Katie stared at Florence Nightingale. For the hundredth time she wondered, Who is this woman? What is the truth about Florence Nightingale? Princess Alice looked at the Little Angel, lying in Miss Nightingale’s bed; her dark lashes fluttering as she slept. ‘She is so beautiful,’ Alice said, ‘but troubled, even in her sleep. What is her story? Why is she here?’
Florence Nightingale rested her hand on the Little Angel’s forehead, and nodded in satisfaction. ‘The outcome of her story will affect the entire world. I will tell you, and soon, but right now there are thousands of other patients, outside in the corridors, and they need our attention as well.’
They all slaved away, day after day. Miss Nightingale’s influence spread throughout the hospital. She spent her days ordering supplies and making certain they were delivered – even travelling to Constantinople to purchase goods herself. She supervised the food the men ate, the medicines they were given, and tried to make certain the doctors weren’t actively killing their patients. When she wasn’t dashing about, she was at her small wooden table writing, writing, writing – orders, acknowledgements, receipts, reports to the government, missives of complaint, and tender letters of consolation to widows and mothers.
By night Florence Nightingale made her rounds through the long corridors of the Scutari hospital. ‘I have no choice but to work through the night,’ she explained to Alice and Katie. ‘It is necessary to make my rounds before dawn breaks. The doctors must have my notes on the patients. They need to read them before they make their own rounds – whether they want them, or not.’ Katie estimated that Florence Nightingale walked more than four miles each night, holding her lantern before her.
The sick and wounded lay on the floor, row after row, only eighteen inches between them. Miss Nightingale glided through their ranks; smoothing a pillow, easing a bandage, bringing water, observing the men and writing notes for the doctors. She might prefer managing big institutions, but she was an excellent personal nurse whether she liked the occupation or not. Her normally brusque manner vanished – she was tender, kind and patient. It took her hours to walk the entire floor space of the Scutari Hospital. As she passed, the silence was profound. The men tried to stifle their moans and cries, and they kissed her shadow as she passed by.
Often Alice was Miss Nightingale’s chosen companion, carrying her little basket of medicines and bandages. As long as Katie could stand up, she volunteered to come too. She was having disturbing dreams, surprisingly not about Jack or Lord Belzen, but about Mimi. It seemed from these dreams that she needed to get home, and she didn’t know how to. Bernardo DuQuelle was thousands of miles away, and Florence Nightingale was too absorbed in the work at hand. Katie thought things over, through the night, as they paced the wards. Did Miss Nightingale know how to send her back to her own time? She needed to find the right moment to ask . . .
Stopping by one bed, Florence Nightingale placed her lantern beside a young man and, bending down, took his pulse. ‘Too slow and too low,’ she murmured to herself. ‘He is barely conscious.’ She turned to Alice and Katie. ‘If you could take my notes to James O’Reilly please; I cannot leave this man. I will stay with him until the end.’
‘But James . . .’ Katie bleated weakly. For weeks now James had avoided them: doing the work of a dozen men, then falling into an exhausted stupor in the doctors’ quarters. Miss Nightingale shot Katie a cutting glance. ‘Any personal affront must be put aside,’ she said crisply. ‘James has a job to do, as do we all. Now, go!’
Princess Alice took the notes, and led Katie through the corridors. ‘What do you make of Florence Nightingale?’ Katie asked.
Alice’s face was filled with admiration. ‘She has followed her calling. She has found her work in life. But her health is not good. I am afraid that in doing her duty, she will push herself to the grave.’
‘If she can die,’ Katie replied. ‘Haven’t you ever noticed how creepy she can be? How her personality changes minute by minute. That she can read your mind? I often wonder exactly what is her relationship to Bernardo DuQuelle? And you know what he is.’ But Alice was in another world of duty and service, sacrifice and holy reward. They walked on to the doctors’ canteen in silence.
While Florence Nightingale brought calm and strength, the doctors’ quarters were all irritation and confusion. They soon found James, sorting through innumerable scribbled requests and arguing with a junior doctor. ‘But if a man is ill, he needs a special diet,’ James was saying. ‘Not rancid mutton wrapped in old rags and boiled for hours.’
The doctor spoke slowly, as if placating a small child. ‘We do provide special diets when needs must,’ he explained.
‘But not soon enough!’ James cut across him. ‘Look at these millions of scribbled requests. All applications must go from you to the senior doctor to the supplies’ purveyor. If the supplies’ purveyor doesn’t have the right things, he writes back to the senior doctor, who then sends the message on to you. This can take days. No one in the kitchens is informed of anything. By the time it is resolved, the sick man will have starved to death!’
‘I don’t think James is ready to see us,’ Katie muttered to Alice. ‘I mean, it’s all so awful for him. He needs more time. So maybe we should come back later.’
Once so uncertain, Alice now seemed able to face anything. She walked straight through the room full of doctors. They stepped back in respect for her nun’s habit. To them, she was still Sister Agnes. Katie tagged behind.
‘James O’Reilly,’ Alice said in her soft firm voice. ‘I have Miss Nightingale’s notes from her rounds of the wards. Can you make certain the doctors read them before their own examinations? I draw your attention to Lieutenant Garnet Wolseley in the north corridor. He is scheduled for an amputation today, but Miss Nightingale feels he is recovering. His fever has dropped and the infection has subsided.’
Alice didn’t say anything about Jack’s death or James’s outburst. She did not refer to his cruelty to Katie or his insult to the Queen. She didn’t address him in a personal way at all. James ignored her, continuing to sort through the scraps of paper he held. She stood directly in front of him and looked at him steadily.
Eventually James lifted his eyes and met hers. They were completely still in the bustle around them. Without a word, they said a million things. James turned bright red, but Alice continued to regard him calmly. Finally he spoke. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘But of course, I am sorry. Please tell Miss Nightingale I will attend to this immediately.’
Turning to Katie, he tried to smile. ‘You look terrible,’ he said. ‘You really need some rest. I do know – well, how hard you’ve tried, how much help you have been – and that this is hard for you too. I’m the one who’s a fool, Katie . . .’
‘We all need a good night’s sleep,’ Alice chimed in. ‘Katie has always teased me about this. She says I think a nap will solve all the world’s problems.’ Again James and Alice exchanged glances. It all made Katie feel very lonely. She had suspected, and now she knew: Alice and James had been on one journey, and she had been on another. She desperately wanted to go home.
James passed the bits of paper to the junior doctor. ‘Well, let’s break off now,’ he said. ‘Nothing goes right in this hospital, and I’m not going to be able to fix it single-handed. I need some time to think clearly.’
‘Miss Nightingale might be done with her rounds,’ Alice added. ‘Let’s go and see her.’
The three of them entered the wards, now bustling with doctors, medics and nurses. Katie turned her head away as they passed the corner screened off for amputations. Despite what she’d seen on the battlefield, she still didn’t have the stomach for the groans and screams of the men.
‘You’ll get used to it,’ James said. ‘Alice is often called in to help with the procedure.’
‘I have found that if I am calm and cheerful and willing to stay with them, this strengthens their fortitude during the amputation,’ Alice told her. Katie looked at her friend with ad
miration, but wondered – how could Alice ever go back to Palace life after this?
When they reached Florence Nightingale’s storeroom-cum-office-cum-bedroom, she was not alone. She sat on one side of her little wooden desk, leaning forward and talking earnestly with a man on the other side. Though his back was to the door, Katie recognized him immediately. The broad shoulders, the large leather boots, the battered cap with the gold trim, which he’d removed in the presence of a lady. She felt a rush of relief. Billy Russell always made her feel better. He could fix anything.
‘So she will live – that is a relief,’ he was saying to Florence Nightingale. ‘My heart was in my mouth when she rushed down that hill, straight into the battle – and then Miss Katie following in her wake! I’ve never been given such a jolt.’
As the three entered, Russell stood and, clicking his heels together, kissed Katie’s hand. As he looked down into Katie’s drawn tired face, his own cheery one became tender and gentle. ‘Child,’ he said, ‘you’ve spent so much time tending the sick and minding the dying, that you’re doing yourself some harm.’
Miss Nightingale was usually rather stern with Katie. But she too looked into her face with growing alarm. ‘You are right, Mr Russell,’ she said. ‘I hadn’t notice before. Miss Katherine Tappan, you are dismissed from your duties, indeed, you all are.’
‘Please, Miss Nightingale, would you mind telling us, how does the Little Angel?’ Alice asked. Miss Nightingale had forbidden her any companion other than herself. Katie found that she missed her, and wanted to talk more of their common secret.
‘Much better,’ she replied, ‘as I was just telling Mr Russell. By the by, she is asking for Katie.’
There was a pause, and then James spoke up, politely, but firmly. ‘I’d like to know why this girl called Angel is so important.’ The pause grew longer, while everyone stared at Florence Nightingale.
William Howard Russell was practically exploding with curiosity. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘I could do with the plain facts.’
Finally, Miss Nightingale spoke. ‘You’ve all played a part in her life,’ she said, ‘and several of you have saved her from death. And I did say I would explain.’ She shot Russell a killer look. ‘You must understand, though, this is not some lurid tale to sell newspapers. If I ever hear one word of this, or see one printed, I shall deny everything, and have you declared insane.’
Russell whistled low. ‘She could do it too,’ he said to the others. He pulled out the battered chair and offered it to Princess Alice. James stood behind her, while Katie simply dumped herself onto the floor.
Florence Nightingale paced the room and then turned abruptly to Katie. ‘You know, of course.’
‘Not really, not enough.’
‘But you know.’ And then she began to pace again.
James spoke up. ‘We all know something. But we imagine, Miss Nightingale, that you know the most. If you’ll excuse me, we’re not quite certain that you are, well really, what you are, and . . .’
Russell cut across them all. ‘Let’s make this easy,’ he said. ‘I know nothing, except that something happened at Balaclava beyond the Charge of the Light Brigade. There was that storm for one thing; all blackness and white-hot heat. Then two young ladies behaving like lunatics – and still escaping certain death. Something strange and frightening, beyond comprehension or even imagination happened. So shall we start from the beginning? As I’ve said before, the plain facts, please.’
Miss Nightingale collected her thoughts. ‘There are things in this world that are not of our world,’ she began. ‘I doubt you will believe me, but this is true. There is an entire civilization that uses us, takes from us. They use our ways of communicating; they harvest our words. In a strange way, they are an imperial power, just as we are. They wish to control our actions – a calm environment makes it much easier for them . . .’
It was a fairly staggering note to start on. Russell first looked shocked, and then his face became impassive. Katie could tell what he was thinking: that the strain of the work had unhinged Florence Nightingale – that she was the one who was insane. But he was too good a newspaper man to stop her. He would fight his doubts, and try to keep quiet until he had the story.
Miss Nightingale could read his thoughts too. She smiled slightly to herself, knowing how ridiculous it all sounded, but continued on gamely. ‘This civilization works within our own to a certain extent. They look like us, hold offices and positions, but they are not of us.’ The three friends glanced at Florence Nightingale, with questioning looks. Her face gave away nothing. ‘There is a war,’ she went on. ‘Not this war, not the Crimean War, but one within this other civilization that takes from us.’
‘Two factions, the Verus and the Malum, want to control the way they use our world. They exploit the children to try and achieve their ends. The children are the tools. It is known as the Great Experiment. They send children through time to try and change history. These children are called the Tempus, the Chosen. Some – the Tempus Fugit – fly through time. And the others, the Tempus Occidit, I am afraid they fall through time. There are three we know of: the child who brings peace, the child who brings war and peace, and the child who brings the war to end the world.’
At this point William Howard Russell couldn’t contain himself. ‘Miss Nightingale, an entire nation is grateful to you for your unceasing work. But you are telling me a yarn best kept for a peat fire and a whisky in a Kilkenny pub. No drunkard could speak more foolishness.’
Katie stood up, and faced Russell. ‘It is all true,’ she told him. ‘I know, because I am one of them. I am the Tempus.’
Russell began to get angry. ‘This is all an elaborate hoax,’ he said. ‘Now, just confess it – the joke is over.’
‘You yourself said there was more to Balaclava than the Charge of the Light Brigade,’ Miss Nightingale continued. ‘You saw the skies above you. You saw the battle of light and dark. That was not just a British military fasco.’
Russell leaned against the wall, as if his sturdy boots couldn’t support him any longer. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘What was that battle then?’
Anxiety and anger crossed Florence Nightingale’s face. ‘Both the Verus and the Malum believe these three children, the Tempus, are to take up arms against each other on the field of battle – that they will fight to the death. Their victory or defeat will change the course of our history. I find it cruel in the extreme.’
Katie breathed a sigh of relief. Now she knew what she had always hoped. Florence Nightingale might not be quite human, but she was not bad. She was with them, of them, for them. That was a great comfort.
‘I still think that . . .’ Russell interrupted. He looked decidedly shaken.
‘You still think this is rubbish,’ James cut in. ‘So did I, for the longest time, though Princess Al— I mean Sister Agnes, always understood.’
Alice smiled, and Miss Nightingale nodded. ‘Perhaps you would like some proof?’ she suggested. ‘Let us go to the Little Angel. She is not yet well enough for visitors, so we will have to be brief.’ She led them into the next room, where the Little Angel was still lying back in bed. She sat up weakly and reached out to Katie. She wanted to say something, but her voice came out in a hoarse croak.
‘Now, now, you mustn’t speak,’ Florence Nightingale admonished. ‘It is too tiring, as is this string of guests. But they were with me, and I wished to deliver this letter as soon as possible.’ She took a folded paper from her pocket, and as the Little Angel opened it, Miss Nightingale whispered to the others, ‘It is from her guardian, her adopted mother, the Countess Fidelia.’ As the Little Angel read, emotion overcame her. She tried to speak, but no words came. As her lips opened, an arc of light and colour rose from them, into the air – a bouquet of roses, of lustrous blue and white, waved and trembled above her.
Florence Nightingale stroked her forehead. ‘But of course,’ Miss Nightingale murmured, ‘the colours of pure love and faithfulness. I will write back to t
he Countess and tell her what you feel; though I am certain she already knows, and has always known.’
The Little Angel nodded, and a single tear streaked down her white cheek. She closed her eyes; the effort had exhausted her. Soon she was asleep.
The others said nothing as they followed Miss Nightingale back to her cramped little office. Russell broke the silence. ‘It could have been a conjuror’s trick,’ he said defensively. ‘After all, they are street performers. They are masters of illusion.’
‘At a time like this, in the midst of a war, bedridden, ill, weak and alone – I wouldn’t think she was in a fit state for a vaudeville performance!’ Princess Alice exclaimed.
‘I’ve learned that you must put aside sense,’ James added. ‘Some things are beyond the rational mind.’
‘Then what freak of nature is she?’ Russell asked.
Katie looked at them all. She could tell that James and Alice were curious too. With every question, the distance between them grew. ‘The Little Angel is as I am,’ Katie said. ‘She is one of the chosen. She is part of the Tempus. I am certain she is the child who brings peace.’ For some strange reason, Katie thought she might cry, and she was so tired of crying.
Princess Alice took her friend’s hand. ‘Are you certain?’ she asked. ‘I have always thought that you, Katie, were the child who brings peace.’
‘Look at my own time,’ Katie replied with some bitterness. ‘There’s war everywhere. People fight each other – over money, over politics, over religion. My world, in my time, is a total mess. But we haven’t given up hope. I might think I’m a jerk sometimes, but I’m not the one who ends the world.’
James began to laugh, and they all looked at him with some amazement.
‘I know it’s not a laughing matter,’ he said, ‘but it still makes me laugh to think of our Katie as either a Goddess of Goodness or a Dark Master of Evil.’
The Queen at War Page 21