by Ann Harries
‘You should’ve seen John Smith’s head explode off his shoulders when he stood up to pee,’ Cartwright was saying. ‘Bits of his brain whopped into my eye, and him only eighteen.’
Patch fingered his Miraculous Medal. This was the closest he’d got to an Apparition, like Our Lady of Fatima. But an orderly was running up to the Madonna-nurse, gesticulating angrily in Cartwright’s direction. She followed his gaze with patient eyes. Patch’s heart beat violently. He adjusted the angle of his boater and brushed invisible dust from the sleeve of his green blazer, for now she was advancing towards them with an effortless movement that suggested a cluster of cherubs was bearing the weight of her little feet. He could see that her eyes, no longer gazing downwards, were, unexpectedly, dark brown and flashing, unlike Mary’s powder-blue orbs. If she should gaze in his direction he felt he might faint with pleasure. Instead, she was looking reproachfully at his babbling friend.
‘Private Cartwright!’ The mere intonation of these four syllables was enough to tell Patch that the Virgin was a Lady. A lady from England, upper crust for sure. She spoke, in fact, just how you’d imagine Our Lady would speak; low, musical, posh. She pronounced all her t’s with sharp authority.
The two men struggled up. In an effort to draw attention to himself, Patch vigorously waved away the cloud of smoke they’d produced. He wished he could burst into song, so that she could hear his fine tenor voice. He would sing Sweet Rosie O’Grady, establishing meaningful eye contact on the words how happy we’ll be. But she had eyes only for Cartwright; eyes now radiating scorn, he was relieved to note. Cartwright, flushed by Cape Smoke and his own manhood, attempted flirtation.
‘Yes, Sister Palmer?’ He could do wonders with his eyebrows when necessary. ‘What can I do for you?’
Sister Palmer froze his eyebrows with an icy stare. ‘Private Jenkins complains you have taken his baccy. I don’t need to tell you Private Jenkins is dying.’ She inhaled deep into her body and her fine bust rose beneath the red cross. ‘It is inconceivable to me that a trooper can steal from a man who will be dead tomorrow. Kindly return the tobacco to me and I will put it by his bedside.’
‘Lord, Sister, he ain’t got no mouf, hardly,’ exclaimed Cartwright, his origins south of the River Thames surfacing suddenly, as if to convince Sister Palmer that a Cockney trooper understood death better than she ever could. ‘What’s the use of his baccy now?’
The nurse’s face contracted in disgust. ‘Please hand over what you have stolen.’ Her toff’s voice shook.
‘Well, Sister, I ain’t got none!’ And Cartwright pulled out his pockets to confirm their emptiness.
Patch watched the ice in the young woman’s eyes suddenly crack apart as her anger blazed out. He wondered if she might start to yell and scream like Fancy, when similarly indignant. He held his breath. But she stood silent as her cheeks flooded with sudden, violent colour.
In his own pockets lay the block of baccy he had bought at Cape Town station. He closed his fingers round the pouch.
‘Sure, I’ve got some to spare, Sister.’ In his best Irish brogue, smooth, brimming with sympathy. He withdrew the pouch and offered it to the startled nurse.
She seemed deprived of speech, but her face returned to its ivory pallor. Her brown eyes stared at him in apparent panic. ‘Th-thank you,’ she stuttered. ‘How kind.’
‘Take the bag as well,’ said Patch generously. ‘Baccy’s no good without a bag.’ What on earth made him say that? Now what was he going to do for a baccy pouch?
‘You are too kind,’ whispered the nurse. Then, confronting Cartwright again, she blurted, ‘Perhaps you can learn something from your friend!’ And, nodding briefly at Patch – and was that straightening of the rosy lips the beginning of a smile? – she turned back towards the marquee, a billow of nutty pine aroma rising in her wake.
‘Eh, mate, what’s got into you?’ smirked Cartwright. ‘Got the hots for the ice queen? Want to get into her frillies?’ He narrowed his eyes and winked. ‘And trying to impress her with your Irish brogue, eh? District accent not good enough for you?’
The last rose of summer … crooned Patch in reply. His heart was so full he had to sing. Cartwright joined in and even shuffled his feet about expertly. ‘Pity old Johan’s not here,’ he said as they finished their performance, which Patch hoped the nurse might have heard through the marquee canvas.
And as he made his way to Rondebosch station, he found himself experiencing a sense of excitement at the thought of her soft white hands holding his leathery pouch. Her gaze lingered in his memory. That brilliance in her eyes kept flashing through his head, a bit like the revolving beacon of the Island lighthouse pulsing out its magnified beam into the fog, over and over.
Back at the Witboois’ house he found Fancy alone, having returned from her day in the flower market earlier than the rest of her family. He crept behind her and folded her against his body. ‘I’m joining up tomorrow,’ he whispered down into her ear. ‘Don’t go crazy, sweetheart.’ He began to undo the buttons of her blouse from behind, nuzzling her ear at the same time in the way she liked. ‘When I get back we’ll get married.’ This was cowardly, but he couldn’t think of any other way of quelling her anger.
‘You promised me you wouldn’t go to war. And you needn’t think I’m going to write to you.’ Though her voice was sulky he could tell the mention of marriage had done the trick. She turned round to face him, her face triumphant. ‘Let’s go to the bedroom, soldier boy. Maybe we can quickly make a baby while everyone’s out.’
Sarah’s Diary
18 January 1900
Though the weather and the surroundings are even more glorious than I had hoped for, I am strangely disappointed in my work. It is so very different from what I had expected. Because no great battles have been fought recently we find ourselves nursing those soldiers who are recovering from older wounds or a range of diseases. In fact, the diseases far outnumber the wounds. Though there are some distressing cases of torn and mutilated bodies, most of the Tommies I nurse are suffering from debility, frail circulation and chronic rheumatism. It amazes me that so many of them passed their medical examinations. On top of this many of them have incurred fearful sunstroke and heat apoplexy. A particular problem is the back of the Highlanders’ knees: a kilt is not the best uniform to wear in temperatures of over a hundred degrees.
When I am not administering medicine, changing bandages, moistening dry lips, or helping the orderlies make beds etc – there is an awkwardness between the male orderlies, who are really troopers with a little medical training, and the nurses whom they often resent – I sit by the bedsides and listen to the wounded Tommies’ stories, which they are always anxious to tell and which I find extremely interesting and educational. For instance, there is much bitterness about Magersfontein, a battle fought near Kimberley last month, where a courageous Highland Brigade was ordered to march shoulder to shoulder in the darkness of the night into what turned out to be a trap set by the Boers, hidden in their thousands in well-disguised trenches. As if this wasn’t bad enough, when the Black Watch heroically charged into the line of Boer fire, their bayonets drawn, they found themselves rushing straight into yards of barbed wire fencing used to hold in the vast flocks of sheep that evidently graze for miles across the veldt (of which there is no sign in Cape Town.) This instantly halted their pointlessly brave charge, and hundreds of them were shot as they tried to disentangle themselves. Why had the scouts not detected and reported the wire fences? On the other hand, there is no way that the scouts on the ground can detect the invisible trenches; the war balloon should have been sent ahead to spy out these lethal underground lines of battle. Over nine hundred are dead or wounded, some of the latter recovering in ‘my’ hospital, and muttering angrily about the management of the battle. It does seem extraordinary that men trained for so many years to plan battles could make such elementary mistakes. I suppose this is why Bobs and K of K have been brought over.
It came as a surpris
e to me to hear the Tommy occasionally speak well of the Boer. For instance, one young man described to me how, lying wounded, his lips swollen black with thirst in the blazing heat of the veldt while bullets from both sides whined above, a Boer crawled over to him, at considerable danger to himself, with a water bottle. Lifting the astonished Tommy’s head, and allowing him to drink the bottle dry, the Boer jovially remarked in perfect though guttural English, ‘Sorry I haven’t got the whisky to go with it!’ Later, the young man was actually saddened to find the body of his saviour stretched out further up the hill (which the British were attempting unsuccessfully to capture), his arm thrown above his head, a neat hole drilled through his forehead. I too am saddened by the story of the Thoughtful Boer, though there are of course many instances when the Boer has been the very opposite of thoughtful. I am told he has a tendency to hang out white flags and then, as our men move in, to shoot them dead.
Though I am surrounded by sadness I find that the bright sunshine and the beautiful surroundings make the tragedies on the ward easier to bear. Just to see the trees and marquees bathed in brilliant light makes something brighten inside me, just as it did in Madeira. It is this continual stimulation of the senses, I think, that helps arouse me from the twilight of my earlier life. In addition to the glorious exotic smell and taste of our little servants’ cooking in our villa, there is the blue presence of the mountains and the sweet calls of birds quite new to me – some with long fluttering tails such as I have previously observed only on the brims of ladies hats.
It is as if I have till now seen the world only in soft, misty hues: greys, pinks, creams. Africa has changed all that. The landscape is a blaze of primary colours which demand your attention – I wonder how the Old Dutch artists would have dealt with it? Somehow I have always known that sunshine is the chief ingredient of happiness, and this is the land of sunshine and flowers. What a tragedy that the monstrous engines of war are dragged over it merely to satisfy man’s greed for gold and territory. I have sent Sophie a postcard which expresses these thoughts. I think of her often and wonder how she would react to the situation here.
Louise and I send each other notes and plan to meet again in Cape Town at the wonderful Dix’s Café. It seems her hospital is not as well run as this one. On the other hand she seems already to have fallen in love with one of the doctors. Oh dear, I hope she will not break her heart once again.
19 January
Something extraordinary happened today. A really slimy limey, as Louise would say, called Cartwright was sent down here with other wounded men after a failed attempt by Buller to cross the Tugela River in Natal, and he has done nothing but steal other Tommies’ possessions and try to flirt with the nurses, not perceiving how repulsive we all find him. This afternoon a rather flashily dressed friend of his came to visit him, and while they were drinking brandy in the pine forest Orderly Jones informed me that Cartwright had stolen poor Private Jenkins’ tobacco as he lay on his deathbed. Private Jenkins had actually managed to ask Mr Jones to roll him a cigarette (though he is incapable of inhaling smoke at this stage) when the discovery was made. I immediately ordered Cartwright to return the stolen property, but he claimed not to have any tobacco in his possession. To my astonishment his friend then offered to give me his own baccy, pouch and all. He spoke with an unusual Irish brogue, which immediately endeared him to me. (Why is the Irish accent, north or south, so irresistibly attractive?) When I turned my stern gaze to meet his, I have to confess that a miracle happened: without any warning the silent bird in my heart burst into song. There is no other way to put it. I had no need to murmur Miss Rossetti’s lines as I stared into his eyes, and felt as if I were rushing down a tunnel of greenery, where leaves, moss, ferns, grass, stems, and all manner of undergrowth gleam in different shades, beckoned me to go yet further into the foliage. It was with some difficulty that I was able to reply courteously to his offer.
Now, several hours later, the bird yet sings … how very unexpected. I suppose I have never before met anyone quite like this Irishman, clad in the colours of his homeland. There was something about the tilt of his head, the disposition of his limbs, the asymmetry of his smile that … that what?
If coals could burn green, they would burn the colour of his eyes.
20 January
Today some colonels’ wives distributed the Queen’s chocolate round the encampment. Great excitement! A few men are eating the chocolate but most are keeping it or sending it home. The box will be treasured forever, of course. The Queen would be pleased if she knew how much they care for it.
31 January
The tranquil atmosphere is utterly changed now that the wounded men from Spion Kop are pouring into our marquees, carried down from Natal on the hospital trains. What a shameful defeat! Fifteen hundred of our men killed, wounded or captured. Buller is being blamed and everyone waits for Bobs to bring victory at last. Now trainloads of wounded men are starting to arrive, but we as female nurses are not allowed to attend to their wounds or bandage them as this is considered too indelicate a task for ladies. There is also the fear that the wounded men may grow soft under the tender care of we women!
The dreadful Cartwright has been returned to his regiment as his arm is now quite healed. Although I was glad to see the back of him, I was sorry there would be no further opportunity to see his Irish friend again. After poor Private Jenkins had died, I gave the tobacco pouch to Cartwright and asked him to return it to his friend. With a smirk he informed me that Patch – that seems to be the young man’s curious name – had joined up and was now busy training to become a mounted infantryman. As an afterthought he sneered, ‘Thought he might catch leprosy, you see. On the Island.’ As I did not want to enter into conversation with him, I refrained from informing him that leprosy is no longer thought to be contagious. However, I am curious to know what ‘Patch’ was doing on the leper island, which we see glimmering in the bay when I sit on the veranda of Dix’s Café with Louise, eating strawberries and ice cream.
The nightingale in my heart still sings as full-throatedly as Keats’ ever did, but there is little chance that I will ever lay eyes on the reason for this ecstatic song. I shall merely enjoy it while it lasts.
More excitement yesterday when the creator of The Absent-Minded Beggar, Mr Rudyard Kipling, who of course also wrote The Jungle Book and the Barrack Room Ballads which my men love so much, arrived at our hospital in the woods. He handed out cigarettes and magazines, and chatted to the men so naturally. They hung upon his every word. ‘God bless him! He’s the soldiers’ friend!’ they whispered in awed gratitude once he’d left.
Louise’s Diary
1 February
I have never in my life met so many busybodies poking their noses into the running of the hospital – busybodies with no knowledge whatsoever of medical matters and no technical training. First we have the ‘lady amateurs’ (several of whom I recognise as those giggling co-travellers on the Dunottar) who are young women of means and leisure shipped over from England, wearing fancy dress caps and aprons over their fine silk gowns, pretending at being nurses. For the life of me I can’t imagine how they got into this hospital when I think of the stringent rules of the SAVC: Sarah actually had to lie about her age as she is a year younger than the minimum twenty-five years. These masquerade nurses are scarcely out of their teens, and get in everyone’s way. Never mind that some of them are not bad looking with soft flutey voices, attracting the attention of the medical officers here; the sick Tommies are tired of being spoilt and petted by them. I heard one of them ask a poor wounded soldier, ‘What can I do for you, my poor man? Shall I wash your face?’ ‘Thank you kindly,’ the man replied, ‘but I have already promised fourteen ladies that they shall wash my face.’ Another Tommy informed a gushing lady amateur that he was too sick to be nursed by her. I half expect to see Lady Weatherby distributing her five hundred balaclavas.
Then you get the grand ladies who think they can ‘boss’ the real nurses about because
of their position in society. A case in point is Mrs Chamberlain, sister-in-law to the British Colonial Minister, who spends all her time and money in the officer’s ward where she hosts extravagant parties. Dr Prescott claims she is responsible for the deaths of two enteric patients whom she invited to a tea-party when they were recovering, and fed them on currant buns when they are supposed to be on a strictly liquid diet! At last the Chief Medical Officer has made a move to restrict the flow of ladies into the military hospitals because they do more harm than good.
But busybody men can be just as exasperating as the ladies. Just because you happen to be a famous writer and poet does not mean you can run a hospital as well. I know Number 2 is shamefully short of bandages, but that is no excuse for Mr Kipling to turn up at the hospital with a consignment of bandages which he’d bought himself. I happened to be standing outside the central marquee (smoking a surreptitious cigarette, if the truth be known) when he arrived, bursting with importance. He looked at me disapprovingly (ugly little toad with a walrus moustache and bottle-glass spectacles) and asked to see the Superintendent Sister. When I enquired why he wished to disturb her, he informed me of the presence of the bandages in a Cape cart outside the hospital awaiting delivery; he wished the sister in charge to arrange for some orderlies to carry them in. I duly did what I was told (with rather bad grace, I’ll admit) and called Sister Hopkins, who very patiently explained to the great man that only bandages purchased by the Regular Army Medical Services could be used on the wards. At this the little toad flew into a fearful rage and shouted, ‘Well, then, I shall dump the bandages on the pavement and the orderlies can clear up the litter. Perhaps that will get the bandages into the hospital without tearing any Red Tape, I hope!’ Off he stormed, never to be seen again. I can understand his impatience with hospital bureaucracy, but I do not like being spoken to in that officious manner.