The Nightingale Affair by Tim Mason

Author:Tim Mason [Mason, Tim]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-05-15T00:00:00+00:00

34

The hospital at Balaclava was perched very near the edge of a cliff that plunged fifty feet down to the sea. The main building was a down-at-the-heels two-story affair, with a string of low huts leading away from it. When the war was at its height, these huts were filled with wounded and sick soldiers, but now the compound’s population was much smaller. Across a plain dotted with army tents, a jagged range of hills rose, about two miles distant. Beyond those cliffs lay the city of Sevastopol, the goal of the past year’s long siege and fiercely fought battles. As Field and the others approached the hospital, they heard a distant sound of artillery from farther inland, where the war had moved after Sevastopol’s fall and the Russian evacuation of the city.

The first thing that struck Field as he walked into the main building was a peculiar odor, one that rode above the unpleasant smells to which he’d become accustomed at Scutari. Then he heard a familiar voice, low and measured, coming from a small office near the door. The frosted-glass door opened, and an elderly, dignified-looking nun emerged, followed by Florence Nightingale.

“But, Reverend Mother,” Nightingale was saying, “I understand your concern for the souls of these poor men, and I applaud it. I share it. But their bodies need care as well . . .”

“How insulting you are, miss! Our labors make it obvious we do care!”

The nun and Nightingale turned a corner, and Field followed them into a crowded ward, with row after row of patients on cots. In there, the odor hit the inspector like a physical blow.

“Forgive me, Mother Bridgeman,” said Nightingale. “I misspoke. But the physical wounds suffered by these men need frequent dressing, and their bed linens need to be washed from time to time, don’t you agree?”

“Dr. John Hall has complete faith in me and the work my sisters are performing here.”

Field saw Nightingale’s cheeks redden.

“And by faith, one can move mountains, I firmly believe,” she said, “but it takes two human hands and a tub of hot water to scrub a sheet.”

There was a fearful cry of pain nearby. Field saw Jane Rolly bending over the bed of a young soldier. The man was breathless, sobbing, and Jane was speaking to him in low tones. She gently lifted one of his shoulders and put a soapy, wet cloth beneath, worked it rapidly back and forth and removed it, tossing the bloody cloth into a bucket at her feet, the soldier yelping piteously all the while.

“There, you see?” whispered the Reverend Mother angrily. “That poor man is in agony, and he’ll soon die anyway, how can you have tortured him so? Have you no mercy?”

Jane quickly tore off a length of dry dressing, lifted the shoulder again, looped the cloth under and around, and tied it.

“Was it mercy,” said Nightingale, “that allowed him to get to this state, Mother Bridgeman? For how long has he been allowed to lie there in his

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