_The Expedition._
Of the thirty-eight nurses who went out with Miss Nightingale,
twenty-four had been trained in sisterhoods, Roman and Anglican, and of
the remaining fourteen, some had been chosen in the first instance by
Lady Maria Forrester, others by Miss Skene and Mrs. Bracebridge, but it
must be supposed that the final decision lay always with Miss Nightingale.
The correspondence that had poured in upon her and upon Mr. Herbert was
overwhelming, and there was a personal interview with all who seemed in
the least degree likely to be admitted to her staff; so that she worked
very hard, with little pause for rest, to get through her ever-increasing
task in time. Each member of the staff undertook to obey her absolutely.
Among the many who were rejected, though most were unsuitable for
quite other reasons, there were some who objected to this rule. Many
who were full of sympathy and generosity had to be turned away, because
they had not had enough training. Advertisements had appeared in the
_Record_ and the _Guardian_, but the crowd of fair ladies who flocked
to the War Office in response were not always received with such open
arms as they expected. Mr. Herbert was well on his guard against the
charms of impulsive, but ignorant, goodwill, and he issued a sort of
little manifesto in which he said that “many ladies whose generous
enthusiasm prompts them to offer services as nurses are little aware of
the hardships they would have to encounter, and the horrors they would
have to witness. Were all accepted who offer,” he added, with a touch of
humour, “I fear we should have not only many indifferent nurses, but many
hysterical patients.”
He and his wife were untiring in their efficiency and their help.
The English Sisterhoods had made a difficulty about surrendering control
over the Sisters they sent out, but Miss Nightingale overcame that, and
the Roman bishop entirely freed the ten Sisters of his communion from any
rule which could clash with Miss Nightingale’s orders.
It was on the evening of October 21, 1854, that the “Angel Band,” as
Kinglake rightly names them, quietly set out under cover of darkness,
escorted by a parson and a courier and by Miss Nightingale’s friends, Mr.
and Mrs. Bracebridge of Atherstone Hall.
In this way all flourish of trumpets was avoided. Miss Nightingale always
hated public fuss—or, indeed, fuss of any kind. She was anxious also to
lighten the parting for those who loved her best, and who had given a
somewhat doubting consent to her resolve.
The Quakerish plainness of her black dress did but make the more striking
the beauty of her lovely countenance, the firm, calm sweetness of the
smiling lips and steadfast eyes, the grace of the tall, slender figure;
and as the train whirled her out of sight with her carefully-chosen
regiment, she left with her friends a vision of good cheer and high
courage.
But however quiet the setting forth, the arrival at Boulogne could not
be kept a secret, and the enthusiasm of our French allies for those who
were going to nurse the wounded made the little procession a heart-moving
triumph. A merry band of white-capped fishwives met the boat and,
seizing all the luggage, insisted on doing everything for nothing.
Boxes on their backs and bags in their hands, they ran along in their
bright petticoats, pouring out their hearts about their own boys at the
front, and asking only the blessing of a handshake as the sole payment
they would take. Then, as Miss Nightingale’s train whistled its noisy
way out of the station, waving their adieus while the tears streamed
down the weather-beaten cheeks of more than one old wife, they stood
and watched with longing hearts. At Paris there was a passing visit to
the Mother-house of Miss Nightingale’s old friends, the Sisters of St.
Vincent de Paul, and a little call on Lady Canning, also an old friend,
who writes of her as “happy and stout-hearted.”
The poor “Angels” had a terrible voyage to Malta, for the wind, as
with St. Paul, was “contrary” and blew a hurricane dead against them,
so that their ship, the _Vectis_, had something of a struggle to escape
with its many lives. They touched at Malta on October 31, 1854, and soon
afterwards set sail again for Constantinople.
What an old-world story it seems now to talk of “setting sail”!
On the 4th of November, the day before the battle of Inkermann, they had
reached their goal, and had their work before them at Scutari.
A friend of mine who knows Scutari well has described it in summer as a
place of roses, the very graves wreathed all over with the blossoming
briars of them; and among those graves she found a nameless one, on
which, without revealing identity, the epitaph stated, in the briefest
possible way, that this was the grave of a hospital matron, adding in
comment the words spoken of Mary when she broke the alabaster box—and
in this instance full of pathos—the six words, “She hath done what she
could.” And I find from one of Miss Nightingale’s letters that it was she
herself who inscribed those words.
Unspeakable indeed must have been the difficulties with which any
previous hospital matron had to contend, rigid and unbreakable for
ordinary fingers the red tape by which she must have been bound. On this
subject Kinglake has written words which are strong indeed in their
haunting sincerity.
He writes of an “England officially typified that swathes her limbs round
with red tape,” and of those who, though dogged in routine duty, were so
afraid of any new methods that they were found “surrendering, as it were,
at discretion, to want and misery” for those in their care.
“But,” he adds, “happily, after a while, and in gentle, almost
humble, disguise which put foes of change off their guard,
there acceded to the State a new power.
“Almost at one time—it was when they learnt how our troops had
fought on the banks of the Alma—the hearts of many women in
England, in Scotland, in Ireland, were stirred with a heavenly
thought impelling them to offer and say that, if only the
State were consenting, they would go out to tend our poor
soldiers laid low on their hospital pallets by sickness or
wounds; and the honour of welcoming into our public service
this new and gracious aid belonged to Mr. Sidney Herbert.”
He goes on to explain and define Mr. Herbert’s exact position at the War
Office; how he was not only official chief there, but, “having perhaps
also learnt from life’s happy experience that, along with what he might
owe to fortune and birth, his capacity for business of State, his frank,
pleasant speech, his bright, winning manners, and even his glad, sunshine
looks, had a tendency to disarm opposition, he quietly, yet boldly,
stepped out beyond his set bounds, and not only became in this hospital
business the volunteer delegate of the Duke of Newcastle, but even
ventured to act without always asking the overworked Department of War
to go through the form of supporting him by orders from the Secretary of
State; so that thus, and to the great advantage of the public service, he
usurped, as it were, an authority which all who knew what he was doing
rejoiced to see him wield. If he could not in strictness command by an
official despatch, he at least could impart what he wished in a ‘private
letter;’ and a letter, though ostensibly ‘private,’ which came from the
War Office, under the hand of its chief, was scarce likely to encounter
resistance from any official personages to whom the writer might send it.
“Most happily this gifted minister had formed a strong belief in the
advantages our military hospitals would gain by accepting womanly aid;
and, proceeding to act on this faith, he not only despatched to the East
some chosen bands of ladies, and of salaried attendants accustomed to
hospital duties, but also requested that they might have quarters and
rations assigned to them; and, moreover, whilst requesting the principal
medical officer at Scutari to point out to these new auxiliaries how best
they could make themselves useful, Mr. Sidney Herbert enjoined him to
receive with attention and deference the counsels of the Lady-in-Chief,
who was, of course, no other than Miss Nightingale herself.
“That direction was one of great moment, and well calculated to govern
the fate of a newly ventured experiment.
“Thus it was that, under the sanction of a government acceding to the
counsels of one of its most alert and sagacious members, there went out
angel women from England, resolved to confront that whole world of horror
and misery that can be gathered into a military hospital from camp or
battlefield; and their plea, when they asked to be trusted with this
painful, this heart-rending mission, was simply the natural aptitude
of their sex for ministering to those who lie prostrate from sickness
and wounds. Using that tender word which likened the helplessness of
the down-stricken soldier to the helplessness of infancy, they only
said they would ‘nurse’ him; and accordingly, if regarded with literal
strictness, their duty would simply be that of attendants in hospital
wards—attendants obeying with strictness the orders of the medical
officers.
“It was seen that the humble soldiers were likely to be the men most in
want of care, and the ladies were instructed to abstain from attending
upon any of the officers.”[8]