake of duty and religion, but honour was her first mistress, and
she could not go back from her plighted word.
These people were born to be what they were, to be examples to all of us
that are less nobly born and like a quiet, easy, merry life. We cannot
all be Gordons, Montroses, Angéliques, but if we read about them and
think about them, a touch of their nobility may come to us, and surely
our honour is in our own keeping. We may try never to do a mean thing,
or a doubtful thing, a thing that Gordon would not have been tempted to
do, though we are tempted, more tempted as we grow older and see what
the world does than are the young. I think honour is the dearest and the
most natural of virtues; in their own ways none are more loyal than boys
and girls. Later we may forget that no pleasure, no happiness, not even
the love that seems the strongest force in our natures, is worth having
at the expense of a stain on the white rose of honour. Had she been a
few years older, Angélique might have failed to keep the word which was
extorted from her as a child, but, being young, she kept it the more
easily. What we have to do is to try to be young always in this matter,
to be our natural selves and unspotted from the world. Certainly some
people are a little better, and so far a little happier, because they
have seen the light from Charles Gordon's yet living head, and been half
heart-broken by his end, so glorious to himself, so inglorious to his
fellow countrymen. For his dear sake we may all do a little, sacrifice a
little, to help the Homes for Boys which have been built to his memory,
and to help the poor boys whom he used to help, making himself poor, and
giving his time for them.
We read in the book, 'A Child's Hero,' how the brave Havelock won the
heart of a little child who never saw him. She heard the words 'Havelock
is dead,' and laid her head against the wall and burst into tears. Other
children may feel the same devotion for these splendid people, for
Hannibal, so far away from us, giving his whole heart and whole genius
and his life for his wretched country, for men who would not understand,
who would not aid him:
"Their old art statesmen plied,
And paltered, and evaded, and denied"
till their country was vanquished. Bad as that country was, for
Hannibal's own sake we are all on the side of Hannibal, as we are on the
side of Hector of Troy. 'Well know I this in heart and soul,' said
Hector to his wife, when she would have kept him out of the battle,
'that the day is coming when holy Ilios shall perish, and Priam, and the
people of Priam of the ashen spear, my father with my mother, and my
brothers, many and brave, dying in the dust at the hands of our foemen;
but most I sorrow for thee, my wife, when they lead thee weeping away, a
slave to weave at thy master's loom and bear water from thy master's
well, and the passers-by, as they see thee weeping, shall say, "This was
the wife of Hector, the foremost in fight of the men of Troy, when they
fought for their city." But may I be dead, and the earth be mounded
above me, ere I hear thy cry and the tale of thy captivity.'
So he went back into the battle, and never again saw his wife and child.
It was in the spirit of Hector that Hannibal planned and fought and
toiled, till as an old man he bit on the poison ring, and died, and was
free from the Roman captivity that threatened him.
Honour and courage were the masters of the men and women whose stories
are told in this book, but of them all none dared a risk so horrible as
brave Father Damien in the Isle of Lepers. For his adventure among
dreadful people who must give him their own dreadful disease, a Montrose
or a Havelock might have had little heart, for his task had none of the
excitement and glitter of the soldier's duty in war. But they are all,
these men and women, good to live with, good to know, good to go with,
weary camp followers as we are of the Noble Army of Martyrs, and
unworthy of a single leaf from the laurel crown.
A. Lang.
CONTENTS
PAGE
The Lady-in-Chief 1
Prisoners and Captives 25
Hannibal 43
The Apostle of the Lepers 95
The Constant Prince 109
The Marquis of Montrose 135
A Child's Hero 169
Conscience or King 222
The Little Abbess 246
Gordon 281
The Crime of Theodosius 334
Palissy the Potter 352
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
COLOURED PLATES
(Engraved and Printed by André & Sleigh, Ltd., Bushey.)
'Go back!' he said [See page 350] Frontispiece
to face p.
Fifteen thousand Romans fell that day 74
Father Damien went out and sat in a lonely
place by the sea 106
A great army of Irishmen have swooped down
on the Atholl country 150
The place was swarming with rats 208
She took all her nuns for a solemn walk 258
They saw a man in uniform shining with gold
flying towards them 316
A jar of water in the figure's right hand
emptied itself on his head 364
FULL-PAGE PLATES
to face p.
Roger could hardly believe his eyes 6
She came forth with a golden circlet round
her head 44
Hannibal was determined not to stir until
the elephants were safely over 58
Under the eyes of the army the combat began 68
In vain Guedelha implored him to wait till
the fatal hour was past 114
About thirty or forty of our honestest
women did fall a railing on Mr. William
Annan 140
'You will soon have no caste left yourself' 194
Often ... he had felt that a terrible death
was very near 218
Sir Thomas sat silent 232
'What now, Mother Eve?' he answered 240
'You are mistaking me for somebody else' 248
The archers set a ladder against the wall,
which the lady instantly threw down 274
Gordon found time to attend to an old dying
woman 310
A shot ended his life 330
'Do not delay an instant,' he cried, 'or it
will be too late' 338
'Let him die!' he said 344
The bright-eyed lizards he especially loved 354
ILLUSTRATIONS IN TEXT
PAGE
'Tell me what you want to say, and I will
say it' 17
They sprang on the food like wolves 28
He brushed down the walls without hindrance
from anyone 41
All three were apt pupils 51
The Gauls poured out of their camp shouting
and screaming with delight 56
He found right in front of him a huge
precipice 64
The whole four thousand climbed the ridge 77
'Let me release the Romans from their
anxiety,' he said 93
He found the Prince lying unconscious on
the ground 130
For two days they sought in vain for a road
to take them to Caithness 162
He managed to crawl over the floor 179
The Captain obligingly did as he was asked 183
Suddenly the table began to rock 189
In another moment he would have been trampled
under the feet of the Afghan cavalry 191
Not one of their movements passed unnoticed
by her 201
A tired horseman rode into camp 204
The young Aide-de-camp did not waste time in
arguing 213
Erasmus was astonished to notice More present
Prince Henry with a roll 228
'Go away! you have no business here.' 253
She fell fainting to the ground 266
He told them stories from English history 303
He cleaned his gun while the men stood by and
stared 314
Fancy poor Madame Palissy's feelings 359
THE LADY-IN-CHIEF
Everybody nowadays is so used to seeing in the streets nurses wearing
long floating cloaks of different colours, blue, brown, grey, and the
rest, and to having them with us when we are ill, that it is difficult
to imagine a time when there were no such people. In the stories that
were written even fifty years ago you will soon find out what sort of
women they were who called themselves 'nurses.' Any kind of person seems
to have been thought good enough to look after a sick man; it was not a
matter which needed a special talent or teaching, and no girl would have
dreamed of nursing anybody outside her own home, still less of giving up
her life to looking after the sick. It was merely work, it was thought,
for _old_ women, and so, at the moment when the patient needed most
urgently some one young and strong and active about him, who could lift
him from one side of the bed to the other, or keep awake all night to
give him his medicine or to see that his fire did not go out, he was
left to a fat, sleepy, often drunken old body, who never cared if he
lived or died, so that _she_ was not disturbed.
* * * * *
The woman who was to change all this was born in Florence in the year
1820 and called after that city. Her father, Mr. Nightingale, seems to
have been fond of giving his family place-names, for Florence's sister,
about a year older than herself, had the old title of Naples tacked on
to 'Frances,' and in after life was always spoken of as 'Parthy' or
'Parthenope.' By and by a young cousin of these little girls would be
named 'Athena,' after the town Athens, and then the fashion grew, and I
have heard of twins called 'Inkerman' and 'Balaclava,' and of an
'Elsinora,' while we all know several 'Almas,' and may even have met a
lady who bears the name of the highest mountain in the world--of course
you can all guess what _that_ is?
* * * * *
Mr. and Mrs. Nightingale did not stay very long in Italy after
Florence's birth. They grew tired of living abroad, and wanted to get
back to their old home among the hills and streams of Derbyshire. Here,
at Lea hall, Florence's father could pass whole days happily with his
books and the beautiful things he had collected in his travels; but he
looked well after the people in the village, and insisted that the
children should be sent to a little school, where they learned how to
read and write and count for twopence a week. If the poor villagers were
ill or unhappy, his wife used to visit them, and help them with advice
as well as with money, and we may be quite sure that her little
daughters often went with her on her rounds.
So the early years of Florence's childhood passed away amidst the
flowery fields and bare hills that overlooked the beautiful river
Derwent. The village, built of stone like so many in the North Country,
lay far below, and on Sundays the two little girls, dressed in their
best tippets and bonnets, used to walk with their father and mother
across the meadows to the tiny church at Dethick. Here nearly two
hundred and fifty years ago one Anthony Babington knelt in prayer,
though his thoughts often wandered to the beautiful Scottish queen, shut
up by order of Elizabeth in Wingfield manor, only a few miles away. Of
course Parthy and Florence knew all about him, and their greatest treat
was a visit to his house, where they could see in the kitchen a
trap-door leading to a large secret chamber, in which a conspirator
might live for weeks without being found out. A great deal of the house
had been pulled down or allowed to fall into decay, but the bailiff, who
lived in the rest, was always glad to see them, and would take them to
all kinds of delightful places, and up little dark narrow winding
stairs, at the end of which you pushed up another trap-door and found
yourself in your bedroom. What a fascinating way of getting there, and
how very, very silly people are now to have wide staircases and straight
passages and stupid doors, which you _know_ will open, instead of never
being sure if the trap-door had not stuck, or some enemy had not placed
a heavy piece of furniture upon it!
* * * * *
But much as the Nightingales, big and little, loved Lea hall, it was
very bare and cold in winter, and Florence's father determined to build
a new house in a more sheltered place. Lea Hurst, as it was called, was
only a mile from the hall, and, like it, overlooked the Derwent; but
here the hills were wooded and kept out the bitter winds which had
howled and wailed through the old house. Mr. Nightingale was very
careful that all should be done exactly as he wished, therefore it took
some time to finish, and _then_ the family could not move in till the
paint and plaster were dry, so that Florence was between five and six
when at last they took possession.
No doubt the two little girls had much to say about the laying out of
the terraced gardens, and insisted on having some beds of their own, to
plant with their favourite flowers. They were greatly pleased, too, at
discovering a very old chapel in the middle of the new house, and very
likely they told each other many stories of what went on there. Then
there was a summer-house, where they could have tea, and if you went
through the woods in May, and could make up your mind to pass the
sheets of blue hyacinths without stopping to pick them till you were too
tired to go further, you came out upon a splendid avenue, with a view of
the hills for miles round. This was the walk which Florence loved best.
* * * * *
It seems, however, that Mr. Nightingale could not have thought Lea Hurst
as pleasant as he expected it to be, for a few months later he bought a
place called Embley, near the beautiful abbey of Romsey, in Hampshire.
Here they all moved every autumn as soon as the trees at Lea Hurst grew
bare; and when the young leaves were showing like a green mist, they
began the long drive back again, sometimes stopping in London on the
way, to see some pictures and hear some music, and have some talk with
many interesting people whom Mr. Nightingale knew. And when they got
home at last, how delightful it was to ride round to the old friends in
the farms and cottages, and listen to tales of all that had happened
during the little girls' absence, and in their turn to tell of the
wonderful sights they had witnessed, and the adventures that had
befallen them! Best of all were the visits to the families of puppies
and kittens which had been born during their absence, for Florence
especially loved animals, and was often sent for by the neighbours to
cure them when they were ill. The older and uglier they were, the
sorrier Florence was for them, and she would often steal out with sugar
or apples or carrots in her pocket for some elderly beast which was
ending its days quietly in the fields, stopping in the woods on the way
to play with a squirrel or a baby rabbit. The game was perhaps a little
one-sided, but what did that matter? As the poet Cowper says,
Wild, timid hares were drawn from woods
To share her home caresses,
And looked up to her human eyes
With sylvan tendernesses.
Beasts and birds were Florence's dear friends, but dearest of all were
her ponies.
While she was at Embley, the vicar, who was very fond of her, used often
to take her out riding when he went on his rounds to see his people.
Florence enjoyed this very much; she knew them all well, and never
forgot the names of the children or their birthdays. Her mother would
often give her something nice to carry to the sick ones, and when the
flowers came out, Florence used to gather some for her special
favourites, out of her own garden.
* * * * *
One day when she and the vicar were cantering across the downs, they saw
an old shepherd, who was a great friend of both of them, attempting to
drive his flock without the help of his collie, Cap, who was nowhere to
be seen.
'What has become of Cap?' they asked, and the shepherd told them that
some cruel boys had broken the dog's leg with a stone, and he was in
such pain that his master thought it would be more merciful to put an
end to him.
Florence was hot with indignation. 'Perhaps _I_ can help him,' she said.
'At any rate, he will like me to sit with him; he must feel so lonely.
Where is he?'
'In my hut out there,' answered the shepherd; 'but I'm afraid it's
little good you or anyone else can do him.'
But Florence did not hear, for she was galloping as fast as she could to
the place where Cap was lying.
'Poor old fellow, poor old Cap,' whispered she, kneeling down and
stroking his head, and Cap looked up to thank her.
'Let me examine his leg,' said the vicar, who had entered behind her;
'he does not hold it as if it were broken. No, I am sure it is not,' he
added after a close inspection. 'Cheer up, we will soon have him well
again.'
Florence's eyes brightened.
'What can I do?' she asked eagerly.
'Oh, make him a compress. That will take down the swelling,' replied the
vicar, who was a little of a doctor himself.
'A compress?' repeated Florence, wrinkling her forehead. 'But I never
heard of one. I don't know how.'
'Light a fire and boil some water, and then wring out some cloths in it,
and put them on Cap's paw. Here is a boy who will make a fire for you,'
he added, beckoning to a lad who was passing outside.
While the fire was kindling, Florence looked about to find the cloths.
But the shepherd did not seem to have any, and her own little
handkerchief would not do any good. Still, cloths she must have, and
those who knew Miss Nightingale in after years would tell you that when
she _wanted_ things she _got_ them.
'Ah, there is Roger's smock,' she exclaimed with delight. 'Oh, _do_ tear
it up for me; mamma will be sure to give me another for him.' So the
vicar tore the strong linen into strips, and Florence wrung them out in
the boiling water, as he had told her.
'Now, Cap, be a good dog; you know I only want to help you,' she cried,
and Cap seemed as if he _did_ know; for though a little tremble ran
through his body as the hot cloth touched him, he never tried to bite,
nor even groaned with the pain, as many children would have done. By and
by the lump was certainly smaller, and the look of pain in Cap's eyes
began to disappear.
Suddenly she glanced up at the vicar, who had been all this time
watching her.
'I can't leave Cap till he is _quite_ better,' she said. 'Can you get
that boy to go to Embley and tell them where I am? Then they won't be
frightened.' So the boy was sent, and Florence sat on till the setting
sun shot long golden darts into the hut.
Then she heard the shepherd fumbling with the latch, as if he could not
see to open it; and perhaps he couldn't, for in his hand he held the
rope which was to put an end to all Cap's sorrows. But Cap did not know
the meaning of the rope and only saw his old master. He gave a little
bark of greeting and struggled on to his three sound legs, wagging his
tail in welcome.
Roger could hardly believe his eyes, and Florence laughed with delight.
'Just look how much better he is,' she said. 'The swelling is very
nearly gone now. But he wants some more compresses. Come and help me
make them.'
'I think we can leave Roger to nurse Cap,' said the vicar, who had just
returned from some of the neighbouring cottages. 'Your patient must have
some bread and milk to-night, and to-morrow you can come to see how he
is.'
'Yes, of course I shall,' answered Florence, and she knelt down to kiss
Cap's nose before the vicar put her up on her pony.
[Illustration: Roger could hardly believe his eyes.]
Now, though Florence was so fond of flowers and animals and everything
out of doors, she was never dull in the house on a wet day. In the first
place, nothing was ever allowed to interfere with her lessons, and
though the little girls had a good governess, their father chose the
books they were to read and the subjects they were to study. Greek,
Latin, and mathematics he taught them himself, and besides he took care
that they could read and speak French, German, and Italian. They were
fond of poetry, and no doubt some of the earliest poems of young Mr.
Tennyson were among their favourites, as well as 'Lycidas' and the
songs of the cavaliers. Parthy was a better artist and a cleverer
musician than Florence, though _she_ could sing and sketch; but both
were good needlewomen, and could make samplers as well as do fine work
and embroidery. When school-time was over and the rain was still coming
down, they would run away to their dolls, who, poor things, were always
ill, so that Florence might have the pleasure of curing them. And though
before Cap's accident she had never heard of a compress, she could make
nice food for them at the nursery fire, and bandage their broken arms
and legs while Parthy held the wounded limb steady.
* * * * *
When they grew older, they went abroad now and then with their parents,
but Florence liked best being at home with her friends in the village,
who were very proud of her wishing to take their pictures with her new
photographic camera. If they had only known it, the children in their
best clothes standing up very stiff and straight did not look half as
pretty as the baskets of kittens with eyes half-innocent, half-wise, or
the funny little pups, so round and fat. But the parents thought the
portraits of their children the most beautiful things in the world, and
had them put into hideous gilt frames and hung on the walls, where
Florence could see them on her frequent visits.
Welcome as she was to all, it was the sick people who awaited her coming
the most eagerly. She was so quiet in her movements, and knew so exactly
what to do without talking or fussing about it, that the invalids grew
less restless in her presence, and believed so entirely that she really
_could_ cure them that they were half cured already! Then before she
left she would read them 'a chapter' or a story to make them laugh, or
anything else they wished for; and it was always a pleasure to listen to
her, for she never stammered, or yawned, or lost her place, or had any
of the tricks that often make reading aloud a penance to the victim.
For the young people both in Derbyshire and Hampshire she formed singing
classes, and some of her 'societies' continue to-day. She was full of
interest in other people's lives, and not only was _ready_ to help them
but _enjoyed_ doing so, which makes all the difference.
* * * * *
There is much nonsense talked in the world about 'born' actors, and
'born' artists, and 'born' nurses. No doubt some are 'born' with greater
gifts in these matters than others, but the most famous artists or
actors or nurses will all tell you that the only work which is lasting
has been wrought by long hours of patient labour. Miss Nightingale knew
this as well as anybody, and as soon as she began to think of doing what
no modern lady had ever done before her, and devoting her life to the
care of the sick, she set about considering how she could best find the
training she needed. She tried, to use her own words, 'to qualify
herself for it as a man does for his work,' and to 'submit herself to
the rules of business as men do.'
So she spent some months among the London hospitals, where her quick eye
and clever fingers, aided by her cottage experience, made her a welcome
help to the doctors. From the first she 'began at the beginning,' which
is the only way to come to a successful end. A sick person cannot get
well where the floor is covered with dirt, and the dust makes him cough;
therefore his nurse must get rid of both dirt and dust before her
treatment can have any effect. After London, Miss Nightingale went to
Edinburgh and Dublin, and then to France and Italy, where the nursing
was done by nuns; and after that she visited Germany, where at the town
of Kaiserswerth, on the Rhine, she found what she wanted.
The hospital of Kaiserswerth, where Miss Nightingale had decided to do
her training, had been founded about sixteen years earlier by Pastor
Fliedner, who was a wise man, content with very small beginnings. At the
time of her arrival it was divided into a number of branches, and there
was also a school for the children, who were taught entirely by some of
the sisters, or deaconesses, as they were called. On entering, everyone
had to go through the same work for a certain number of months, whether
they meant to be hospital nurses or school teachers. All must learn to
sew, cook, scrub, and read out clearly and pleasantly; but as Miss
Nightingale had practised most of these things from the time she was a
child, she soon was free to go into the hospital and attend to the sick
people. The other nurses were German peasant women, but when they found
that she could speak their language, and was ready to work as hard as
any of them, they made friends at once. In her spare hours Miss
Nightingale would put on her black cloak and small bonnet, and go round
to the cottages with Mr. Fliedner, as long ago she had done with the
vicar of Embley, and we may be sure any sick people whom she visited
were always left clean and comfortable when she said good-bye.
But at Kaiserswerth Miss Nightingale had very little chance of learning
any surgery, so she felt that she could not do better than pass some
time in Paris with the nursing sisterhood of St. Vincent de Paul, which
had been established about two hundred years earlier. Here, too, she
went with the sisters on their rounds, both in the hospitals and in the
homes of the poor, and learnt how best to help the people without
turning them into beggars. Every part of the work interested her, but
the long months of hard labour and food which was often scanty and
always different from what she had hitherto had, began to tell on her.
She fell ill, and in her turn had to be looked after by the sisters,
and no doubt in many ways she learned more of sick nursing when she was
a patient than she did when she was a nurse.
* * * * *
It was quite clear that it would be necessary for her to have a good
rest before she grew strong again, and so she went back to Embley, and
afterwards to Lea, and tried to forget that there was any such thing as
sickness. But it is not easy for people who are known to be able and
willing to have peace anywhere, and soon letters came pouring in to Miss
Nightingale begging for her help in all sorts of ways. As far as she
could she undertook it all, and often performed the most troublesome of
all tasks, that of setting right the mistakes of others. In the end her
health broke down again, but not till she had finished what she had set
herself to do.
* * * * *
It was in March 1854 that war broke out between England, France, and
Turkey on the one side, and Russia on the other. The battle-ground was
to be the little peninsula of the Crimea, and soon the Black Sea was
crowded with ships carrying eager soldiers, many of them young and quite
ignorant of the hardships that lay before them.
At first all seemed going well; the victory of the Alma was won on
September 20, 1854, and that of Balaclava on October 25, the anniversary
of Agincourt. But while the hearts of all men were still throbbing at
the splendid madness of the charge when, owing to a mistaken order, the
Light Brigade rode out to take the Russian guns and were mown down by
hundreds, the rain began to fall in torrents and a winter of unusual
coldness was upon them. Nights as well as days were passed in the
trenches that had been dug before the strong fortress of Sebastopol,
which the allies were besieging, and the suffering of our English
soldiers was far greater than it need have been, owing to the
wickedness of many of the contractors who had undertaken to supply the
army with boots and stores, and did not hesitate to get these so cheap
and bad as to be quite useless, while the rest of the money set aside
for the purpose was put into their pockets. The doctors gave themselves
no rest, but there were not half enough of them, while of nurses there
were none. The men did what they could for one another, but they had
their own work to attend to, and besides, try as they would it was
impossible for them to fill the place of a trained and skilful woman. So
they, as well as their dying comrades lying patiently on the sodden
earth, looked longingly at the big white caps of the French sisters, who
for their part would gladly have given help and comfort had not the
wounded of their own nation taken all their time. One or two of the
English officers had been followed to the Crimea by their wives, and
these ladies cooked for and tended the sick men who were placed in rows
along the passages of the barracks, but even lint for bandages was
lacking to them, and after the Alma they wrote letters to their friends
in England entreating that no time might be lost in sending out proper
aid.
These letters were backed by a strong appeal from the war correspondent
of the _Times_, Dr. W. H. Russell, and from the day that his plain
account of the privations and horrors of the suffering army appeared in
the paper, the War Office was besieged by women begging to be sent to
the Crimea by the first ship. The minister, Mr. Sidney Herbert, did not
refuse their offers; though they were without experience and full of
excitement, he saw that most of them were deeply in earnest and under a
capable head might be put to a good use. But where was such a head to be
found? Then suddenly there darted into his mind the thought of Miss
Nightingale, his friend for years past.
It was on October 15 that Mr. Sidney Herbert wrote to Miss Nightingale
offering her, in the name of the government, the post of Superintendent
of the nurses in the East, with absolute authority over her staff; and,
curiously enough, on the very same day _she_ had written to _him_
proposing to go out at once to the Black Sea. As no time was to be lost,
it was clear that most of the thirty-eight nurses she was to take with
her must be women of a certain amount of training and experience. Others
might follow when they had learnt a little what nursing really meant,
but they were of no use now. So Miss Nightingale went round to some
Church of England and Roman Catholic sisterhoods and chose out the
strongest and most intelligent of those who were willing to go, the
remainder being sent her by friends whose judgment she could trust. Six
days after Sidney Herbert had written his letter, the band of nurses
started from Charing Cross.
When after a very rough passage they reached the great hospital of
Scutari, situated on a hill above the Bosphorus, they heard the news of
the fight at Balaclava and learnt that a battle was expected to take
place next day at Inkerman. The hospital was an immense building in the
form of a square, and was able to hold several thousand men. It had been
lent to us by the Turks, but was in a fearfully dirty state and most
unfit to receive the wounded men who were continually arriving in ships
from the Crimea. Often the vessels were so loaded that the few doctors
had not had time to set the broken legs and arms of the men, and many
must have died of blood poisoning from the dirt which got into their
undressed wounds. Oftener still they had little or no food, and even
with help were too weak to walk from the ship to the hospital. And as
for rats! why there seemed nearly as many rats as patients.
The first thing to be done was to unpack the stores, to boil water so
that the wounds could be washed, to put clean sheets on the beds, and
make the men as comfortable as possible. The doctors, overworked and
anxious as they were, did not give the nurses a very warm welcome. As
far as their own experience went, women in a hospital were always in the
way, and instead of helpers became hinderers. But Miss Nightingale took
no heed of ungracious words and cold looks. She did her own business
quietly and without fuss, and soon brought order out of confusion, and a
feeling of confidence where before there had been despair. If an
operation had to be performed--and at that time chloroform was so newly
invented that the doctors were almost afraid to give it, Miss
Nightingale, 'the Lady-in-Chief,' was present by the side of the wounded
man to give him courage to bear the pain and to fill him with hope for
the future. And not many days after her arrival, her coming was eagerly
watched for by the multitudes of sick and half-starved soldiers who were
lying along the walls of the passages because the beds were all full.
It is really hardly possible for us to understand all that the nurses
had to do. First the wards must be kept clean, or the invalids would
grow worse instead of better. Then proper food must be cooked for them,
or they would never grow strong. Those who were most ill needed special
care, lest a change for the worse might come unnoticed; and besides all
this a laundry was set up, so that a constant supply of fresh linen
might be at hand. In a little while, when some of the wounds were
healing and the broken heads had ceased to ache, there would come shy
petitions from the beds that the nurse would write them a letter home,
to say that they had been more fortunate than their comrades and were
still alive, and hoped to be back in England some day.
'Well, tell me what you want to say, and I will say it,' the nurse would
answer, but it is not very easy to dictate a letter if you have never
tried, so it soon ended with the remark,
'Oh! nurse, _you_ write it for me! You will say it much better than I
can.'
[Illustration: 'Tell me what you want to say, and I will say it.']
Would you like to know how the nurses passed their days? Well, first
they got up very early, made their beds, put their rooms tidy, and went
down to the kitchen, where they had some bread, which was mostly sour,
and some tea without milk. Then arrowroot and beef tea had to be made
for the men, and when the night nurses took their turn to rest, those
who were on duty by day went into the wards and stayed there from
half-past nine till two, washing and dressing and feeding the men and
talking over their illnesses with the doctors, who by this time were
thankful for their aid. At two the men were left to rest or sleep while
their tired nurses had their dinner, and little as they might like it,
they thought it their duty to swallow a plateful of very bad meat and
some porter. At three some of them often took a short walk, but that
November the rains were constant and very heavy at Scutari as well as in
the Crimea, and as Miss Nightingale would allow no risk of catching
cold, on these days the nurses all stayed in the hospital, where there
was always something to be done or cooked for the patients, who required
in their weak state to be constantly fed. At half-past five the nurses
left the wards and went to their tea, but that did not take long, and
soon they were back again making everything comfortable for the night,
which began with the entrance of the night nurses at half-past nine.
It was a hard life, and when one remembers how bad their own food was,
it is a marvel that any of them were able to bear it for so long. But,
as Shakespeare says, 'Nothing good or bad, but thinking makes it so,'
and it is wonderful how far a brave spirit will carry one. Still, heavy
though the nurses' work was, that of Miss Nightingale was far more of a
strain. It was she on whom everything depended, who had to think and
plan and look forward, and write accounts of it all to Mr. Sidney
Herbert in London, and lord Raglan, the Commander-in-Chief, at the
Crimea. The orderlies of the regiment gave her willing aid, but they
needed to be taught what to do, and no doubt the Lady-in-Chief often
found that it is far quicker and easier to do things oneself than to
spend time in training another person. Luckily she was prompt to see the
different uses to which men and women could be put, so that there were
no wasted days or weeks, caused by setting them tasks for which they
were unfitted, and in a very short while the hospital, which had been a
scene of horror on her arrival from England, was a well-arranged and
most comfortable place.
But not only were there soldiers to be cared for, there were also their
wives and children, who were almost forgotten and huddled together in a
corner of the barracks, with few clothes and hardly any food. Miss
Nightingale took them under her charge, and placed them in a clean house
close by, giving some of the women work in her laundry and finding
employment for the rest, with the help of the wife of one of the
chaplains. The children were taught for several hours in the day, and
thus their mothers were left free to earn money to support them, while
the widows were given clothes and money, and as soon as possible sent
home.
One morning, as the Lady-in-Chief went her rounds, the men noticed that
her face was brighter than usual and looked as if something had pleased
her very much. So it had, and in the afternoon, when they were all
resting comfortably, they knew what it was. One of the chaplains went
from ward to ward reading a letter which Queen Victoria had written to
Mr. Sidney Herbert, and this was how it ran:--
Windsor Castle, December 6, 1854.
'Would you tell Mrs. Herbert that I begged she would let me see
frequently the accounts she received from Miss Nightingale or Mrs.
Bracebridge, as I hear no details of the wounded, though I see so many
from officers, &c., about the battlefield, and naturally the former must
interest me most.
'Let Mrs. Herbert also know that I wish Miss Nightingale and the ladies
would tell those poor noble wounded and sick men that no one takes a
warmer interest or feels more for their sufferings or admires their
courage and heroism more than their queen. Day and night she thinks of
her beloved troops. So does the Prince.
'Victoria.'
'God save the Queen,' said the chaplain when he had finished, and from
their hearts the men raised a feeble shout, 'God save the Queen.'
* * * * *
Soon another detachment of nurses arrived from home and undertook the
charge of other hospitals along the shores of the Bosphorus. They were
led by Miss Stanley, sister of the famous dean of Westminster, and the
band consisted partly of ladies who gave their services and partly of
nurses who were paid. Some Irish sisters of mercy also accompanied them,
and these were allowed to wear their nun's dress, but the others must
have looked very funny in the Government uniform--loose gowns of grey
tweed, worsted jackets, short woollen cloaks, and scarves of brown
holland with 'Scutari Hospital' in red letters across them. They were
all made the same size, and 'in consequence,' adds sister Mary Aloysius,
who was thankful that _she_ did not need to present such an odd figure,
'the tall ladies appeared to be attired in short dresses, and the short
ladies in long.'
Clad in these strange clothes they reached their destination and were
placed by Miss Nightingale wherever she thought they were most needed.
Cholera was now raging and the rain in the Crimea had turned to bitter
cold, so that hundreds of men were brought in frost-bitten. Often their
garments, generally of thin linen, were frozen so tightly to their
bodies that they had first to be softened with oil and then cut off. The
stories of their sufferings are too terrible to tell, but scarcely one
murmured, and all were grateful for the efforts to ease their pain. If
death came, as it often did, Miss Nightingale was there to listen to
their last wishes.
* * * * *
All through the spring the cholera raged, and at length some of the
nurses, weakened by the strain on mind and body, and the lack of
nourishing food, fell victims. One of them was a personal friend of Miss
Nightingale's, others were Irish nuns working in Balaclava, and their
graves were kept gay with flowers planted by the soldiers. Thus the
Lady-in-Chief found them when in May 1855 she set out to inspect the
hospitals in the Crimea.
What a rest it must have been to be able to lie on deck and watch the
blue waters without feeling that every moment of peace was stolen from
some duty. She had several nurses with her; also her friend Mr.
Bracebridge, whose wife had taken charge of the stores at Scutari, and a
little drummer of twelve, called Thomas, who got amusement out of
everything and kept up their spirits when the outlook seemed gloomiest.
The moment she landed Miss Nightingale, accompanied by a train of
doctors, went at once to the hospitals, thus missing lord Raglan who
came to give her a hearty welcome. Next day, when as in duty bound she
returned his visit, she had the pleasure once more of feeling a horse
under her, and old memories came back and it seemed as if she was again
a child riding with the vicar. As we are told by a Frenchman that she
wore a regular riding-dress, she probably borrowed this from one of the
four English ladies then in the Crimea, for she is not likely to have
had a habit of her own. Her horse was fresh and spirited and nervous,
after the manner of horses, and the noise and confusion of the road that
led to the camp was too much for his nerves. He plunged and kicked and
reared and bucked, and did all that a horse does when he wants to be
unpleasant, but Miss Nightingale did not mind at all--in fact she quite
enjoyed it.
All day long the Lady-in-Chief went about, visiting the hospitals and
even penetrating into the trenches while sharp firing was going on. The
weather was intensely hot--for it is the greatest mistake to look on
the Crimea, which is as far south as Venice or Genoa, as being always
cold--and one day Miss Nightingale was struck down with sudden fever.
She was at once taken to the Sanatorium on a stretcher, which was
followed by the faithful Thomas, and great was the dismay and sorrow of
the whole camp. Fortunately after a fortnight she began to recover,
thanks to the care that was taken of her, but she absolutely refused to
go home, as the doctors wished her to do, and, weak though she was,
returned to Scutari, where soon afterwards she heard of her friend lord
Raglan's death, which was a great shock to her. It was some time before
she was strong enough to go back to her work, and she spent many hours
wandering about the cypress-planted cemetery at Scutari, where so many
English soldiers lay buried, and in planning a memorial to them which
was afterwards set up.
* * * * *
In September Sebastopol fell and the war was over, but the sick and
wounded were still uncured. It was hard for them to hear of their
comrades going home proud and happy in the honours they had won, while
_they_ were left behind in pain and weariness, but it would have been
infinitely harder without the knowledge that Miss Nightingale would bear
them company to the end. After all they stood on English ground before
she did, as when she was well enough she sailed a second time for the
Crimea to finish the work which her illness had caused her to leave
undone.
All through the winter of 1855 she stayed there, driving over the
snow-covered mountains in a little carriage made for the purpose, which
had been given her as a present. Sick soldiers there were in plenty in
the hospitals, and for some time there was an army also, to keep order
until the peace was signed. In order to give the soldiers occupation and
amusement, she begged her friends at home to send out books and
magazines to them, and this the queen and her mother, the duchess of
Kent, were the first to do. Nothing was too small for the Lady-in-Chief
to think of; she arranged some lectures, got up classes for the children
and for anyone who wanted to learn; started a _café_, in hopes to save
the men from drinking; and kept a money-order office herself, so that
the men could, if they wished, send part of their pay home to their
families. And when in July 1856 the British army set sail for England,
Miss Nightingale stayed behind to see a white marble cross twenty feet
high set up on a peak above Balaclava. It was a memorial from her to the
thousands who had died at the mountain's foot, in battle or in the
trenches.
* * * * *
Honours and gifts showered on Miss Nightingale on all sides, and
everybody was eager to show how highly they valued her self-sacrificing
labours. If money had been wanted, it would have poured in from all
quarters; but when the queen had made inquiries on the subject a year
before Miss Nightingale's return, Mr. Sidney Herbert replied that what
the Lady-in-Chief desired above everything was the foundation of a
hospital in which her own special system of nursing could be carried
out. The idea was welcomed with enthusiasm, but none of the sums sent
were as dear to Miss Nightingale's heart as the day's pay subscribed by
the soldiers and sailors. The fund was applied to founding a home and
training school for nurses, attached to St. Thomas' hospital, and Miss
Nightingale helped to plan the new buildings opposite the Houses of
Parliament, to which the patients were afterwards moved.
* * * * *