by Kate Eastham
Desperately trying to find a focus, Ada searched for the groom. She couldn’t see him at first, but then a couple of the horses shifted and Ada spotted him quietly talking to one of the terrified creatures, running his hand slowly down the animal’s neck, stroking and soothing. While others shouted and twitched at theirs, increasing the distress, he stayed calm and so did his horse.
At this distance he looked even more like Frank and she started to scan the others gathered on the quay, hoping against hope that her brother could be there and it would be that easy to find him, to simply see him in the crowd and he would come walking over to her with a smile or a scowl, depending on what mood he was in. She knew that there was next to no chance of that though. And then again, maybe Mary had been right, she was stark, raving mad to come out here, to a place where she knew no one and nothing was familiar. Even the light was different here – and what was that smell?
Just for a moment her head sank and she had to fight back the tears; but she knew that she could not be seen to be weak in this strange place. Who knew who might be watching her. She could not appear vulnerable. So, she used the sight of the groom, with his dark blond hair curling at the base of his neck and his strong back, to ease her sorry state as she stood on the quay. As he soothed and calmed the horse Ada began to regain some control. She felt her mouth begin to set in a determined line and some strength return to her body. She would not give up now, not after coming all this way. She had come here to find Frank and she would not go soft now.
Then, suddenly, someone grabbed her arm saying, ‘Nurse, nurse! We need you over here – quick, quick now, the doctor needs some help.’
It was only a boy and she tried to tell him that she wasn’t a proper nurse, but she had no strength to resist him as he pulled her staggering through the crowd towards a bloody patch of ground in a shaded area of the quay.
Too dazed to react with her usual quick wit, she took a moment to take in the scene. The small patch of shade was littered with bodies, some lying on filthy blankets, others propped against a wall.
The voice of her assailant broke through again. ‘I’ve brought her, doctor. Here’s that nurse. You won’t need me now.’ And with that he was gone, running through the crowd.
Ada opened her mouth to protest but no sound came out. Instead she found herself looking in silence at a thin man in a blood-soaked apron with a knife in his hand. She saw that his arms were soaked up to the elbows in blood. Surely this man was a butcher not a doctor.
The man lying stretched out before him on a makeshift table was muttering softly to himself and rolling his head from side to side, his face burning red and blistered in places, his hair matted with mud and dried blood. Still wearing the remains of an army uniform, he appeared ripped and mangled as if recently mauled by some giant beast.
The doctor glanced at her fiercely and said, ‘Right, nurse, don’t dither, I need you to hold this leg for me, hold it very steady.’
Ada could see, even in her exhausted state, that the man lying on the makeshift table needed all the help that he could get. She was not a nurse, she had no idea what she could do, but she had to do something. She put down her bag and moved to take the strangely inhuman leg that was being presented to her. A sickly, overwhelming stink met her nostrils and her stomach heaved but she held on to that leg; she wanted to do everything she could to help the poor man who lay before her.
So she clung to that leg and stood ready. The doctor seemed completely focussed on the task in hand and two other men were there at the man’s head, holding him down. Ada saw the doctor gripping the knife more firmly in his bloodstained hand and then loudly, as if making an announcement in church, he stated his intention. ‘As you can see, nurse, this man has gas gangrene affecting his left lower limb. Therefore I am about to perform an above-knee amputation.’
Ada swayed a little.
‘Keep it still, nurse, keep it still!’ he said, and through sheer strength of will she managed to steady herself. He continued as if completely unaware of her inexperience. ‘As you can see, the line of demarcation is just below the knee and we need as wide a margin as possible, therefore I’m making the incision here.’
He drew a finger across the man’s leg to mark the line and Ada nodded.
‘As soon as I finish cutting through the soft tissue, you must pass me that saw.’
What saw? she thought desperately, determined to do whatever was required but starting to feel a bit light-headed.
Then he swept the blade towards the leg and the sharp knife slipped into the man’s flesh. The patient struggled, yelled and cursed, trying to twist his body away from the pain with all his remaining strength, but the two men at the head of the table increased their grip and used their weight to hold him down.
As the first dotted flush of bright red blood sprang from the wound Ada swayed but continued to cling to that leg. Somehow she managed to pass the saw to the doctor when he asked, and continued to cling to the leg until finally she felt it come away from the man’s body. And then, completely overwhelmed, she slumped and hit the ground in a dead faint.
In her dream Ada was warm, safe, being gently rocked from side to side. She felt completely at peace for the first time in so long.
Then something started to tug at the corners of her mind.
A voice. A shouting voice.
She felt heavy, sleepy, couldn’t rouse herself; it was like being under a thick muffled blanket. She was sure she could hear a fly buzzing and felt the tickle of an insect crawling over her face but was unable to move her hand to brush it away.
The buzz and the drone of flies continued and the voice became clearer and then insistent, shouting and arguing with another voice, a woman’s voice.
‘Bloody nurses, can’t even stay on their feet! Where do they get these blasted women from anyway … couldn’t finish, couldn’t tie off the artery properly … Look at this mess – he bled everywhere.’
Then the smell hit her again – sickly, heavy, the smell of death – and she remembered where she was, where she had willingly come.
7
‘No man, not even a doctor, ever gives any other definition of what a nurse should be than this – “devoted and obedient”. This definition would do just as well for a porter. It might even do for a horse.’
Florence Nightingale
Slowly opening her eyes, Ada tried to sit up but was forced back down by a firm hand and a commanding voice, a woman’s voice.
‘You lie still a while, dear, you’ve had a nasty shock and bumped your head. That doctor was completely out of line to get you working straight off the ship. He had the audacity to complain that you had compromised his sutures. Stuff and nonsense: he should be able to sew up under canvas in the dark and in a storm. And they should be using chloroform like the French to knock the poor buggers out before they start cutting. Poor man probably died of shock.’
As Ada was trying to make sense of these words, delivered rapidly and with force, she became aware of the bulky frame and smell of lavender water that accompanied the speaker.
‘Don’t you worry, dear, I gave him what for. And what about the state of my poor horses? Not one of them would have survived the journey without that boy. They’ll need to be tended if we want them back on form. I can’t begin to tell you what the heat and the flies and the poor fodder have done to my horses. Then they take them out to the front line and get them blown to smithereens …’
Ada opened her eyes and looked into the face of the speaker: a woman of generous middle age with arched eyebrows split by a deep frown line and a large determined mouth that now broke into a wide smile to reveal a remarkable set of straight white teeth.
‘Hello there, young lady, welcome to Balaklava. I’m Mrs Fitzwilliam. Now, you just have a swig of this and we’ll have you back on your feet and shipshape in no time. Come along, do as you’re told.’
Ada had only once had a tiny sip of alcohol so the smell and the burning taste of what was thrust to her li
ps now via a hipflask was quite a shock. She coughed and spluttered as it burned its way down her gullet but, to be fair, it did have the desired effect and she was suddenly awake and able to move.
Mrs Fitzwilliam hauled Ada up from the ground, declaring that there was nothing like a bit of brandy in times of need, then continued in her forthright manner to warn against the drinking of any water in the Crimea unless thoroughly boiled. Having witnessed the fate of those who did she felt sure that no one wanted to end up like that. Best to stick to spirits, wine or beer.
Once standing, Ada began to feel that her legs had regained the possibility of holding her upright, but as she looked up she was immediately overshadowed by the sight of the tallest woman that she had ever seen. Mrs Fitzwilliam towered above her as she checked Ada over. Then, swiftly moving on to practical matters, she said, ‘Right, dear, where are you commissioned, which hospital? Or are you going up to the front?’
Ada was unable to speak following the assault of the brandy, so it was fortunate that Mrs Fitzwilliam never seemed to require a reply. Instead she took the opportunity to give Ada’s left cheek a vigorous pat.
‘Come on, dear, come on, we need to get going before that ghastly man comes back. Are you stationed at Balaklava?’
Still bewildered but wanting to avoid further attempts to rouse her, Ada nodded her assent. Within seconds she was marched out of the small harbour building to which she had been conveyed when she had fainted. Coming back out now into the bright sunlight was a shock but she was calmer and more able to take in the detail of the scene around her.
During the period of time she had been absent the frenzy she’d experienced when she got off the ship had ended and the area was calmer. Around her the warm air was filled with the sounds of the wagons being loaded with cargo from the ship and voices shouting, but the horses had gone and the groups of soldiers were beginning to disperse. Although it was still oppressively hot, Ada could feel a gentle breeze on her face. She inhaled more deeply to try and revive herself and found that the smell was less of an affront now that she was starting to get used to it.
The injured men who had lain pitifully in the shadow of the building were being loaded on to wagons, carefully handled by the two heavy-set men who had been present at the operation. Ada was at first puzzled by how quiet the soldiers were – surely they must be in pain – but then she saw the haunted look on their faces and began to understand something of what the men must have been through.
Thankfully there was no sign of the doctor but her heart tightened momentarily and the hairs prickled at the back of her neck when she saw a blanket shrouding the body of the man that she had attended on the makeshift surgical table.
Ada realized that she was moving, being irresistibly pulled along by Mrs Fitzwilliam, who had spotted a stern-faced woman wearing some kind of uniform and a large bonnet directing the operation to move the wounded men.
The transaction was efficient and Ada was received by the woman at the insistence and on the recommendation of Mrs Fitzwilliam. No words were spoken by the woman other than, ‘Come along, nurse,’ but at least Ada had the feeling of being required to do something.
As she saw the impressive figure of Mrs Fitzwilliam stride away Ada couldn’t help but admire her speed and vigour. She watched as her rescuer untethered and skilfully mounted a large black horse with a flowing mane and tail. Then with a jolt she realized that Mrs Fitzwilliam was not wearing a skirt but a garment that was loosely divided into legs that tucked into her strong leather boots. Mrs Fitzwilliam was wearing breeches! She sat astride the horse and used her strong legs to squeeze the animal into action; then she was off at some speed, twisting round in the saddle and shouting back to Ada, ‘You take care, young lady, and if you need anything you can find me at the Commandant’s House.’ Then she was gone, raising the dust as she went.
Ada followed the woman to whom she had been assigned, trying not to think about where it might lead. Her legs had begun to feel weak again and she was still feeling slightly dizzy, so she was relieved to find that they seemed to be heading for one of the wagons. As they approached, the woman turned to her with a stern expression and said in a much gentler voice than Ada had expected, ‘I’m Sister Mary Roberts. I’m in charge of two wards at the hospital, and you must refer to me as “Sister” at all times.’
Ada tried to tell her that she had heard of her from Miss Nightingale but her words wouldn’t come out. She fumbled in her bag for the letter but Sister Roberts motioned for her to put it away and told her to climb up on to the driver’s seat behind a thin, brown horse with a scrappy mane, which was standing resting one of its back legs.
‘I’ll look at your letter of recommendation later,’ she said.
Sister Roberts took a long time to check the load on the back of the wagon against a list that she produced from her pocket. The load looked like it contained sacks of food or cereals, but other packages were carefully bound and marked with a red cross and Ada assumed that they contained medical supplies.
As she did her checking, Sister Roberts kept frowning, tutting and shaking her head. It seemed that all was not well with the consignment and this was causing some confusion or frustration.
The longer Ada sat, the more uncomfortable she felt in the heat of the sun. Her face began to burn and she reached down into her bag to take out the red shawl. Pulling this over her head, she was able to sit, still hot, but at least with some protection from the blaze of the sun.
At last, with a big sigh and a final shake of her head, Sister Roberts jumped up on to the seat, settled herself and straightened her uniform. With a practised flick of the reins, the old horse stumbled into action and they were moving.
She glanced across at Ada with the red shawl around her head.
‘You should have brought a bonnet,’ she said as a statement of fact rather than a criticism.
Ada looked at her and nodded, trying to smile but beginning to feel a bit sleepy and swimmy in the head.
As they started to move faster, Ada lurched in her seat and grabbed hold of the side of the creaking wagon to stop herself from swaying too violently. Thankfully they could only move at a very slow rate but their route was uneven and potholed with many stops and starts. As they jolted and lurched along she saw countless small buildings amid the rocky terrain. What a strange land, she thought.
Her attention was caught momentarily by a soft thud and boom in the distance, like the sound of heavy machinery moving suddenly. She glanced across at Mary Roberts, who understood the question. ‘That’s the big guns at Sevastopol starting up, as they do, any time of day or night.’
The noise continued to echo back and forth as they rattled up a rocky incline and Ada felt terrified. She had never heard a big gun before. How far away were they? Could they reach them here as they bumped along this track? Sensing her alarm, Sister Roberts spoke again in a gentler voice: ‘No need to worry, those guns are miles away. We are safe at present.’
Ada felt relieved and her body relaxed a little. She hadn’t liked the ‘at present’ part of what Sister said but she had to let that worry go for the time being. She let herself settle into the erratic rhythm of the wagon as it bumped over every hole in the road and concentrated on not falling out.
By the time they got to the hospital Ada’s head was resting on the firm shoulder of Sister Roberts. She vaguely remembered a hand shaking her and someone speaking to her but then she was being unloaded by strong arms and carried. She opened her eyes to see the face, she was almost sure, of one of the male assistants at the operation. Ada tried to smile but she couldn’t feel her own face any more.
Then she floated or was carried away as she heard the voice of Sister Roberts ordering her removal to the nurses’ sick ward.
8
‘These women had the true nurse-calling – the good of the sick first, and second only the consideration of what is their “place” to do – and that women who wait for a housemaid to do this or a charwoman to do that, when the
patient is suffering, have not the making of a nurse in them.’
Florence Nightingale
‘Nurse Blackwood, we have a new admission to the nurses’ sick ward. Please can you attend immediately.’
Nurse Rose Blackwood looked up from her patient and nodded. This was an inconvenient time because they were busy straightening up and trying to get the men settled for the night, doing what they could in the very crowded and dirty wards to keep up some semblance of care. The soldiers were fractious and more demanding because they knew that the nurses would all be disappearing by eight o’clock.
Looking about her now, Nurse Blackwood felt sorry for most of these poor souls and would have liked to have kept vigil overnight. Some of the men constantly called out for a drink or other small comfort or just needed to know that somebody was there. Most of these poor beggars would be hard pressed to be a significant threat anyway, weakened as they were by wounds and infections. Working nights would also allow some control over the ill-disciplined hospital nurses, who spent the evening getting as drunk as possible from any form of alcohol they could lay their hands on. For Rose this had been very shocking at first but in comparison to the horror and suffering she bore witness to every day it had now become a mere inconvenience.
The best way to exit the ward without fuss was to move at speed, otherwise one became too embroiled with minor detail and final adjustments. This required a certain amount of hardness on her part but she always promised herself that those she ignored on the way out she would give that extra bit of attention to the next day.
