Chapter 14

MY CUSTOMERS AT THE BRITISH HOTEL.

MY CUSTOMERS AT THE BRITISH HOTEL.

I shall proceed in this chapter to make the reader acquainted with some of the customers of the British Hotel, who came there for its creature comforts as well as its hostess’s medicines when need was; and if he or she should be inclined to doubt or should hesitate at accepting my experience of Crimean life as entirely credible, I beg that individual to refer to the accounts which were given in the newspapers of the spring of 1855, and I feel sure they will acquit me of any intention to exaggerate. If I were to speak of all the nameless horrors of that spring as plainly as I could, I should really disgust you; but those I shall bring before your notice have all something of the humorous in them—and so it ever is. Time is a great restorer, and changes surely the greatest sorrow into a pleasing memory. The sun shines this spring-time upon green grass that covers the graves of the poor fellows we left behind sadly a few short months ago: bright flowers grow up upon ruins of batteries and crumbling trenches, and cover the sod that presses on many a mouldering token of the old time of battle and death. I dare say that, if I went to the Crimea now, I should see a smiling landscape, instead of the blood-stained scene which I shall ever associate with distress and death; and as it is with nature so it is with human kind. Whenever I meet those who have survived that dreary spring of 1855, we seldom talk about its horrors; but remembering its transient gleams of sunshine, smile at the fun and good nature that varied its long and weary monotony. And now that I am anxious to remember all I can that will interest my readers, my memory prefers to dwell upon what was pleasing and amusing, although the time will never come when it will cease to retain most vividly the pathos and woe of those dreadful months.

In this chapter, I will introduce some customers of the British Hotel. They came for its comforts, as well as for their hostess’s medicines when needed. If any reader doubts my account of Crimean life, I ask them to consult the newspaper reports from spring 1855. I am sure those reports will show that I have no intention of exaggerating. If I spoke plainly about all the nameless horrors of that spring, I would disgust you. But the experiences I will describe all have something humorous in them, and so it always is. Time is a great healer, and it surely changes even the greatest sorrow into a pleasing memory. This spring, the sun shines on green grass covering the graves of the poor fellows we sadly left behind only a few months ago. Bright flowers grow over ruined batteries and crumbling trenches. They cover the earth beneath which lie many decaying traces of those old days of battle and death. I dare say that, if I went to the Crimea now, I would see a cheerful landscape. It would be very different from the bloodstained scene I will always associate with distress and death. And what is true of nature is also true of people. When I meet others who survived that dreary spring of 1855, we seldom talk about its horrors. Instead, we remember its brief gleams of sunshine and smile at the fun and good nature that brightened its long, weary monotony. Now that I am eager to remember everything I can that will interest my readers, my memory prefers to linger on what was pleasant and amusing. Yet I will never cease to remember most vividly the sorrow and suffering of those dreadful months.

I have said that the winter had not ended when we began operations at the British Hotel; and very often, after we considered we were fairly under spring’s influence, our old enemy would come back with an angry roar of wind and rain, levelling tents, unroofing huts, destroying roads, and handing over May to the command of General Fevrier. But the sun fought bravely for us, and in time always dispersed the leaden clouds and gilded the iron sky, and made us cheerful again. During the end of March, the whole of April, and a considerable portion of May, however, the army was but a little better off for the advent of spring. The military road to the camp was only in progress—the railway only carried ammunition. A few hours’ rain rendered the old road all but impassable, and scarcity often existed in the front before Sebastopol, although the frightened and anxious Commissariat toiled hard to avert such a mishap; so that very often to the British Hotel came officers starved out on the heights above us. The dandies of Rotten Row would come down riding on sorry nags, ready to carry back—their servants were on duty in the trenches—anything that would be available for dinner. A single glance at their personal appearance would suffice to show the hardships of the life they were called upon to lead. Before I left London for the seat of war I had been more than once to the United Service Club, seeking to gain the interest of officers whom I had known in Jamaica; and I often thought afterwards of the difference between those I saw there trimly shaven, handsomely dressed, with spotless linen and dandy air, and these their companions, who in England would resemble them. Roughly, warmly dressed, with great fur caps, which met their beards and left nothing exposed but lips and nose, and not much of those; you would easily believe that soap and water were luxuries not readily obtainable, that shirts and socks were often comforts to dream about rather than possess, and that they were familiar with horrors you would shudder to hear named. Tell me, reader, can you fancy what the want of so simple a thing as a pocket-handkerchief is? To put a case—have you ever gone out for the day without one; sat in a draught and caught a sneezing cold in the head? You say the question is an unnecessarily unpleasant one, and yet what I am about to tell you is true, and the sufferer is, I believe, still alive.

I have said that winter had not ended when we began operations at the British Hotel. Even when we thought spring had firmly taken hold, our old enemy often returned with an angry roar of wind and rain. Storms flattened tents, tore roofs off huts, destroyed roads, and handed May over to the command of General Fevrier. But the sun fought bravely for us. In time, it always scattered the leaden clouds, gilded the iron sky, and made us cheerful again. Still, during the end of March, all of April, and much of May, the army was little better off for spring’s arrival. The military road to the camp was still being built, and the railway carried only ammunition. A few hours of rain made the old road almost impassable. Supplies were often scarce at the front before Sebastopol, although the frightened and anxious Commissariat worked hard to prevent shortages. So officers who had run out of food on the heights above us often came to the British Hotel. The dandies of Rotten Row would ride down on poor nags, ready to carry back anything they could use for dinner. Their servants were on duty in the trenches. One glance at the officers’ appearance was enough to show the hardships they had to endure. Before I left London for the seat of war, I had visited the United Service Club more than once. I had gone to seek the support of officers I had known in Jamaica. Afterwards, I often thought of the contrast between the officers I saw there and their companions here, who would have looked like them in England. At the club, the officers were clean-shaven and handsomely dressed, with spotless linen and a dandy air. Here, the officers wore rough, warm clothes and great fur caps that met their beards. Only their lips and noses were exposed, and not much of those. You could easily believe that soap and water were luxuries they could not readily obtain. Shirts and socks were often comforts they could only dream of, rather than possess. You could also believe that they were familiar with horrors you would shudder to hear named. Tell me, reader, can you imagine what it is like to lack so simple a thing as a pocket-handkerchief? Consider this. Have you ever gone out for the day without one, then sat in a draught and caught a cold that made you sneeze? You say the question is unnecessarily unpleasant. Yet what I am about to tell you is true, and the sufferer is, I believe, still alive.

An officer had ridden down one day to obtain refreshments (this was very early in the spring); some nice fowls had just been taken from the spit, and I offered one to him. Paper was one of the most hardly obtainable luxuries of the Crimea, and I rarely had any to waste upon my customers; so I called out, “Give me your pocket-handkerchief, my son, that I may wrap it up.” You see we could not be very particular out there; but he smiled very bitterly as he answered, “Pocket-handkerchief, mother—by Jove! I wish I had one. I tore my last shirt into shreds a fortnight ago, and there’s not a bit of it left now.”

One day, very early in the spring, an officer rode down to get some food. Some nice chickens had just been taken off the spit, and I offered him one. Paper was one of the hardest luxuries to obtain in the Crimea, and I rarely had any to spare for customers. So I called out, “Give me your handkerchief, my son, so I can wrap it up.” You see, we could not be very particular out there. But he smiled very bitterly as he answered, “A handkerchief, mother? By Jove, I wish I had one. I tore my last shirt into shreds two weeks ago, and there’s not a bit of it left now.”

Shortly after, a hundred dozen of these useful articles came to my store, and I sold them all to officers and men very speedily.

Shortly afterward, a hundred dozen of these useful items arrived at my store. I quickly sold them all to officers and men.

For some time, and until I found the task beyond my strength, I kept up a capital table at the British Hotel; but at last I gave up doing so professedly, and my hungry customers had to make shift with whatever was on the premises. Fortunately they were not over-dainty, and had few antipathies. My duties increased so rapidly, that sometimes it was with difficulty that I found time to eat and sleep. Could I have obtained good servants, my daily labours would have been lightened greatly; but my staff never consisted of more than a few boys, two black cooks, some Turks—one of whom, Osman, had enough to do to kill and pluck the poultry, while the others looked after the stock and killed our goats and sheep—and as many runaway sailors or good-for-noughts in search of employment as we could from time to time lay our hands upon; but they never found my larder entirely empty. I often used to roast a score or so of fowls daily, besides boiling hams and tongues. Either these or a slice from a joint of beef or mutton you would be pretty sure of finding at your service in the larder of the British Hotel.

For a time, I served excellent meals at the British Hotel, until I found the task too much for me. At last I stopped offering regular meals, and my hungry customers had to make do with whatever was available. Fortunately, they were not too fussy and disliked few foods. My duties increased so quickly that I sometimes struggled to find time to eat and sleep. Good servants would have greatly lightened my daily work, but my staff was never large. It consisted of a few boys, two Black cooks, and some Turks. One of the Turks, Osman, had enough to do killing and plucking the poultry. The others looked after the livestock and killed our goats and sheep. We also employed whatever runaway sailors or good-for-nothings looking for work we could find from time to time. But my customers never found my pantry entirely empty. I often roasted twenty or so chickens a day, as well as boiling hams and tongues. You could be fairly sure of finding these or a slice from a roast of beef or mutton in the British Hotel pantry.

Would you like, gentle reader, to know what other things suggestive of home and its comforts your relatives and friends in the Crimea could obtain from the hostess of Spring Hill? I do not tell you that the following articles were all obtainable at the commencement, but many were. The time was indeed when, had you asked me for mock turtle and venison, you should have had them, preserved in tins, but that was when the Crimea was flooded with plenty—too late, alas! to save many whom want had killed; but had you been doing your best to batter Sebastopol about the ears of the Russians in the spring and summer of the year before last, the firm of Seacole and Day would have been happy to have served you with (I omit ordinary things) linen and hosiery, saddlery, caps, boots and shoes, for the outer man; and for the inner man, meat and soups of every variety in tins (you can scarcely conceive how disgusted we all became at last with preserved provisions); salmon, lobsters, and oysters, also in tins, which last beaten up into fritters, with onions, butter, eggs, pepper, and salt, were very good; game, wild fowl, vegetables, also preserved, eggs, sardines, curry powder, cigars, tobacco, snuff, cigarette papers, tea, coffee, tooth powder, and currant jelly. When cargoes came in from Constantinople, we bought great supplies of potatoes, carrots, turnips, and greens. Ah! what a rush there used to be for the greens. You might sometimes get hot rolls; but, generally speaking, I bought the Turkish bread (ekmek), baked at Balaclava.

Would you like to know, gentle reader, what other reminders of home and its comforts your relatives and friends in the Crimea could get from the hostess of Spring Hill? I do not claim that all the following goods were available at first, but many were. There was indeed a time when, if you had asked me for mock turtle and venison, I could have given you both in tins. But that was when the Crimea was overflowing with supplies, too late, alas, to save many who had died from lack of them. But if you had been doing your best to batter Sebastopol down around the Russians in the spring and summer of the year before last, Seacole and Day would have been happy to serve you. Leaving out ordinary things, we had linen, stockings and socks, saddlery, caps, boots, and shoes to wear. To nourish you, we had every variety of meat and soup in tins. You can hardly imagine how disgusted we all became with preserved food in the end. We also had tinned salmon, lobsters, and oysters. The oysters were very good when made into fritters with onions, butter, eggs, pepper, and salt. We had preserved game, wild birds, and vegetables, as well as eggs, sardines, curry powder, cigars, tobacco, snuff, cigarette papers, tea, coffee, tooth powder, and currant jelly. When cargoes arrived from Constantinople, we bought large supplies of potatoes, carrots, turnips, and greens. Ah, how people used to rush to get the greens! You could sometimes get hot rolls, but I generally bought the Turkish bread (ekmek) baked at Balaclava.

Or had you felt too ill to partake of your rough camp fare, coarsely cooked by a soldier cook, who, unlike the French, could turn his hand to few things but fighting, and had ridden down that muddy road to the Col, to see what Mother Seacole could give you for dinner, the chances were you would have found a good joint of mutton, not of the fattest, forsooth; for in such miserable condition were the poor beasts landed, that once, when there came an urgent order from head-quarters for twenty-five pounds of mutton, we had to cut up one sheep and a half to provide the quantity; or you would have stumbled upon something curried, or upon a good Irish stew, nice and hot, with plenty of onions and potatoes, or upon some capital meat-pies. I found the preserved meats were better relished cooked in this fashion, and well doctored with stimulants. Before long I grew as familiar with the mysteries of seasoning as any London pieman, and could accommodate myself to the requirements of the seasons as readily. Or had there been nothing better, you might have gone further and fared on worse fare than one of my Welch rabbits, for the manufacture of which I became so famous. And had you been fortunate enough to have visited the British Hotel upon rice-pudding day, I warrant you would have ridden back to your hut with kind thoughts of Mother Seacole’s endeavours to give you a taste of home. If I had nothing else to be proud of, I think my rice puddings, made without milk, upon the high road to Sebastopol, would have gained me a reputation. What a shout there used to be when I came out of my little caboose, hot and flurried, and called out, “Rice-pudding day, my sons.” Some of them were baked in large shallow pans, for the men and the sick, who always said that it reminded them of home. You would scarcely expect to finish up your dinner with pastry, but very often you would have found a good stock of it in my larder. Whenever I had a few leisure moments, I used to wash my hands, roll up my sleeves and roll out pastry. Very often I was interrupted to dispense medicines; but if the tarts had a flavour of senna, or the puddings tasted of rhubarb, it never interfered with their consumption. I declare I never heard or read of an army so partial to pastry as that British army before Sebastopol; while I had a reputation for my sponge-cakes that any pastry-cook in London, even Gunter, might have been proud of. The officers, full of fun and high spirits, used to crowd into the little kitchen, and, despite all my remonstrances, which were not always confined to words, for they made me frantic sometimes, and an iron spoon is a tempting weapon, would carry off the tarts hot from the oven, while the good-for-nothing black cooks, instead of lending me their aid, would stand by and laugh with all their teeth. And when the hot season commenced, the crowds that came to the British Hotel for my claret and cider cups, and other cooling summer drinks, were very complimentary in their expressions of appreciation of my skill.

Or perhaps you had felt too ill to eat your rough camp food, badly cooked by a soldier cook. Unlike the French, he could do little besides fight. So you had ridden down that muddy road to the Col to see what Mother Seacole could give you for dinner. Chances are you would have found a good joint of mutton, though not a very fat one. The poor animals arrived in such miserable condition that we once had to cut up one and a half sheep to fill an urgent order from headquarters for twenty-five pounds of mutton. Or you might have found something curried, a good Irish stew, nice and hot, with plenty of onions and potatoes, or some excellent meat pies. I found that people enjoyed preserved meat more when it was cooked in pies and well seasoned with stimulants. Before long I knew the secrets of seasoning as well as any London pie maker. I could adapt to the demands of the seasons just as easily. Even if there had been nothing better, you could have gone farther and eaten worse than one of my Welsh rabbits, which made me famous. And if you had been lucky enough to visit the British Hotel on rice pudding day, I’m sure you would have ridden back to your hut with warm thoughts of Mother Seacole’s efforts to give you a taste of home. If I had nothing else to be proud of, I think my rice puddings alone would have earned me a reputation. I made them without milk, on the main road to Sebastopol. What a shout went up when I came out of my little kitchen, hot and flustered, and called out, “Rice pudding day, my sons.” Some were baked in large, shallow pans for the men and the sick. They always said the puddings reminded them of home. You would hardly expect pastry to finish your dinner, but you would often have found plenty in my pantry. Whenever I had a few spare moments, I would wash my hands, roll up my sleeves and roll out pastry. I was often interrupted to give out medicines. But if the tarts tasted of senna, or the puddings of rhubarb, that never stopped anyone from eating them. I declare I have never heard or read of an army as fond of pastry as the British army before Sebastopol. And my sponge cakes had a reputation that any London pastry cook, even Gunter, might have been proud of. The officers, full of fun and high spirits, used to crowd into the little kitchen. Despite all my protests, they would carry off the tarts hot from the oven. My protests were not always confined to words. They sometimes drove me frantic, and an iron spoon is a tempting weapon. Meanwhile, the good-for-nothing black cooks, instead of helping me, would stand by and laugh with all their teeth. And when the hot season began, crowds came to the British Hotel for my claret and cider cups and other cooling summer drinks. They were very generous in praising my skill.

Now, supposing that you had made a hearty dinner and were thinking of starting homeward—if I can use so pleasant a term in reference to your cheerless quarters—it was very natural that you should be anxious to carry back something to your hut. Perhaps you expected to be sent into the trenches (many a supper cooked by me has been consumed in those fearful trenches by brave men, who could eat it with keen appetites while the messengers of death were speeding around them); or perhaps you had planned a little dinner-party, and wanted to give your friends something better than their ordinary fare. Anyhow, you would in all probability have some good reason for returning laden with comforts and necessaries from Spring Hill. You would not be very particular about carrying them. You might have been a great swell at home, where you would have shuddered if Bond Street had seen you carrying a parcel no larger than your card-case; but those considerations rarely troubled you here. Very likely, your servant was lying crouched in a rifle pit, having “pots” at the Russians, or keeping watch and ward in the long lines of trenches, or, stripped to his shirt, shovelling powder and shot into the great guns, whose steady roar broke the evening’s calm. So if you did not wait upon yourself, you would stand a very fair chance of being starved. But you would open your knapsack, if you had brought one, for me to fill it with potatoes, and halloo out, “Never mind, mother!” although the gravy from the fowls on your saddle before you was soaking through the little modicum of paper which was all I could afford you. So laden, you would cheerfully start up the hill of mud hutward; and well for you if you did not come to grief on that treacherous sea of mud that lay swelling between the Col and your destination. Many a mishap, ludicrous but for their consequences, happened on it. I remember a young officer coming down one day just in time to carry off my last fowl and meat pie. Before he had gone far, the horse so floundered in the mud that the saddle-girths broke, and while the pies rolled into the clayey soil in one direction, the fowl flew in another. To make matters worse, the horse, in his efforts to extricate himself, did for them entirely; and in terrible distress, the poor fellow came back for me to set him up again. I shook my head for a long time, but at last, after he had over and over again urged upon me pathetically that he had two fellows coming to dine with him at six, and nothing in the world in his hut but salt pork, I resigned a plump fowl which I had kept back for my own dinner. Off he started again, but soon came back with, “Oh, mother, I forgot all about the potatoes; they’ve all rolled out upon that —— road; you must fill my bag again.” We all laughed heartily at him, but this state of things had been rather tragical.

Now, suppose you had enjoyed a hearty dinner and were thinking of heading home. That is, if I may use such a pleasant word for your cheerless quarters. Naturally, you would want to take something back to your hut. Perhaps you expected to be sent into the trenches. Many a supper I cooked was eaten in those fearful trenches by brave men. They ate with keen appetites while the messengers of death sped around them. Or perhaps you had planned a little dinner party and wanted to give your friends something better than their usual fare. In any case, you would probably have good reason to return from Spring Hill loaded with comforts and necessities. You would not be too particular about carrying them yourself. At home, you might have been a great swell. You would have shuddered at being seen on Bond Street carrying a parcel no bigger than your card case. But such concerns rarely troubled you here. Your servant was very likely crouching in a rifle pit, taking shots at the Russians. Or he might have been keeping watch along the long lines of trenches. Or perhaps, stripped to his shirt, he was shoveling powder and shot into the great guns. Their steady roar broke the evening calm. So, if you did not look after yourself, you stood a very good chance of starving. But if you had brought a knapsack, you would open it for me to fill with potatoes. “Never mind, mother!” you would call out. The gravy from the chickens on your saddle in front of you might be soaking through the little paper I could spare for wrapping them. Loaded up like this, you would cheerfully set off up the muddy hill toward your hut. And you would be lucky not to come to grief in the treacherous sea of mud between the Col and your destination. Many mishaps occurred there that would have been funny if not for their consequences. I remember a young officer who came down one day just in time to take my last chicken and meat pie. He had not gone far when his horse floundered so badly in the mud that the saddle straps broke. The pies rolled one way into the clay soil, and the chicken flew another. To make matters worse, the horse completely ruined them as he struggled to free himself. The poor fellow came back terribly upset, hoping I could provide for him again. I shook my head for a long time. But he pleaded with me again and again. He had two fellows coming to dine with him at six, he said, and nothing in his hut but salt pork. At last, I gave up a plump chicken I had saved for my own dinner. Off he went again, but he soon came back. “Oh, mother, I forgot all about the potatoes; they’ve all rolled out upon that —— road; you must fill my bag again.” We all laughed heartily at him, but the situation had been rather tragic.

Before I bring this chapter to a close, I should like, with the reader’s permission, to describe one day of my life in the Crimea. They were all pretty much alike, except when there was fighting upon a large scale going on, and duty called me to the field. I was generally up and busy by daybreak, sometimes earlier, for in the summer my bed had no attractions strong enough to bind me to it after four. There was plenty to do before the work of the day began. There was the poultry to pluck and prepare for cooking, which had been killed on the previous night; the joints to be cut up and got ready for the same purpose; the medicines to be mixed; the store to be swept and cleaned. Of very great importance, with all these things to see after, were the few hours of quiet before the road became alive with travellers. By seven o’clock the morning coffee would be ready, hot and refreshing, and eagerly sought for by the officers of the Army Works Corps engaged upon making the great high-road to the front, and the Commissariat and Land Transport men carrying stores from Balaclava to the heights. There was always a great demand for coffee by those who knew its refreshing and strengthening qualities, milk I could not give them (I kept it in tins for special use); but they had it hot and strong, with plenty of sugar and a slice of butter, which I recommend as a capital substitute for milk. From that time until nine, officers on duty in the neighbourhood, or passing by, would look in for breakfast, and about half-past nine my sick patients began to show themselves. In the following hour they came thickly, and sometimes it was past twelve before I had got through this duty. They came with every variety of suffering and disease; the cases I most disliked were the frostbitten fingers and feet in the winter. That over, there was the hospital to visit across the way, which was sometimes overcrowded with patients. I was a good deal there, and as often as possible would take over books and papers, which I used to borrow for that purpose from my friends and the officers I knew. Once, a great packet of tracts was sent to me from Plymouth anonymously, and these I distributed in the same manner. By this time the day’s news had come from the front, and perhaps among the casualties over night there would be some one wounded or sick, who would be glad to see me ride up with the comforts he stood most in need of; and during the day, if any accident occurred in the neighbourhood or on the road near the British Hotel, the men generally brought the sufferer there, whence, if the hurt was serious, he would be transferred to the hospital of the Land Transport opposite. I used not always to stand upon too much ceremony when I heard of sick or wounded officers in the front. Sometimes their friends would ask me to go to them, though very often I waited for no hint, but took the chance of meeting with a kind reception. I used to think of their relatives at home, who would have given so much to possess my privilege; and more than one officer have I startled by appearing before him, and telling him abruptly that he must have a mother, wife, or sister at home whom he missed, and that he must therefore be glad of some woman to take their place.

Before I close this chapter, I would like, with the reader’s permission, to describe one day of my life in the Crimea. The days were all much alike, except when there was large-scale fighting and duty called me to the field. I was generally up and busy by daybreak, sometimes earlier. In summer, my bed had no attractions strong enough to keep me in it after four. There was plenty to do before the day’s work began. The poultry killed the night before had to be plucked and prepared for cooking. The joints of meat had to be cut up and prepared for cooking too. The medicines had to be mixed, and the store swept and cleaned. With all these things to attend to, the few quiet hours before the road filled with travellers were very important. By seven o’clock, the morning coffee would be ready, hot and refreshing. The officers of the Army Works Corps, who were building the great high-road to the front, eagerly sought it out. So did the Commissariat and Land Transport men carrying stores from Balaclava to the heights. Those who knew how refreshing and strengthening coffee was always wanted plenty of it. I could not give them milk, as I kept it in tins for special use. But they had their coffee hot and strong, with plenty of sugar and a slice of butter. I recommend butter as an excellent substitute for milk. From then until nine, officers on duty nearby or passing by would look in for breakfast. At about half-past nine, my sick patients began to appear. Over the next hour, they came in large numbers. Sometimes it was past twelve before I had finished attending to them. They came with every variety of suffering and disease. The cases I most disliked were frostbitten fingers and feet in winter. After that, I visited the hospital across the way, which was sometimes overcrowded with patients. I spent a good deal of time there. As often as possible, I took books and papers, which I borrowed for that purpose from my friends and the officers I knew. Once, someone anonymously sent me a large packet of tracts from Plymouth, and I distributed those in the same way. By this time, the day’s news had come from the front. Perhaps someone among those wounded or taken sick the night before would be glad to see me ride up with the comforts he needed most. During the day, if an accident occurred nearby or on the road near the British Hotel, the men generally brought the injured person there. If the injury was serious, he would be transferred from the British Hotel to the Land Transport hospital opposite. When I heard of sick or wounded officers at the front, I did not always stand on ceremony. Sometimes their friends asked me to go to them. But very often I waited for no such hint and took my chances on a kind reception. I used to think of their relatives at home, who would have given so much to have the privilege I had. I startled more than one officer by appearing before him and speaking abruptly. I told him he must have a mother, wife, or sister at home whom he missed, and must therefore be glad to have some woman take their place.

Until evening the store would be filled with customers wanting stores, dinners, and luncheons; loungers and idlers seeking conversation and amusement; and at eight o’clock the curtain descended on that day’s labour, and I could sit down and eat at leisure. It was no easy thing to clear the store, canteen, and yards; but we determined upon adhering to the rule that nothing should be sold after that hour, and succeeded. Any one who came after that time, came simply as a friend. There could be no necessity for any one, except on extraordinary occasions, when the rule could be relaxed, to purchase things after eight o’clock. And drunkenness or excess were discouraged at Spring Hill in every way; indeed, my few unpleasant scenes arose chiefly from my refusing to sell liquor where I saw it was wanted to be abused. I could appeal with a clear conscience to all who knew me there, to back my assertion that I neither permitted drunkenness among the men nor gambling among the officers. Whatever happened elsewhere, intoxication, cards, and dice were never to be seen, within the precincts of the British Hotel. My regulations were well known, and a kind-hearted officer of the Royals, who was much there, and who permitted me to use a familiarity towards him which I trust I never abused, undertook to be my Provost-marshal, but his duties were very light.

Until evening, the store was filled with customers wanting supplies, dinners, and lunches. Others came simply to pass the time, looking for conversation and amusement. At eight o’clock, the curtain came down on the day’s work, and I could sit down and eat at leisure. It was not easy to clear the store, canteen, and yards. But we were determined to sell nothing after eight, and we succeeded. Anyone who came after that hour came simply as a friend. No one needed to buy things after eight, except on extraordinary occasions, when we could relax the rule. We discouraged drunkenness and excess at Spring Hill in every way. Indeed, the few unpleasant scenes I experienced arose chiefly because I refused to sell liquor when I saw it would be abused. I could appeal with a clear conscience to everyone who knew me there to support my claim. I allowed neither drunkenness among the men nor gambling among the officers. Whatever happened elsewhere, intoxication, cards, and dice were never seen on the premises of the British Hotel. My rules were well known. A kindhearted officer of the Royals, who spent much time there, offered to be my Provost-marshal. He allowed me to be familiar with him, a privilege I trust I never abused. But his duties as Provost-marshal were very light.

At first we kept our store open on Sunday from sheer necessity, but after a little while, when stores in abundance were established at Kadikoi and elsewhere, and the absolute necessity no longer existed, Sunday became a day of most grateful rest at Spring Hill. This step also met with opposition from the men; but again we were determined, and again we triumphed. I am sure we needed rest. I have often wondered since how it was that I never fell ill or came home “on urgent private affairs.” I am afraid that I was not sufficiently thankful to the Providence which gave me strength to carry out the work I loved so well, and felt so happy in being engaged upon; but although I never had a week’s illness during my campaign, the labour, anxiety, and perhaps the few trials that followed it, have told upon me. I have never felt since that time the strong and hearty woman that I was when I braved with impunity the pestilence of Navy Bay and Cruces. It would kill me easily now.

At first, we kept our store open on Sundays because we had no choice. But after a while, many stores opened in Kadikoi and elsewhere. Once it was no longer absolutely necessary to stay open, Sunday became a welcome day of rest at Spring Hill. The men opposed our decision, but again we were determined, and again we prevailed. I am sure we needed the rest. I have often wondered since how I managed never to fall ill or come home “on urgent private affairs.” I fear I was not thankful enough to Providence for giving me the strength to do the work I loved. I was so happy to be doing it. But although I was never ill for a week during my campaign, the work and worry have taken their toll. Perhaps the few hardships that followed the campaign have also taken their toll. Since then, I have never felt as strong and healthy as I did when I faced the pestilence at Navy Bay and Cruces without harm. It would kill me easily now.