In the Shadow of the Lamp (6 page)

One or two of the other nurses stared at us as well, the older ones mainly.

“Also not to be tolerated is inebriation in any form and to any degree. It leads to disorderly conduct and inhibits the proper carrying out of your duties. You are required to maintain your personal hygiene at all times. I have seen to the design of uniforms, and those of you who are not otherwise uniformed will be equipped with them while we are here in Paris. We have the greater part of our journey yet to undertake. The way you comport yourselves, your dedication to the task that lies ahead, will be under my scrutiny, I assure you.

“Are there any questions?”

Miss Nightingale might’ve been lecturing new servants. I didn’t mind, but some of the others looked cross. But she, being so young and all, would have to be strong with us or the older ones might not pay her any heed.

One of the nuns raised her hand. I don’t know how she dared! “Shouldn’t we ask God’s blessing on our journey?” she asked. The other nuns smiled and nodded.

Miss Nightingale flicked her eyes toward Mrs. Bracebridge so fast I wondered if anyone else noticed. “Religion is a personal matter. We have among us those who are of the Church of England, those who attend chapel, and those who profess the Catholic faith. I advise you to ask whatever blessings you prefer—in private.”

She left me wondering what she really thought, which I suppose was on purpose.

“We shall enjoy a light supper in the refectory. Tomorrow you have some time to explore Paris if you’d like, in groups of three or more, between the hours of ten in the morning and four o’clock in the afternoon, as I have some business to attend to. We depart on the train for Lyons the day after that, and will take a boat down the Rhône to Avignon, whence we again board a train to Marseille. All the details are on the papers Mrs. Bracebridge will distribute. Thank you.”

She turned to Mrs. Bracebridge, who stood by her all meek and quiet. They started talking. I couldn’t take my eyes off the two of them, heads together. Miss Nightingale ran her finger down the list of names and shook her head. Mrs. Bracebridge whispered and pointed with her. I itched to know what they were saying. They got to the bottom of the list and Miss Nightingale frowned. I wished I could hear. She said something fast to Mrs. Bracebridge. Then what I dreaded the most happened: Mrs. Bracebridge looked toward me. I think I must have blushed red as a beet. Miss Nightingale looked at me for no more than a second, turned back to Mrs. Bracebridge, then walked quickly out of the room.

“Come along, I’m starving,” Emma said, pulling my arm. “Won’t be nothing left if we wait much longer.”

I was concentrating so hard on Miss Nightingale that I didn’t notice the other nurses leave the room, so there were only a few of us left. I turned to go with Emma, but Mrs. Bracebridge caught up with me.
Please
,
no
, I thought, then steeled myself.
This is it. I’ll be sent home for sure.

“Miss Nightingale would like to speak with you as soon as you’ve finished your supper,” Mrs. Bracebridge said. No doubt I looked how I felt, because she added, “You’re not in trouble, not yet at least. I kept most of your secret. But she has some questions.”

I expected she had questions.

The smell of good food floated out of the refectory, but my throat was too tight to even swallow a bite. I tried but only pushed the food around on my plate.

“Mind if I finish that?” Emma said, looking at the sausage I’d nibbled at.

“Suit yourself,” I said.

I hardly remembered anything about that meal or anything Emma was chattering on about. I nodded now and again, but her voice just rose and fell and made no sense. I would have to face Miss Nightingale and convince her she should let me go on with them to Turkey. I had no trouble picturing her turning me out on my ear and could practically feel the stares of the other nurses as I left them and got back on a train for Boulogne.

As everyone stood from the long table to go back to their rooms, Mrs. Bracebridge came over to me. “Come, Molly, you can join the others in a moment.”

I followed her, feeling the way I used to feel when I knew I’d been bad and my mum was taking me in to my dad for a beating. Only worse, if that was possible, because I didn’t know what to expect.

Miss Nightingale sat in a private room near a blazing fire. She had a small table pulled up in front of her, covered with papers in different piles. She didn’t look up when Mrs. Bracebridge brought me in.

“Please be seated—Molly Fraser, is it?—I’ll be with you in just a moment.” She pointed the quill of her pen toward the chair in front of the table but didn’t take her eyes off the papers.

“Would you like me to stay?” Mrs. Bracebridge asked, putting her gnarled hand softly on Miss Nightingale’s shoulder. I hoped for yes.

“No. I’m sure you’re tired, dear.” She looked up at last, smiling warmly in the old lady’s direction. The change in Miss Nightingale made my heart leap a little. Her face looked kind. Maybe she would understand about me after all, let me continue on to Turkey with them in spite of how I got there.

Her pen scratching was loud in the empty room. After what seemed forever she pushed her papers aside and lifted her eyes, taking me in with a piercing glance. “Now, Miss Fraser. Your name was not on the list I was originally sent by Mrs. Stanley and Mrs. Bracebridge. I’m prepared to think the best of you, but I believe you should explain yourself to me.”

More lies?

No. I couldn’t lie to Miss Nightingale. Looking at her there, a beautiful lady who could probably have anything she wanted but chose to go and nurse common soldiers for the good of the country, I couldn’t think of telling her tales. The difference between us was enormous—the scrappy, low life I was running away from and the fire that burned in her eyes, staring straight at me—what business did I have to be there? So I told her my story, all of it, from beginning to end, about service and Will Parker and Lucy’s baby. About helping my mum care for the little ones in the East End. About wanting to find a way to prove myself, to make my mum proud of me again.

“Well, Molly,” she said when I was finished, “it seems you’ve got quite a determined spirit. That’s no substitute for training, however. And your youth is without doubt a deterrent to effective nursing. How old are you?” She leaned back a little in her chair and dipped her chin so the angle of her eyes changed and threw me a little off my guard.

“Nineteen.” I said it before I had a chance to think about it. Maybe she knew it for a lie but to my relief she didn’t question it.

“My instructions to Mrs. Stanley were not to consider anyone under the age of twenty-four.”

I studied my hands clutching each other in my lap. This was the moment. The end of the road for me. I’d go back to London to God knew what, my mother forever ashamed of me for something I didn’t do. But then I remembered that Emma wasn’t over twenty-four, at least she didn’t look it, and somehow she was here.

“You mustn’t expect to do anything but assist the other nurses, and you will have to be trained on the job. If you put your mind to it, however, and don’t get distracted, I have a feeling you might become a good nurse. But that’s up to you. And at the first sign of any familiarity with any man—soldier, surgeon, or servant—you will be sent home.”

I couldn’t believe it. She wasn’t going to send me away! I looked at her. She had on her stern, all-business face, but I thought I saw just a hint of the kindness she showed to Mrs. Bracebridge tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“Thank you,” I said. My heart swelled up in my chest and stopped my throat.

“You may go. But I would like to take you with me tomorrow on a few errands. I may need your help.” She stood, scraping her chair back.

She could have ordered me to stick my hands into the fire that blazed at her feet and I would’ve done it. I curtsied to her and made my way back to the dormitory, flying with joy.

C
hapter 8

Mrs. Bracebridge woke me before dawn the next morning. “Miss Nightingale would like you to go with her to the Hôtel Dieu.”

I was too tired to ask questions, especially why we’d be going to a hotel at that hour. I dressed as fast as I could and soon found myself hurrying along the still-dark streets of Paris, trying to keep up with Miss Nightingale.

“The Hôtel Dieu is a hospital, where they are working hard to improve conditions,” Miss Nightingale said to me as we walked. “There’s something I want you to see there.”

Oh, so that was it. The hospital wasn’t very far from where we were staying. A nun greeted us, welcoming Miss Nightingale like an old friend. They spoke French to each other. My amazement at Miss Nightingale grew.

The smell indoors was strong but not dirty. Something stung my eyes and they teared a little.

“That’s chloride of lime,” Miss Nightingale said, switching back to English for me. “You must become accustomed to that smell because we will use it a great deal in Turkey. I have come here to find out where the Sisters of Mercy get their supplies so we may purchase some and bring them with us. And also to show you what you might expect and give you one final chance to return to London. At my expense, of course.”

We had reached a large closed door with enormous hinges on it. The sister who accompanied us said something else in French to Miss Nightingale. She nodded. They both looked at me before the sister opened the door. I expected it to creak like some ancient entrance to a dungeon, it looked so like one. But it swung out quiet and smooth. Just inside the door hung some heavy aprons. Miss Nightingale put one on and handed one to me.

The stench hit me so hard I caught my breath. Something in that room smelled even stronger than the chloride of lime. I put my hand over my mouth and swallowed back the bile that flooded it.

“The surgeon is preparing to amputate this man’s leg; it is gangrenous,” the sister said in English, her accent so strong I hardly understood her.

We stepped forward and around a curtain. Behind it a man lay on a table, one leg covered by a sheet, the other out plain as day. From the knee down his leg was black and swollen. It seemed to be in shadow, like Janet’s neck before she died. The surgeon, whose back was to us as he arranged some very sharp and pointed instruments on a table, turned, holding a saw and a curved knife. Three nuns and a man in monk’s robes I’d not noticed before came forward and stood on either side of the table. The monk and two nuns held the man’s body down so he couldn’t move. The third nun stood by the doctor with a cloth in her hand.

“He has been given chloroform, but only a little. Our supply is very limited. Most of it is with our army in Turkey,” the nun whispered.

I didn’t know then what chloroform was. I was still hardly awake, and everything seemed odd and like a dream.

“First, the surgeon must ensure that the fellow does not bleed to death,” Miss Nightingale whispered to me. “So he cuts through the skin and muscles and finds the arteries and veins and ties them off.”

That was not so very different from tying the cord when Lucy’s baby was born. I watched, but we were too far away to see much.

“Will we have to cut off legs?” I asked, suddenly worried that was why she brought me to the hospital with her.

“No!” she whispered harshly. “But we may have to stand by and assist, as that nurse is doing.”

The man’s eyes rolled open and he started moving his head from side to side. “
Ah! Ah! Merde! Ça me blesse trop!
” He began to scream and struggle. His leg twitched. The monk gripped it hard to hold it still. His pain must have been far worse than Lucy’s. No gentle touch would make that go away.

The nuns and monk held him fast. The doctor continued what he was doing as if he were carving a Sunday roast, now slicing hard through the skin and muscles. The man suddenly stopped struggling and the leg lay still.

“Is he dead?” I asked, although he didn’t look it. I remembered them carrying Janet’s body out of the house, and her skin was gray—almost purple.

“He probably fainted from the pain,” Miss Nightingale said.

I nodded and watched the nuns holding him to see what they did. One of them had her hand on his forehead. I wondered if he could feel her soft touch, even though he’d fainted dead away. She looked up and saw me staring at her. She nodded just a little. She understood about touching, how it could help. Her hand was soothing him, making him feel better, less afraid, like mine did with Janet and Lucy.

All this distracted me from what the surgeon was doing but now I had to watch. He’d carved through all the soft bits and reached the bone. The sawing was loud and rasping, like going through a piece of hard wood. Before long the blackened leg lay on the ground. Blood flowed out of it, as well as other liquids that looked and smelled putrid.

“Now he will sew up the wound, and if the fellow does not die of shock, he will get a wooden leg and live on. How do you feel?”

I looked up at her. “I feel sorry for him. But I believe he’ll live.” I think I was still too dazed to take in everything I’d just seen.

She cocked her head to the side. “What makes you say that?”

“I … I don’t know,” I said, realizing I’d said something I maybe shouldn’t.