Chapter 13

MY WORK IN THE CRIMEA.

MY WORK IN THE CRIMEA.

I hope the reader will give me credit for the assertion that I am about to make, viz., that I enter upon the particulars of this chapter with great reluctance; but I cannot omit them, for the simple reason that they strengthen my one and only claim to interest the public, viz., my services to the brave British army in the Crimea. But, fortunately, I can follow a course which will not only render it unnecessary for me to sound my own trumpet, but will be more satisfactory to the reader. I can put on record the written opinions of those who had ample means of judging and ascertaining how I fulfilled the great object which I had in view in leaving England for the Crimea; and before I do so, I must solicit my readers’ attention to the position I held in the camp as doctress, nurse, and “mother.”

I hope the reader will believe me when I say that I am very reluctant to share the details in this chapter. But I cannot leave them out, because they support my only claim to public interest: my services to the brave British army in the Crimea. Fortunately, I can take an approach that will spare me from praising myself and will be more satisfying to the reader. I can put on record the written opinions of those who had ample opportunity to judge how I fulfilled my main purpose in leaving England for the Crimea. But before I do, I must ask my readers to consider the role I held in the camp as doctress, nurse, and “mother.”

I have never been long in any place before I have found my practical experience in the science of medicine useful. Even in London I have found it of service to others. And in the Crimea, where the doctors were so overworked, and sickness was so prevalent, I could not be long idle; for I never forgot that my intention in seeking the army was to help the kind-hearted doctors, to be useful to whom I have ever looked upon and still regard as so high a privilege.

I have never been in any place long before my practical medical experience has proved useful. Even in London, I have found it useful to others. In the Crimea, the doctors were overworked and sickness was widespread, so I could not remain idle for long. I never forgot that I had sought out the army to help the kind-hearted doctors. I have always considered it a great privilege to be useful to them, and I still do.

But before very long I found myself surrounded with patients of my own, and this for two simple reasons. In the first place, the men (I am speaking of the “ranks” now) had a very serious objection to going into hospital for any but urgent reasons, and the regimental doctors were rather fond of sending them there; and, in the second place, they could and did get at my store sick-comforts and nourishing food, which the heads of the medical staff would sometimes find it difficult to procure. These reasons, with the additional one that I was very familiar with the diseases which they suffered most from, and successful in their treatment (I say this in no spirit of vanity), were quite sufficient to account for the numbers who came daily to the British Hotel for medical treatment.

But before long, I found myself surrounded by patients of my own, for two simple reasons. First, the men (I am speaking of the “ranks” now) strongly objected to going to hospital unless it was urgent. Yet the regimental doctors were rather fond of sending them there. Second, at my store they could get, and did get, comforts for the sick and nourishing food. The heads of the medical staff sometimes found these things difficult to obtain. There was another reason, too. I was very familiar with the diseases the men suffered from most, and I treated them successfully. I say this without any vanity. Together, these reasons were enough to explain why so many came daily to the British Hotel for medical treatment.

That the officers were glad of me as a doctress and nurse may be easily understood. When a poor fellow lay sickening in his cheerless hut and sent down to me, he knew very well that I should not ride up in answer to his message empty-handed. And although I did not hesitate to charge him with the value of the necessaries I took him, still he was thankful enough to be able to purchase them. When we lie ill at home surrounded with comfort, we never think of feeling any special gratitude for the sick-room delicacies which we accept as a consequence of our illness; but the poor officer lying ill and weary in his crazy hut, dependent for the merest necessaries of existence upon a clumsy, ignorant soldier-cook, who would almost prefer eating his meat raw to having the trouble of cooking it (our English soldiers are bad campaigners), often finds his greatest troubles in the want of those little delicacies with which a weak stomach must be humoured into retaining nourishment. How often have I felt sad at the sight of poor lads, who in England thought attending early parade a hardship, and felt harassed if their neckcloths set awry, or the natty little boots would not retain their polish, bearing, and bearing so nobly and bravely, trials and hardships to which the veteran campaigner frequently succumbed. Don’t you think, reader, if you were lying, with parched lips and fading appetite, thousands of miles from mother, wife, or sister, loathing the rough food by your side, and thinking regretfully of that English home where nothing that could minister to your great need would be left untried—don’t you think that you would welcome the familiar figure of the stout lady whose bony horse has just pulled up at the door of your hut, and whose panniers contain some cooling drink, a little broth, some homely cake, or a dish of jelly or blanc-mange—don’t you think, under such circumstances, that you would heartily agree with my friend Punch’s remark:—

It is easy to understand why the officers were glad to have me as a doctor and nurse. When a poor fellow lay sick in his cheerless hut and sent for me, he knew I would not ride up empty-handed. Although I did not hesitate to charge him for the supplies I brought, he was grateful enough to be able to buy them. When we are ill at home, surrounded by comfort, we never think to feel especially grateful for the treats we receive as a matter of course. But a poor officer lay sick and weary in his rickety hut. He depended for the bare necessities of life on a clumsy, ignorant soldier-cook. The cook would almost rather eat his meat raw than go to the trouble of cooking it. Our English soldiers are bad at living on campaign. The sick officer often suffered most from the lack of little treats that might coax a weak stomach into accepting nourishment. How often I have felt sad at the sight of those poor lads. In England, they had thought an early parade a hardship. They had felt put out if their neckcloths sat crooked or their smart little boots would not stay polished. Yet they bore, so nobly and bravely, trials and hardships that often defeated veteran campaigners. Reader, suppose you were lying ill, with parched lips and a fading appetite, thousands of miles from your mother, wife, or sister. You loathed the rough food beside you and thought with regret of your English home. There, nothing that might help you in your great need would be left untried. Would you not welcome the familiar figure of the stout lady whose bony horse has just stopped at your hut door? Her panniers contain a cooling drink, a little broth, some homely cake, or a dish of jelly or blanc-mange. In such circumstances, don't you think you would heartily agree with my friend Punch’s remark:

I tell you, reader, I have seen many a bold fellow’s eyes moisten at such a season, when a woman’s voice and a woman’s care have brought to their minds recollections of those happy English homes which some of them never saw again; but many did, who will remember their woman-comrade upon the bleak and barren heights before Sebastopol.

I tell you, reader, I have seen many a brave man’s eyes fill with tears at such a time. A woman’s voice and care brought back memories of their happy English homes. Some of those men never saw home again. But many did, and they will remember their woman comrade on the bleak and barren heights before Sebastopol.

Then their calling me “mother” was not, I think, altogether unmeaning. I used to fancy that there was something homely in the word; and, reader, you cannot think how dear to them was the smallest thing that reminded them of home.

I do not think their calling me “mother” was entirely without meaning. I liked to think there was something homelike about the word. And, reader, you cannot imagine how much even the smallest reminder of home meant to them.

Some of my Crimean patients, who were glad of me as nurse and doctress, bore names familiar to all England, and perhaps, did I ask them, they would allow me to publish those names. I am proud to think that a gallant sailor, on whose brave breast the order of Victoria rests—a more gallant man can never wear it—sent for the doctress whom he had known in Kingston, when his arm, wounded on the fatal 18th of June, refused to heal, and I think that the application I recommended did it good; but I shall let some of my patients’ letters, taken from a large bundle, speak for me. Of course I must suppress most of their names. Here are two from one of my best and kindest sons.

Some of my Crimean patients were glad to have me as their nurse and doctor. Their names were familiar to all England. Perhaps, if I asked them, they would let me publish their names. I am proud to remember one brave sailor who wore the Victoria Cross. No braver man could ever wear it. He sent for the doctor he had known in Kingston when his arm refused to heal. He had wounded it on the fatal 18th of June, and I think the treatment I recommended helped. But I shall let some of my patients’ letters, chosen from a large bundle, speak for me. Of course, I must leave out most of their names. Here are two letters from one of my best and kindest sons.

You see the medicine does him good, for a few days later comes another from the same writer:—

You can see that the medicine does him good, because a few days later, another comes from the same writer:

It was a capital prescription which had done his jaundice good. There was so great a demand for it, that I kept it mixed in a large pan, ready to ladle it out to the scores of applicants who came for it.

It was an excellent prescription that had helped his jaundice. So many people wanted it that I kept it mixed in a large pan. I had it ready to ladle out to the scores of people who came for it.

Sometimes they would send for other and no less important medicines. Here is such an application from a sick officer:—

Sometimes they would send for other medicines that were just as important. Here is one such request from a sick officer:

Doesn’t that read like a sick man’s letter, glad enough to welcome any woman’s face? Here are some gentlemen of the Commissariat anxious to speak for me:—

Doesn’t that sound like a letter from a sick man who would be glad to see any woman’s face? Here are some gentlemen from the Commissariat who are eager to speak on my behalf:

Here is Mr. M——, paymaster of the Land Transport Corps, ready with a good account of my services:—

Here is Mr. M, paymaster of the Land Transport Corps, with a favorable account of my services:

And some of the men shall speak for themselves:—

And some of the men will speak for themselves:

Many of my patients belonged to the Land Transport and Army Works Corps. The former indeed were in my close neighbourhood, and their hospital was nearly opposite to the British Hotel. I did all I could for them, and have many letters expressive of their gratitude. From them I select the following:—

Many of my patients belonged to the Land Transport and Army Works Corps. The Land Transport Corps was based close to me, and its hospital was nearly opposite the British Hotel. I did all I could for them, and I have many letters expressing their gratitude. I have chosen the following letter from among them:

I hope that Mr. P——, of the Army Works Corps, will pardon my laying the following letter before the public:—

I hope Mr. P, of the Army Works Corps, will forgive me for sharing the following letter with the public:

Here is a certificate from one of the Army Works’ men, to whose case I devoted no little time and trouble:—

Here is a certificate from one of the Army Works’ men, whose case took me considerable time and effort:

Here are three more letters—and the last I shall print—from a sailor, a soldier, and a civilian:—

Here are three more letters, the last I will print, from a sailor, a soldier, and a civilian:

And now that I have made this a chapter of testimonials, I may as well finish them right off, and have done with them altogether. I shall trouble the patient reader with four more only, which I have not the heart to omit.

Now that I have made this a chapter of testimonials, I might as well finish with them once and for all. I will trouble my patient reader with only four more, which I cannot bear to leave out.

The third is from the pen of one who at that time was more looked to, and better known, than any other man in the Crimea. In the 2nd vol. of Russell’s “Letters from the Seat of War,” p. 187, is the following entry:—

The third was written by a man who, at the time, was more respected and better known than any other man in the Crimea. The following entry appears in volume 2 of Russell’s “Letters from the Seat of War,” page 187:

Yes! I cannot—referring to that time—conscientiously charge myself with doing less for the men who had only thanks to give me, than for the officers whose gratitude gave me the necessaries of life. I think I was ever ready to turn from the latter to help the former, humble as they might be; and they were grateful in their way, and as far as they could be. They would buy me apples and other fruit at Balaclava, and leave them at my store. One made me promise, when I returned home, to send word to his Irish mother, who was to send me a cow in token of her gratitude for the help I had been to her son. I have a book filled with hundreds of the names of those who came to me for medicines and other aids; and never a train of sick or wounded men from the front passed the British Hotel but its hostess was awaiting them to offer comforts to the poor fellows, for whose suffering her heart bled.

Yes! Looking back on that time, I can honestly say I did no less for the men who could only thank me than for the officers whose gratitude gave me the necessities of life. I believe I was always ready to turn from the officers to help the men, however humble they might be. The men were grateful in their own way, and as much as they could be. They would buy me apples and other fruit in Balaclava and leave them at my store. One man made me promise to send word to his Irish mother when I returned home. She was to send me a cow to thank me for the help I had given her son. I have a book filled with hundreds of names of people who came to me for medicine and other help. Every time a train of sick or wounded men from the front passed the British Hotel, its hostess was waiting. She offered comforts to the poor fellows, whose suffering made her heart bleed.

Punch, who allowed my poor name to appear in the pages which had welcomed Miss Nightingale home—Punch, that whimsical mouthpiece of some of the noblest hearts that ever beat beneath black coats—shall last of all raise its voice, that never yet pleaded an unworthy cause, for the Mother Seacole that takes shame to herself for speaking thus of the poor part she bore of the trials and hardships endured on that distant shore, where Britain’s best and bravest wrung hardly Sebastopol from the grasp of Britain’s foe:—

Punch allowed my humble name to appear in the same pages that welcomed Miss Nightingale home. Punch is the whimsical voice of some of the noblest hearts that ever beat beneath black coats. Its voice has never pleaded an unworthy cause. Let Punch speak last for Mother Seacole. I am ashamed to speak so much about the small part I played in the trials and hardships endured on that distant shore. There, Britain’s best and bravest struggled to wrest Sebastopol from the grip of Britain’s enemy:

Reader, now that we have come to the end of this chapter, I can say what I have been all anxiety to tell you from its beginning. Please look back to Chapter VIII., and see how hard the right woman had to struggle to convey herself to the right place.

Reader, now that we have reached the end of this chapter, I can tell you what I have been eager to say since it began. Please look back at Chapter VIII. See how hard the right woman had to struggle to get herself to the right place.