The Chronicles of the Tempus

by K. A. S. Quinn

  The Countess Fidelia stayed behind. Her ankle was broken and travel at this point could lead to an infection, and much worse. She needed bedrest. It took all of Mary Seacole’s powers of persuasion to get her to stay behind, leaving Katie to tend to the Little Angel. The Countess was distraught, but Katie could see the beginning of an enduring friendship between the two colourful ladies. They had both led lives of great adventure. She would have liked to have heard the tales they would tell over Mary Seacole’s cosy camp stove.

  ‘Goodbye, dear Katie,’ Mary Seacole said, giving her a hearty kiss as they boarded ship. ‘As I’ve said before, I don’t hold much store with Americans. They are harsh on people with a skin my colour. But it seems to me Americans might have changed over time. You are as good a girl as God could make. I am sorry for your troubles, dearie. I know you think the world has ended, losing that young man. Time’s a strange thing though, as you know well. Jack’s still with us. I’m keeping him close to my heart.’

  She smiled down at Katie and fingered the amulet that always hung around her neck. Katie looked at her with curiosity. What was she really saying? But Mary Seacole felt she’d said enough. She only added, ‘Believe in the future and trust your friends. Time might bring you what you least expect.’

  Katie blinked hard. ‘I don’t know my future,’ she said. ‘Mother Seacole, I only know I want to go home.’ She had borne everything until now, but Mary Seacole’s sympathy made her tearful.

  The Little Angel reached out from her stretcher and squeezed Katie’s hand. Katie shook away the tears. There was still so much to do; there was no time for weeping. She looked towards Sebastopol, towards Cathcart’s Hill. There Jack lay, cold in his grave, no matter what Mary Seacole said. But she couldn’t think of Jack. That would have to wait.

  Mary Seacole noted the direction of her glance. ‘I will go visit him, dear child,’ she said. ‘I won’t leave him too lonely. I’m keeping him warm in my heart.’

  The Little Angel and Katie sailed together. The journey back to Scutari was a sad affair. The Little Angel’s mind would wander, and she spoke of many other times and many places: the great plague of Danzig, the famine of Bengal, the French Revolution. Then she sang herself to sleep with old French lullabies. And so she sang and rocked herself and talked until she lost her voice – and, Katie feared, her reason. Katie looked at the young beautiful face and felt infinite sadness. To see so much that is bad, and to live on and on. She did not leave her side.

  Each knot they sailed took them further from Jack’s grave and closer to Scutari, where Alice and James were waiting. News travelled slowly. Katie doubted they would know; she would be the messenger. Katie grieved for Jack, but she equally grieved for James. Something had been growing inside her – a tender green shoot of feeling. But that had been cut down, destroyed in a fierce and futile battle. For James, his brother was the attachment of a lifetime. He had fought with Jack, laughed with him and loved him. This, Katie knew, was a far greater loss. She dreaded what she must tell James.

  They disembarked in the last hours of the night. Katie had hoped no one would meet them, it was so late. But Florence Nightingale stood at the quay, scanning the small boats. ‘Thank God!’ she cried, spying Katie and the Little Angel. Katie had never seen her look so emotional. With dismay she saw that Miss Nightingale was not alone. James and Princess Alice stood with her, looking tired and worried. They knew of the catastrophe of the Charge of the Light Brigade, but they did not know the details: who had lived and who had died.

  As they touched the river bank, Florence Nightingale lifted the Little Angel into her own arms and carried her up the muddy slope. The medics protested, but Florence Nightingale replied brusquely, ‘I will entrust her to no one but myself.’

  Katie did not look at her friends. She simply took James by the arm and followed Miss Nightingale up the steep bank. ‘Come with me,’ she said. ‘We need to talk in private . . .’

  Katie didn’t blurt out the news, but neither did she sidestep it. As clearly as she could, she explained the battle to James and Alice. She told them about finding Jack on the battlefield. She would never forget, in all her years, the look on James’s face – it was almost more than she could bear. To stand with her two best friends in the world, and to bring them this terrible message.

  She talked and talked, trying to soften the blow. ‘There was nothing I could do,’ she told James. ‘Jack, he’d been hit. His injuries were so bad. But I promise you, James, I was with him the whole time. I did everything I could.’ James just continued to stand there, staring at her, defiant, as if she were making up some horrible lie. ‘We talked,’ she said, ‘until he couldn’t talk any more. We talked – mostly about you, and Grace and Riordan. He thought of you until the very end. It was the last thing to make him smile. Little Riordan, and beautiful Grace, and you, of course – he admired you so much. He wanted to be with you, James, he . . .’ She couldn’t stop talking; the silence would have been worse.

  Finally James spoke. ‘You say the Light Brigade tried to take the wrong guns? That they charged directly into the Russians?’

  ‘Yes,’ Katie replied. ‘That’s what William Howard Russell said. And Jack knew it too. The last words he said were “someone has blundered”.’ James’s shoulders twitched at this, but his face remained stony, furious. Alice tried to comfort him. She rested her hand on his shoulder and squeezed it gently.

  ‘We must honour the charge they made,’ she said softly, ‘we must honour the Light Brigade. Jack died a hero.’

  James struck her hand from his shoulder as if it were on fire. ‘A hero!’ he cried, ‘Jack died a fool! Following the orders of Cardigan – of Lucan! Vain, puffed-up, class-ridden parasites! They know the ballroom, and the gentleman’s clubs; they are not fit for the battlefield. And Raglan, doddering, elderly – if he had murdered the Light Brigade in their beds he could not have committed a more criminal act. “Someone has blundered.” Even Jack knew, though God knows Jack wanted to fight; he couldn’t wait for action.’ James shot Princess Alice a look of pure poison. ‘Your mother will be happy,’ he said bitterly. ‘The Queen has another hero, a cold, dead, fool of a hero, lying . . . I don’t even know where . . .’

  Princess Alice flinched, but she accepted his rebuke. Katie tried to put her arm around him. ‘Jack lies on Cathcart Hill’s,’ she said. ‘We made sure he had his own grave. We did the best we could . . .’

  James shook her off, staring at her as if she’d run his brother through with a sword herself. ‘I’ve heard the facts now, and I must write to Grace,’ he said. ‘I hate to think how this will affect her health. Perhaps I should write to her about heroes, to try and spare her. Heroes – God help us all.’ And turning heel, he left the room.

  Only then did Katie break down, sitting on the floor, weeping. Princess Alice was at her side in seconds, arms around her friend, her wimple falling over Katie like a shelter. ‘There, my dear, my good, brave Katie. James knows how hard you’ve tried.’

  ‘I didn’t know he’d take it like this,’ Katie sobbed. ‘I knew he’d be angry, but not with us. Alice, he’s been just awful to you. When you, of all people, only want to help.’

  Alice smoothed her friend’s rough hair, and dried her face with the hem of her white nun’s habit. Her hands were shaking, but her voice was steady. ‘You know James,’ she said, ‘Anger is an easier emotion than hurt for someone like him. He doesn’t hate you, or me. He hates losing his brother. He needs time . . .’

  Katie sobbed and sobbed. All the journey back, she’d tried to hold it in. She had helped to get Jack buried, nursed the Little Angel and watched over her on the journey home. Now she was back, and James blamed her for everything. How would he ever get over this? She needed him now more than ever, but she feared they would never again be friends.

  ‘No matter what James says; this is a noble cause,’ Alice added. ‘Jack died a hero’s death, and we must celebrate his great achievements on the battlefield.’

  Even
as Katie sobbed into her hands, she knew she didn’t agree with Alice. James had been right and so was Jack. Someone had blundered.

  ‘Have your cry, dear Katie,’ Alice soothed her. ‘When you are calmer, there is much to do here. The wounded are pouring in faster than we can care for them. And while the doctors have relented, and let the Nightingale nurses help – there simply aren’t that many of us. Between the lack of skilled nurses and our lack of medical supplies, we are fighting our own battle in the hospital.’

  Katie tried hard to control her sobs. She looked up to study her friend. In the small time she had been gone, Princess Alice had changed. She was paler and thinner. Her grave grey eyes were ringed with circles. More than that, she seemed to have changed inside. The suffering she’d seen had swept away her girlish sweetness. Her essential goodness was still there, as was her patience and loving heart – but she seemed years older.

  ‘Of course you’re right,’ Katie sniffled slightly. ‘I’m blubbering like a baby, while you do the work of a grownup. You’ve become so strong.’

  ‘We’ve both grown up,’ Alice assured her, ‘though I’m not as strong as I seem. I’m so pleased and so relieved that you are back. Your friendship makes it all bearable.’

  Alice helped Katie up, and they made their way to Miss Nightingale’s room. She had put the Little Angel into her own bed. ‘Shhhh, she is finally sleeping,’ Miss Nightingale admonished the girls as they entered. ‘I have given her a draught – I hope she will sleep for many hours. You must know, Katie, that her return to health is vital. I have received a letter from William Howard Russell. He tells me that without you, Katie, the Little Angel would not be alive today. You are to be commended. I will relieve you of these duties and nurse her myself. That is the only way I can be assured of her safety.’

  Katie stared at Florence Nightingale. For the hundredth time she wondered, Who is this woman? What is the truth about Florence Nightingale? Princess Alice looked at the Little Angel, lying in Miss Nightingale’s bed; her dark lashes fluttering as she slept. ‘She is so beautiful,’ Alice said, ‘but troubled, even in her sleep. What is her story? Why is she here?’

  Florence Nightingale rested her hand on the Little Angel’s forehead, and nodded in satisfaction. ‘The outcome of her story will affect the entire world. I will tell you, and soon, but right now there are thousands of other patients, outside in the corridors, and they need our attention as well.’

  They all slaved away, day after day. Miss Nightingale’s influence spread throughout the hospital. She spent her days ordering supplies and making certain they were delivered – even travelling to Constantinople to purchase goods herself. She supervised the food the men ate, the medicines they were given, and tried to make certain the doctors weren’t actively killing their patients. When she wasn’t dashing about, she was at her small wooden table writing, writing, writing – orders, acknowledgements, receipts, reports to the government, missives of complaint, and tender letters of consolation to widows and mothers.

  By night Florence Nightingale made her rounds through the long corridors of the Scutari hospital. ‘I have no choice but to work through the night,’ she explained to Alice and Katie. ‘It is necessary to make my rounds before dawn breaks. The doctors must have my notes on the patients. They need to read them before they make their own rounds – whether they want them, or not.’ Katie estimated that Florence Nightingale walked more than four miles each night, holding her lantern before her.

  The sick and wounded lay on the floor, row after row, only eighteen inches between them. Miss Nightingale glided through their ranks; smoothing a pillow, easing a bandage, bringing water, observing the men and writing notes for the doctors. She might prefer managing big institutions, but she was an excellent personal nurse whether she liked the occupation or not. Her normally brusque manner vanished – she was tender, kind and patient. It took her hours to walk the entire floor space of the Scutari Hospital. As she passed, the silence was profound. The men tried to stifle their moans and cries, and they kissed her shadow as she passed by.

  Often Alice was Miss Nightingale’s chosen companion, carrying her little basket of medicines and bandages. As long as Katie could stand up, she volunteered to come too. She was having disturbing dreams, surprisingly not about Jack or Lord Belzen, but about Mimi. It seemed from these dreams that she needed to get home, and she didn’t know how to. Bernardo DuQuelle was thousands of miles away, and Florence Nightingale was too absorbed in the work at hand. Katie thought things over, through the night, as they paced the wards. Did Miss Nightingale know how to send her back to her own time? She needed to find the right moment to ask . . .

  Stopping by one bed, Florence Nightingale placed her lantern beside a young man and, bending down, took his pulse. ‘Too slow and too low,’ she murmured to herself. ‘He is barely conscious.’ She turned to Alice and Katie. ‘If you could take my notes to James O’Reilly please; I cannot leave this man. I will stay with him until the end.’

  ‘But James . . .’ Katie bleated weakly. For weeks now James had avoided them: doing the work of a dozen men, then falling into an exhausted stupor in the doctors’ quarters. Miss Nightingale shot Katie a cutting glance. ‘Any personal affront must be put aside,’ she said crisply. ‘James has a job to do, as do we all. Now, go!’

  Princess Alice took the notes, and led Katie through the corridors. ‘What do you make of Florence Nightingale?’ Katie asked.

  Alice’s face was filled with admiration. ‘She has followed her calling. She has found her work in life. But her health is not good. I am afraid that in doing her duty, she will push herself to the grave.’

  ‘If she can die,’ Katie replied. ‘Haven’t you ever noticed how creepy she can be? How her personality changes minute by minute. That she can read your mind? I often wonder exactly what is her relationship to Bernardo DuQuelle? And you know what he is.’ But Alice was in another world of duty and service, sacrifice and holy reward. They walked on to the doctors’ canteen in silence.

  While Florence Nightingale brought calm and strength, the doctors’ quarters were all irritation and confusion. They soon found James, sorting through innumerable scribbled requests and arguing with a junior doctor. ‘But if a man is ill, he needs a special diet,’ James was saying. ‘Not rancid mutton wrapped in old rags and boiled for hours.’

  The doctor spoke slowly, as if placating a small child. ‘We do provide special diets when needs must,’ he explained.

  ‘But not soon enough!’ James cut across him. ‘Look at these millions of scribbled requests. All applications must go from you to the senior doctor to the supplies’ purveyor. If the supplies’ purveyor doesn’t have the right things, he writes back to the senior doctor, who then sends the message on to you. This can take days. No one in the kitchens is informed of anything. By the time it is resolved, the sick man will have starved to death!’

  ‘I don’t think James is ready to see us,’ Katie muttered to Alice. ‘I mean, it’s all so awful for him. He needs more time. So maybe we should come back later.’

  Once so uncertain, Alice now seemed able to face anything. She walked straight through the room full of doctors. They stepped back in respect for her nun’s habit. To them, she was still Sister Agnes. Katie tagged behind.

  ‘James O’Reilly,’ Alice said in her soft firm voice. ‘I have Miss Nightingale’s notes from her rounds of the wards. Can you make certain the doctors read them before their own examinations? I draw your attention to Lieutenant Garnet Wolseley in the north corridor. He is scheduled for an amputation today, but Miss Nightingale feels he is recovering. His fever has dropped and the infection has subsided.’

  Alice didn’t say anything about Jack’s death or James’s outburst. She did not refer to his cruelty to Katie or his insult to the Queen. She didn’t address him in a personal way at all. James ignored her, continuing to sort through the scraps of paper he held. She stood directly in front of him and looked at him steadily.

  Eventually Ja
mes lifted his eyes and met hers. They were completely still in the bustle around them. Without a word, they said a million things. James turned bright red, but Alice continued to regard him calmly. Finally he spoke. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘But of course, I am sorry. Please tell Miss Nightingale I will attend to this immediately.’

  Turning to Katie, he tried to smile. ‘You look terrible,’ he said. ‘You really need some rest. I do know – well, how hard you’ve tried, how much help you have been – and that this is hard for you too. I’m the one who’s a fool, Katie . . .’

  ‘We all need a good night’s sleep,’ Alice chimed in. ‘Katie has always teased me about this. She says I think a nap will solve all the world’s problems.’ Again James and Alice exchanged glances. It all made Katie feel very lonely. She had suspected, and now she knew: Alice and James had been on one journey, and she had been on another. She desperately wanted to go home.

  James passed the bits of paper to the junior doctor. ‘Well, let’s break off now,’ he said. ‘Nothing goes right in this hospital, and I’m not going to be able to fix it singlehanded. I need some time to think clearly.’

  ‘Miss Nightingale might be done with her rounds,’ Alice added. ‘Let’s go and see her.’

  The three of them entered the wards, now bustling with doctors, medics and nurses. Katie turned her head away as they passed the corner screened off for amputations. Despite what she’d seen on the battlefield, she still didn’t have the stomach for the groans and screams of the men.

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ James said. ‘Alice is often called in to help with the procedure.’