The doctor must have noticed me worrying. “You lot should be helping bring in the wounded. Get to it!” They scurried off in their dirty uniforms, taking the smell of dried blood and old food with them. If Miss Nightingale was in charge of them they’d be good deal more orderly, I thought.
“Thank you,” I said to the doctor, wondering how to get his attention back to the matter of the man downstairs who was stumbling about. Then I don’t know what but something made me brave. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“Dr. Maclean. James Maclean, at your service.”
He gave me the slightest bow. No one had ever bowed to me before, nor looked right at me until I thought he could see inside my head.
“I have a little brother named Jimmy,” I said, not really sure why, but I had to get back to something familiar, something to anchor me. Will’s blue eyes were lovely and kind, but they didn’t make me feel uneasy. Dr. Maclean’s brown eyes with their thick, dark lashes knocked me off balance, like the poor fellow downstairs. With Dr. Maclean, I couldn’t have said what might be going through his mind. And he spoke with an accent, Scotch, I guessed. “I’d better go back downstairs,” I said.
“Before the fearsome Miss Nightingale finds you up here alone with a doctor?” he said.
I looked around at all the eyes focused on us from the nearby beds. “Not exactly alone.”
He laughed. “That’s twice in five minutes you’ve made me laugh, Nurse Fraser. It’s a dangerous precedent.”
He gestured with a blood-covered hand for me to precede him along the narrow space between the wounded men’s feet. I didn’t need to be told twice, and hurried back down to where Emma was handing out clothing to soldiers, holding on to the memory of the sound of my name in Dr. Maclean’s musical accent.
Chapter 14
We finished with the discharged men just in time for tea. Emma and I sat in the common room with Mrs. Drake and two others, all of us so exhausted we could hardly speak.
“Where’s everyone else?” Emma asked after a bit.
“They just keep coming,” said Mrs. Drake, shaking her head. “No time to take a rest.”
One other, a nurse who hardly ever spoke to us, said, “So many, and so badly wounded. We wanted to stay, but Miss Nightingale is sending us back to eat in shifts.”
All this had been going on while Emma and I were getting the healing soldiers fitted out with togs so they could go back to fight again. We exchanged a look. I don’t even remember whether it was me or Emma who said, “We must go and help them.” I couldn’t bear to think that wounded soldiers might be waiting for care, and us sitting by, taking our rest.
It was definitely Emma, though, who said, “She’s trying to keep us away from the men. She thinks ’cause we’re young they’ll get distracted or upset, and we won’t be able to nurse. But that shouldn’t matter. Why shouldn’t a man in pain see a pretty face to comfort him? I can nurse just as well as the rest.”
Emma was so worked up she had tears in her eyes. I agreed with her. It didn’t seem fair. Why have us there at all if we weren’t going to be any help? I’d only eaten a few bites of our supper of bread and cheese when Emma stood, grabbed my arm, and said, “Let’s go, Moll. We didn’t come out here to be serving maids.”
I barely had time to grab my cloak off the hook before I found myself running by Emma’s side through the corridor to the stairs.
Instead of stopping indoors, where the men who had already been seen by the doctors were being put on pallets prepared by the orderlies, we ran straight outside, out to where the ships docked and the wounded and sick were still being unloaded.
A clear sky and a full moon sat calm and beautiful above us. The wind didn’t blow such a gale any more. Spread out over the ground all the way from the hospital to the dock were soldiers—or pieces of soldiers. Even the ones who sat up and smoked, dirty bandages on their arms or legs or wrapped round their chests, looked like something had gone missing from them, like they left a part of themselves on the battlefield. There were so many, and I knew the wards in the hospital were as full as could be. Where would all these men possibly go?
No time to wonder. “There’s Miss Nightingale over there. We have to go and talk to her.” This time I took hold of Emma.
“Are you completely daft? Let’s just get to work. She’ll only send us back.”
I watched Miss Nightingale pointing and talking, keeping calm but with an edge of urgency to everything she did. It must be hard to be her, to be expected to come to this impossible place and make everything right, I thought. I turned back to Emma. “I don’t think so. I think we have to tell her we’re here.” I pulled on Emma again. When she resisted, I let go and walked as quick and direct as I could, stepping around wounded men to get to where Miss Nightingale stood. She looked up as I came over, at first staring past me like I wasn’t there. “We’ve come to help, Miss Nightingale,” I said, standing my ground in front of her, hoping Emma had followed me.
“They need people to clean wounds. Not enough orderlies. Go over to Dr. Maclean and follow his instructions.” She pointed to an area where a few tents had been set up closer to the hospital. Turkish soldiers carried stretchers over, not much heeding whether they bumped or jostled the men on them, only trying to get as many moved around as fast as possible.
I turned to call to Emma and found her right behind me. “Let’s go.”
Though he’d been bloody enough when I’d seen him earlier, I hardly recognized Dr. Maclean for the blood all over his jacket, arms, and legs. Even his shoes were covered, and he’d wiped a streak across his forehead too. As each stretcher arrived, he’d yell out, “Stump!” or “Shrapnel!” or “Dead!”—which in his accent sounded like “Daid”—and point to a tent where the stretcher should be moved.
“We’re here to help,” I said to him not wanting to waste any time.
He glanced up briefly. I thought I saw a moment of surprise, or something like it, in his eyes. “Nurse Bigelow, you can go over to that tent and do as Dr. Arbuthnot says. Nurse Fraser, you stay here.”
I didn’t dare look round at Emma, lest she guess from my face that I was glad to be by Dr. Maclean. Before I had a chance to breathe, though, the Turks brought over a man writhing in pain, hands gripping his stomach. Through the dried blood, the coarse linen scraps of bandages that must have been wrapped round him in Balaclava were still faintly visible.
“Put him right here. He shouldn’t be moved anymore.” Dr. Maclean knelt down beside the stretcher on the ground. “Now, my man, you have to let me see what’s happened to you.”
“I can’t. It’ll all fall out if I take my hands away.” His voice was shaky and shrill, like a child afraid he’ll get a beating.
“Nurse, get this man a drink and wipe off his face.” As I turned to go Dr. Maclean grabbed my hand and murmured, “Distract him a little; try to get his mind off what I’m doing.”
I went to the barrel of water that had been brought out for washing and drinking and dipped one of the dirty tin cups in it. I had nothing to use to clean off the soldier’s face, so I quickly tore a bit of my petticoat and soaked it in the water.
When I returned, the soldier was still clutching his stomach with surprising strength, considering how bad he was. I crouched down by his head. “Here, take a sip of water. You must be ever so thirsty.” I mopped some of the dirt off his face and turned it toward me, trying to make him see me. His eyes jumped around and he blinked fast, like gnats were getting in the corners. I gently cleaned around them. “It’s all right. You’re safe now. Dr. Maclean’s going to make you better.”
“Are you an angel?” he said, finally letting his eyes rest on me. “Have I died?”
I smiled. “Not an angel. Just a nurse. And you’re looking a sight better already.”
I kept talking to him, low and soft. He told me where he came from, and about his mother and sisters. I could tell from the set of his shoulders, how they relaxed back to the ground, that the sold
ier had finally let go of his stomach, and from the activity that I sensed rather than saw I knew Dr. Maclean was doing his best to stitch him up and bandage him again. I didn’t dare shift my attention away from the lad’s eyes, like I was holding him in a trance that would break if I blinked. The last thing I wanted was for him to realize what was happening and reach down and get in the doctor’s way.
“Will they send me home?” the soldier asked.
“I imagine you’re done fighting for now,” I answered. He closed his eyes and smiled, not broadly, but with such sweetness I wanted to kiss him. Then his pale face got even whiter and he went so completely loose that I thought he fell into an instant, deep sleep. I turned to Dr. Maclean. He sat up and looked at me, eyes full of sorrow.
“He’s dead.”
I wanted to yell out, No! He can’t be! We were just talking. But before I could react, Dr. Maclean motioned the orderlies over and they covered the soldier with a blanket and took him away.
Chapter 15
The sun came up while we were still treating the wounded and trying to find places to fit them in the hospital. I got pretty good at telling what was wrong: a bone sticking out was a compound fracture. The stumps were easy enough to identify. Then there were bullet and bayonet wounds—lots of blood, but if the bones weren’t broken and if they were only in a limb and not through the chest, not so dangerous. Those were sometimes treated right there outside, the men bandaged up and sent back to the camp where their regiments had started out before sailing across the Black Sea to fight.
Always I stayed aware of Dr. Maclean even when I wasn’t looking at him. His movements were slow and careful at the same time, as if he was thinking through everything he did, trying his hardest not to make a mistake. We eventually caught up with the stream of casualties and the numbers of wounded thinned out so you could see the ground between them. Only then did I stand up straight and stretch my arms out, noticing how stiff and sore I was from holding hands, wrapping bandages, and kneeling.
Dr. Maclean had stood up as well. He didn’t look at me, just stared across to the hospital ships. His face was sad and angry at the same time. The other doctors wandered aimlessly, checking bandages now and again, smoking their pipes, talking in low voices. But not Dr. Maclean.
He caught me staring at him and turned. “You must be tired, Molly. Why don’t you go and get a cup of tea?” So he knew my first name too.
“Would you like me to bring you a cuppa?”
“No. I can’t seem to eat or drink in this kind of situation,” he said, nodding his head toward a group of doctors who were biting chunks off of loaves of bread and swigging something out of flasks. “I guess I’m just not very used to it yet.”
Not used to it? He was a doctor.
“Where are you from, Molly?”
I cast a quick look round to see where Miss Nightingale was. I couldn’t find her and figured she’d gone inside to help with getting the ones who’d been admitted to the hospital settled and cared for. “I’m from London. The East End.”
“Where did you nurse before you came here?”
I’d been wondering when one of the doctors or patients would ask me that. I looked down at my hands, which I saw were sheathed in blood. “I never nursed anywhere before this,” I said.
“Really?” He sounded almost glad. “But you’re so calm and good at it. And I thought Miss Nightingale only brought out experienced nurses.”
“It’s a long tale,” I said, “and I’m none too proud of it. But I’m here, doing what I can.”
He nodded. “My parents didn’t want me to become a doctor. Someone from an old Scottish family should be in politics, or work the land, or become one of the fearsome Highland Dragoons.”
“Oh, so you’re Scotch!”
He smiled. “We prefer Scots, but yes.”
“I like the way you talk.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“Is that why you look at me sometimes?”
My face and neck went hot and tingly. “I … I …”
Dr. Maclean laughed. “You see, Molly, you seem to have this talent for making me laugh. And with those auburn curls I can see peeking out from your cap I think perhaps you may have some Scottish blood in you too.”
I quickly tried to tuck the ends of my hair back under my cap, wondering how much had strayed out and what a sight I must appear. “Molly! We’re wanted in the hospital.” I jumped at the sound of Emma’s voice. I hadn’t heard her coming. She gave me a curious look that said, What do you think you’re doing?
“I’ll be along. Thank you, Dr. Maclean.” I don’t quite know what I thanked him for, but I felt grateful to him. Grateful for treating me like I knew what I was doing, and letting me prove myself, perhaps. Grateful for talking to me. Grateful for knowing my name.
“Cor, I’m not half done in,” Emma said as we walked to the hospital door.
“You have circles like coal smudges under your eyes,” I said.
“And you have twinkly stars in yours.” She pinched me, but I could feel her hands shaking and knew she had no more strength left than I did. “Be careful, miss. I have my eye on that one.”
“What about your wounded soldier?” I asked, nudging her in the ribs.
She turned all serious. “Don’t you say a word, Moll. He was one of them what we discharged today. Or rather, yesterday. He says he’s going to find a way to see me.”
That would be a mistake, I knew. But after that night, seeing how short life could be and how uncertain everything was, I understood why she’d risk it. I felt a tug in the center of me when I thought about the way Dr. Maclean looked into my eyes. There was an answer inside him that wasn’t like anything I’d ever felt before. There was something in what we had done together that night, something terrible and important. I don’t know how many of the men that passed through our hands died, if not right then, after they went to the ward. For some it was obvious they wouldn’t live out the night. For others chances were they’d heal. Heal to fight again.
“You’re awful quiet, Moll. What did that Dr. Maclean do to you?”
I didn’t have time to answer because we’d entered the ward. Two or three Sisters of Mercy walked calmly amongst the beds, bending down now and again to straighten a sheet or give a drink of water. Mrs. Drake stood at the foot of the stairs to the upper wards. When she saw us she called us over. “Miss Nightingale wants to see you two.” She cocked her thumb toward the stairs.
“This is it,” I said to Emma. “We’ll get the sack. Or a drubbing at least.” If Miss Nightingale had made one thing clear, it was that her orders were to be strictly obeyed, whatever we thought of them. We had most definitely disobeyed by coming out to nurse last night, when we’d never really been allowed to do it before. We’d be back to stuffing mattresses at the very least.
I saw her standing in the middle of the ward. The sun streamed in through the rows of windows in a pattern that showed floating specks of dust and made the dingy linens look almost white. Miss Nightingale, dressed all in black silk, was like a statue there, her eyes traveling up and down the rows, looking for anyone in need, watching her nurses mop brows and hold basins while men who were just coming to realize they no longer had an arm or a leg, or they’d lost the sight of an eye, choked out their despair.
We stood quiet and still, waiting for her to notice us. She did at last. She came toward us not quickly, but with purpose, the way she did everything.
“Fraser, Bigelow,” she said, in a tone that I knew spelled business. “You know I have not wanted you to mix with the men in the wards. Had things been otherwise, I would not have brought either of you to this place. But somehow in the rush to get here, you managed to come along.
“I have been informed that the doctors you worked with last night have expressed their satisfaction. It seems you are both natural nurses, whatever your lack of training. But this lack can be dangerous—even with talent as a substitute.”
Miss Nightingale stared at us, one after the
other. Standing there, I couldn’t tell what she was going to do. When she reached her arms out for us, I started to shrink backward at first, expecting a cuff on the ear. But instead, she held us close for just an instant.
“You’ve done well,” she murmured. “Don’t disappoint me.” Then as quickly as she’d done it, she let us go. “Go eat and rest. Come back when I send others for their turn. We’ll have to work round the clock today.”
No one had held me close like that since my mother, the last time I saw her before I was let go from my parlormaid position. I tried not to think about that—there was no point. She couldn’t put her arms around me when I was on the other side of the world, and she wouldn’t want to until I came back and showed her that I had made something of myself. Still, I was unaccountably happy that Miss Nightingale was pleased.
Whatever happened next, I felt that I’d finally accomplished something. I was a nurse. Or, if not exactly a nurse, I had a natural talent for nursing. None other than Miss Nightingale herself told me so.
That was the beginning of my real life, that night. And it was the beginning of something else, too, something far more important in the end. I felt safe, for a minute at least. But soon the war came closer to me than I could have imagined, and the days and hours raced on so that I could hardly see my life passing as they went.
Chapter 16
We all soon learned to cope with the unpredictable schedule of battle casualties. Sometimes things would seem quiet as peacetime and there wouldn’t be enough to keep us busy. Then the older nurses would get wool from the market and start knitting socks, and we’d all roll bandages and help with washing linens. Mrs. Drake told us stories, most of them funny, about her grandchildren and about nursing in London. She’d sometimes do it in a way that was meant to teach me things, without making it too obvious. In turn I’d sit patiently while she wound a ball of wool from the skein on my outstretched hands. I never knew my grandmas, but Mrs. Drake was what I always imagined they’d be like.
In the Shadow of the Lamp Page 10
