Abbeyford Remembered (18 page)

Carrie shuddered. Was her Jamie here – one of these pathetic creatures?

The hospital? Carrie's eyes lifted towards the huge, square building, three storeys high, with a red-tiled roof and a tower at each corner, set high up on top of the hill above the landing-stage and the small village.

They began to climb the muddy, winding track leading to the British Barrack Hospital – their home for the next few months at least!

It was not what they had expected. Nothing ever was, Carrie thought ruefully. The party of nurses, not at all welcomed by the officials, were housed in the north-west tower. The party had been here several days and yet they had scarcely set foot outside their cramped quarters. Miss Nightingale remained adamant that she would do nothing until asked to do so by the Senior Medical Officer of the Hospital, a Dr Menzies.

“But men are dying whilst we sit here,” Carrie had dared to argue. “ Why can't we begin the work we came here to do?”

Miss Nightingale's face had softened. “My dear, your sentiments are admirable, but I fear misplaced. If we set foot in the wards without invitation, without permission, we shall be regarded as intruders, unwelcome ones at that. We must wait – we must!” Her mouth was firm, her voice resolute, but there was a haunted look in her eyes. She was convinced of the rightness of her own actions and yet the necessity for it tore at her heart. Carrie had turned away, sickened. Out there men lay dying, suffering untold miseries. Perhaps Jamie was amongst them. Her heart twisted in panic and silently she prayed. ‘ Don't let him be out there. I want to find him, but not this way, not
here
!”

The days passed and the nurses grew resentful. Whilst they continued to sort linen, to mend and darn and count provisions, they could hear the screams and cries of the wounded and sick. Miss Nightingale remained tight-lipped and resolute. And the nurses began to think she did not care. Only Carrie understood the reasons for her actions, and yet even she began to think Miss Nightingale was wrong.

“The only thing we're allowed to do is cook extra food in our own kitchen,” grumbled one of the nurses, “ and then only if a doctor has requested it.”

“Why aren't we allowed near the patients?” asked Ellen, a scullery-maid who had been dismissed from her last employment without a reference for having a follower. “ Don't they trust us?” She grinned at Carrie cheekily, the suggestion in her tone implying that her ministrations to the soldiers' comforts might exceed those rules set by Miss Nightingale.

“I'm sure Miss Nightingale knows best,” Carrie said, bending her head over her sewing of an arm-sling to hide the anger shining in her own eyes.

Less than an hour later she was bending over the rickety table Miss Nightingale used as a desk, repeating the very same question the young girl had asked. “Why aren't we allowed near the patients? We can hear them – dying in agony! We can smell the stench of death. The conditions out there,” she waved her hand towards the part of the building which housed the wards, “must be intolerable. If we have lice and rats in our quarters – and we have – what on earth must it be like in there? You've seen it. You've toured the wards, haven't you? Well? You can't tell me we're not needed – desperately – by those men?”

Miss Nightingale's grey eyes regarded Carrie steadily, silently reproaching her for her display of temper.

“I'm sorry,” Carrie said swiftly, even, before Miss Nightingale had uttered a word. “But – but, oh it seems so pointless our being here if we are allowed to do nothing – absolutely
nothing
!”

“We shall be – soon. I'm sure,” Miss Nightingale said quietly, but with conviction. “ We must wait until we are asked.”

And that was all she would say.

It seemed to the impatient nurses a long time that they waited in idleness whilst only yards away men died for want of attention, but in fact it was only a few days, for on the 9th of November, four days after their arrival, there came such an influx of sick and wounded following the Battle of Inkerman, that in desperation the doctors and officials turned to Miss Nightingale and her nurses for help.

“At last,” she told her nurses, her grey eyes alight with the fire of the challenge, “we have been asked for help. We can begin our work …”

At once excited chatter broke out amongst the women, but Miss Nightingale held up her hands. “I must ask you to remember – at all times – that we are under orders from the doctors. No one – not one of you – is to undertake to do anything without a direct order from me or from a doctor. Neither must you give commands to the ward orderlies. We shall find much to be done, you will work until you want to drop, and even then you will carry on, but you will work quietly and efficiently and – submissively. Do I make myself clear?

“Very well, then. Now, the first task is bedding. Many of the men have no beds to lie on, so we must make some straw palliasses …”

So their work began. The wards were overflowing so that men lay in the corridors on the stuffed sacks, with just enough room to pass between them. Then the bags of straw were all used up and the men lay on the bare boards. The floors were filthy and verminous and the men'no better. They were surprised to see the band of women moving quietly amongst them.

“I shouldn't come near me, lovey,” one soldier, his face caked with mud, his hair and beard matted, said to Carrie. A filthy bandage wrapped his head and his left trouser leg was torn to the knee to reveal an open wound in his leg, the blood oozing from it on to the floor.

“Why ever not?” Carrie asked bending towards him. She could not kneel beside him, for the wooden floor was running with stinking liquid.

“I'm not fit for a lady to come near me.”

Carrie laughed. “I'm no lady, I can tell you.”

“By, you're from home!” The man's eyes brightened and for an instant the suffering, the pain, the filth, were forgotten as he was reminded of England. “ I'd know that tongue anywhere, b'God. Aw lass, 'tis good to hear your voice!”

“
Now
will thou let me help?”

“Ay, an' I reckon I will, at that.” Then he looked at the bundle of clothing in her arms. “That's not some clean clothes, is it?”

“It is. Now, let's be gettin' those off you and these on.”

“Aw well now, I dunno, I mean …” Embarrassment spread across his face.

Carrie smiled. “ What's this? A bashful soldier. I never thought I'd live to see the day!”

He grinned sheepishly and allowed her to help him, for he could not manage without her help.

“Where are you from?”

“Near York, miss. And you?”

“Now that you ask, I don't rightly know. Me Pa was a railway builder, so we moved about the country. We finished up near Manchester.” She chattered on, asking him questions about his family, his home, anything to keep his mind off the job in hand – the changing of his clothes.

“There now, it wasn't so bad, was it?” she asked straightening up when they had finished.

“Nay, you'm a grand lass and no mistake.”

“You – you don't happen to have heard of a Jamie Trent out here, do you?”

The soldier thought for a moment. “Nay, can't say I have. Why, he a relation of yourn?”

“Well, yes, My – my cousin. I – heard he was out here. I just wondered … Well, I must move on. I'll see you again.”

The man lay back on the rough straw bed, but his eyes were fixed upon Carrie's slight figure as she moved amongst the other patients.

Carrie had thought her experiences, the harshness of her childhood, the years in India, had equipped her to face anything that life had to offer. But even she was appalled by the conditions at Scutari. She worked, as Miss Nightingale had predicted, until she wanted to drop, and then she still carried on working until fatigue enveloped her and she stole a few hours' exhausted sleep, to rise and begin again. It was worse, far worse than the cholera wards at the Middlesex Hospital. The sick and wounded poured in and of each one whom Carrie attended she asked the same question.

“Have you met anyone called James Trent out here?”

Day after day the answer was always no, and then one night she came upon a young boy of no more than sixteen or so who had been brought in that afternoon with a sabre wound in his chest. His breathing was rasping and obviously the boy was in great pain. Carrie washed him and made him as comfortable as she could. She was about to turn away, omitting to ask the boy her usual question, for obviously talking would exert him further, when he caught hold of her skirt. She turned back and bent down.

“What's – your – name?”

“Carrie Foster.”

The boy smiled and closed his eyes, but his fingers still gripped her dress. Then his eyes fluttered open. “Carrie. That's funny. I got friendly with a chap in our camp. He talked about a girl back home called Carrie. Delirious, he was, with the cholera. He was callin' her name. When he got a bit better I asked 'im about her. But he wouldn't tell me nothing. Said it was all a long time ago.”

Carrie's heart was thumping madly. “What – was your friend's name?” she whispered tensely, steeling herself against disappointment.

“Name? Oh yes, his name. James Trent, that was it.”

The boy had fallen asleep and Carrie could ask no more questions. She stood up and moved away as if in a trance. Jamie was here! She had met someone who had known him.

Cholera! The boy had said Jamie had cholera. Carrie's heart contracted in fear. Very few men had cholera and survived. But then the boy had said Jamie had got better. No, no, what he had said was that when Jamie had got a
little
better, he'd asked him who Carrie was. He had not said that he'd recovered completely. Then, why wasn't he here in the hospital? She was sure he could not be here. Every evening, she followed Miss Nightingale and her lamp through the wards, searching, always searching for Jamie and yet dreading to see him lying in this hospital.

How could she find him, how could she search for him? She had come as a nurse, she had hidden the real motive for her desire to come to the Crimea from Miss Nightingale. How could she now desert Miss Nightingale and betray the trust she had placed in her? How could she deplete the number of nurses so badly needed by the men? True, another batch of women had arrived, much to Miss Nightingale's dismay, for she found difficulty in uniting the diverse members of the first party and forming them into a hard-working band, without doubling the number.

Hour after weary hour, Carrie washed and bathed and bandaged, scrubbed and cleaned, held the hand of dying men, comforting those about to face the butchery of the surgeon's knife and all the time her thoughts were filled with one name. ‘ Jamie, Jamie, how can I find you?'

Her opportunity came unexpectedly. When the hospital ships arrived from Balaclava, much to Miss Nightingale's horror they were often anchored in the Bosphorus for a week or so before the sick were landed.

“It's appalling,” she told Carrie, in a rare moment of confiding in her. “The men tell me that the wounded are often on board ship for fourteen days or so before they even leave the Crimea, then they have the ghastly sea voyage across the Black Sea of four or five days and then to think that they lay out there,” she waved her hand in disgust towards the sea, “before they are brought to us. Is it any wonder the death rate is so high?”

“What can we do?” Carrie asked.

“Very little, I'm afraid,” replied Miss Nightingale caustically. She glanced down at a letter she held in her hand.

“I've received a note from a major aboard the ship now lying in the Bosphorus. He's not among the wounded, I understand. I'm not quite sure what he's doing aboard – some official business, no doubt. He says he has heard of our arrival and asks if I could send my very best nurse out with some supplies ‘
so that she may attend the sick and wounded, and lessen their suffering, I am sure.
' Will you go?” Miss Nightingale looked up at Carrie.

Carrie's heart leapt. Here was the chance she had been waiting for, to get away from the hospital, even if only for a short time. That way she might find out more positive news of Jamie.

“Of course,” she breathed, scarcely able to hide the joy from showing in her eyes. “ When do I leave?”

“Make up a first-aid kit from our stores. Take all you can manage. In fact, take one of the younger girls with you too. We can spare two of you, and it sounds as if your ministrations are badly needed out there.”

“How – how long do we stay aboard?”

“You will leave at first light tomorrow and be away from the ship by dusk.”

“Only one day, ma'am? That will scarce be time to attend to a quarter of the number on board.”

“You may go back again the following day.”

“Wouldn't it be more sensible to remain on board overnight?”

“It would – but think of the danger you would be placing yourself in.”

“Among sick and starving men,” Carrie said scathingly.

“The loss of your reputation …”

“Madam, if I ever had any such
reputation
, then it was lost many years ago,” she added softly.

“Oh, well,” Miss Nightingale sighed. “You had best use your own judgment, I suppose.”

Carrie turned away to hide the light of triumph in her eyes.

“Oh I'll be seasick again, Mrs Foster,” wailed Ellen, trudging after Carrie down the muddy track towards the landing-stage. “You knows how bad I was when we come.”

“Nonsense, Ellen, the sea's as calm as a millpond, look at it.”

Carrie soon found a caique to take them out to the ship lying at anchor in the Bosphorus, and despite Ellen's continuous wailing, they boarded the ship quite safely.

“The Lord save us!” Ellen cried, her mouth dropping open, her eyes wide as she gazed around the deck of the ship. Grim-faced and silent, Carrie's eyes, too, took in the dreadful aspect.