Slowly, Stirling lay back until his back touched the sand again. He was exhausted. From his short perusal of the lay of the land there was nothing he could use to make a shelter. Right then, it did not seem necessary but he knew when night came that the temperatures would drop. Gradually, his eyes slipped shut.
He did not sleep. He was stuck between being fully awake and dreaming. He had no concept of time. It was like living in a scorched purgatory. The ground felt as if it was sucking him down into the depths of hell. He tried to fight the growing feeling of despair his nervous mind was giving him. Yet, there was nothing he could think of that might alter his predicament. He was doing to die of thirst and soon.
As time went by, Stirling hung in limbo between wishing for something positive to happen and wanting to die and be free of the torment that was growing with each beat of his heart.
His hair felt so heavy, like it was sucking him into the sand. Each heartbeat lasted for minutes. His mind trapped in nothingness, the surrounding environs its home, slowly torturing his sanity toward a slow and agonizing death.
He thought of screaming for salvation, but he knew that it would never come. And besides, he would have only managed a meagre croak because the inside of his mouth was so dry. It seemed as if centuries had passed since his last drink of water…
…Millennia since the last time he held Clementine in his arms – that was when he wanted to cry, to beg, to pray to God that he gift him one more moment with the woman he loved. The dark side of him pleaded for his body to succumb like those of his shipmates during the storm – Why had he been spared only to find himself where he was?
Being alone and thirsty was like time shattered into a thousand broken pieces, each shard reforming to become an endless tunnel – it was all that was left of the world.
Stirling managed one last thought of Clementine before unconsciousness claimed him. His cracked lips mouthed, I love you, Clementine. May God keep you safe for I no longer can.
They waved at one another like when he had left Portsmouth for the Crimea. He watched her until her frame disappeared amongst the thousands of other people lining the docks. He was immediately swept away from the colourful display of the waving Union Jack flags and dresses on the women into the dark abyss of the storm.
It had been months since Stirling’s clandestine departure. There had been no word of his travels. It was as if the world had swallowed him up. All that had come her way was an official report that one of her majesty’s ships had sunk off the coast of Algeria.
Clementine intuitively knew it was the one he had sailed on. She had never had the heart to ask Florence the name of the vessel that had berthed him and she, in turn, had never offered to give her that information – it was an unspoken rule between them. Florence knew what there was to know and Clementine basked in a bubble of ignorant bliss fuelled by platitudes of her own making.
Clementine thought of the night when she had had the vision of the faltering ship in the squall. That what had started out as so horrible had turned into hope when a little voice had told her that Stirling was still alive. There had been no more dreams since then. It was as if the connection binding them had been broken. It made her worry whether he was dead after all.
However, she had had very little time to think about it. Work had been endless. New casualties arrived on a daily basis. The Scutari Hospital was a beehive of activity.
News had reached them that the conflict was drawing to a close. The Russians no longer had a Black Sea fleet to speak of. Most of the Crimean peninsula was in the hands of the allies. Clementine knew that it was only a matter of days or maybe weeks when they would receive the news of a cessation in hostilities.
This would not bring Stirling back though. No matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise, she knew he was lost to her forever. The man she loved would have written to her like he had always done.
“Clementine…”
She whirled on her heels when she heard that familiar voice. “Rory, oh my goodness, Rory.” She rushed forward, thudding into the heavy bulk of his chest. “I can’t believe you are here…and…alive.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks as all of the pent-up sadness escaped her. Wracking sobs shuddered her frame. Somehow, being in the big man’s embrace provided her with something to hold on to. Rory Bennett reminded her of Stirling.
“There, there, Clementine. Everything is going to be all right,” he said in his deep baritone.
“Stirling is gone.”
“I know – I was there when they took him to the ship, remember.”
“No, no, I mean he is really gone – dead.”
Hearing her words and their intended finality, Clementine’s crying got worse. She dug her nails into Rory’s arms as melancholy washed over her.
Rory let her sob for a while before he spoke. “Clementine, why do you say that? Stirling was sailing for home. He can’t be dead.”
“The ship transporting him sunk. I tried not to believe it but it is true. We received word a month ago that a British Royal Navy vessel was lost in a storm off the coast of Algeria. There were no survivors.”
“I, I don’t - I can’t believe it. He survived the Charge, the injury…” It looked as if Rory was going to join Clementine in her crying.
“I know. It is so horrible,” she gasped between sobs.
“That can’t be it. My old friend would never go anywhere without saying goodbye. I will not believe he left us – not Stirling.”
“Royce, you are alive.” Clementine rushed to him and took him in her arms. “I am so happy to see you – oh, my, I am overjoyed. Does Elizabeth know?”
Royce stroked his sister-in-law’s head, his hand gliding over her golden tresses. “I wrote to her that I would be coming home. The Light Brigade has been discharged of her duties pending an investigation into the fateful Charge.”
Clementine looked up into his eyes. The weak-looking boy had become a man. There was none of the silly youthful naiveté to be found anywhere on his face. Slight wrinkles had appeared around his eyes, giving him the appealing air of a man who had lived life and seen and experienced many things.
“How wonderful that you will be going home.”
He nodded. “What about you, Clementine? Won’t you be joining Rory and I?”
Clementine shook her head. “I leave when Florence leaves. Our duty here is not over yet.”
“But surely after what you have been through, they can free you of that obligation. The best place for you is with your family.”
“No, Royce, this is where I belong until the war is fully over and the men in the Crimea are all taken care of.”
Royce could see the determination play on her face. He sighed.
“But that call of duty won’t stop an old mate of yours taking ye for a cup of tea.”
Before Clementine knew what was happening, Rory’s plate-sized hand had enveloped her arm. She wanted to protest but the expression on his face did not offer any argument.
“Rory’s right. It’ll do you good. Come along, Clementine, lead the way to the mess.”
It was the first time Clementine felt a little better. Up until then, the only way for her to remain calm and at ease with her mind was when she worked. She had gone into overdrive, rising at dawn and collapsing at midnight. There had been no room for anymore morbid thoughts.
“Is the tea any good here?” asked Royce.
Rory grunted. “Tis better then that revolting swill we got in the Crimea – I can tell ye.”
“Jolly good. I’m looking forward to a half-decent cup. Any cake?”
Clementine giggled. It felt so good to be able to hear two people being able to discuss something so trivial as the quality of tea. How she longed for the day when she would only have to worry about the type of cake she would eat or whether she had to take an umbrella with her in case it rained.
It was then she had a notion, a vision that was Stirling. He stood on endless dunes of sand behind a sheen of
hazy vapour. It was like he was some sort of mirage. Could it be? Was he alive after all?
Chapter 32
It was a lovely English summer’s day in the year 1856. All around Nightingale’s childhood home of Lea Hurst in the small village of Lea, the flowers and shrubs were in full bloom, and the trees proudly boasted their splendid frondescence. Sitting in the garden, Clementine could hear the bubbling and gurgling of the River Derwent in the background.
It had only been four months since the signing of the Treaty of Paris that had ended the Crimean War and three weeks since Clementine’s jubilant return home from Constantinople. To her surprise they were met with a hero's welcome, which Florence of course had done her best to avoid.
The previous year, Queen Victoria had rewarded Nightingale's work by presenting her with an engraved brooch that came to be known as the Nightingale Jewel and by granting her a substantial sum from the British government.
Barely home a week, Clementine was already busy on Florence’s next project. At her mentor and friend’s invitation, Clementine was helping her compile and write an 830-page report, analysing Florence’s experiences and proposing reforms for other military hospitals operating under poor conditions. It was a monumental task that would one-day spark the total restructuring of the way soldiers would be treated in peacetime and in times of war.
Clementine was still a very beautiful woman but the last vestiges of girlishness had been erased by the travails of war. She was now a focused and realistic woman who knew exactly what she wanted from life. Only one thing was missing. Despite nearly losing all hope, Clementine still prayed that Stirling was alive and well somewhere in the world.
Reason dictated against this. A little over a year ago, she had received word that the ship carrying her betrothed had floundered off the coast of northern Africa. There had been no survivors. Clementine could still feel the pain of her loss as if it were fresh as a newly picked apple.
She had lost all hope after that. From that day forth, Clementine had no longer lived up to her sobriquet of Miss Sunshine. She had completed her tasks with ruthless efficiency albeit without her habitual sweet compassion. She had become a puppet, pulled by the strings of some heartless puppeteer.
Florence had felt responsible for Stirling’s death. Had she not given the order for him to be transported home that night, he might have still lived. However, her work had never ceased as the casualties had flooded the ward as the war continued, spreading from the Crimea to the Caucasus and beyond as the allies increased their pressure on the Russian Empire.
To bring the war closer to home and out of fear that the Russians might attempt to attack Great Britain and France, the combined British and French fleets had entered the Baltic Sea. They had outnumbered the Russian fleet considerably, confining its movements to the coast. It was the largest naval effort since the Napoleonic Wars. The British and French admirals, Sir Charles Napier and Alexandre Ferdinand Parseval-Deschenes considered the Sveaborg fortress defending the enemy ships too perilous.
Hence, the attacking fleets limited their actions to blockading Russian trade in the Gulf of Finland. Naval attacks on other ports, such as the ones on the island of Hogland in the Gulf of Finland, had born fruit. Additionally, the allies had conducted raids on less fortified sections of the Finnish coast.
Russia depended on imports – both for her domestic economy and for the supply of her military forces - the blockade forced Russia to rely on more expensive overland shipments from Prussia. The blockade had seriously undermined the Russian export economy and had helped shorten the war.
The war had not been the result of a calculated plan, or even of hasty last-minute decisions made under stress. It was the consequence of more than two years of fatal blundering in slow motion by inept statesmen who had months to reflect upon the actions they took.
It arose from Napoleon's search for prestige; Tsar Nicholas's quest for control over the straits of the Dardanelles and the Sea of Marmara; his naive miscalculation of the probable reactions of the European powers; the failure of those powers to make their positions clear; and the pressure of public opinion in Britain and Constantinople at crucial moments.
The global geopolitical and political landscape was about to change dramatically as a consequence of the conflict. Out of fear from the British, the Russian Tsar was already in negotiations to sell his North-American possession in Alaska, to the Americans. The Prussian state became more powerful, jostling with greater Teutonic nationalistic fervour.
As history was in the making, Clementine had seen Royce and Rory in Constantinople before they headed home. It had been a sad and joyful reunion combined. They had spoken of Stirling albeit very little. Neither had been willing to put voice to the inevitable. It was as if both of them still believed he lived.
Despite her pondering, Clementine heard the sound of a horse riding onto the gravelled area with a turning circle laid to lawn upon which stood a sundial centrepiece. She heard the rider dismount in front of the substantial late Georgian house that boasted Jacobean origins. After that, she heard footsteps and a knock on the door.
Forgetting about it, Clementine again turned her attention back to her work. There was still so much to be done. For the next few minutes, she concentrated on compiling a list of necessities for a hospital.
“Clementine, there is someone here to see you,” said Florence, interrupting her.
“See me. Really, who is it?” asked Clementine not at all expecting anybody.
“Probably best you see for yourself, my dear,” said Florence. She had a sparkle in her eye that Clementine had not seen in a long while.
Clementine stood up and faced her friend. “He’s in the drawing room,” said Florence, her face adopting a more concerned mien. “Don’t worry, I’ll finish this up, just go,” she said noticing Clementine’s hesitation and quick glimpse at the papers.
“He?”
“Just go – you will be pleasantly surprised.”
Clementine could not imagine being pleasantly surprised anymore. It had become so bad that she avoided her parents, sister and Royce because they reminded her too much of the engagement dinner and Stirling.
Reluctantly, Clementine walked into the house. Not at all knowing what to expect, she slowly entered the drawing room. Standing in front of and facing the fireplace was a tall man dressed in the uniform of a Colonel in the 11th Regiment of Hussars. Hearing the sound of Clementine’s shoes on the parquetry, he turned around to face her.
“Oh my God,” gasped Clementine, her hands covering her mouth at her blasphemy and surprise.
“Not really, it’s only me,” said Stirling, smiling.
Clementine couldn’t believe how well he looked. His face was lightly tanned and he had put on a little weight but not too much so. He stood proud and confident, and in no way resembled a man who had suffered the ordeals of someone whom she had thought drowned.
Was it truly he? Her mind tried to fight off what her eyes were seeing. She rubbed them, only to find Stirling still standing before her. Was he an apparition, some evil trick played on her by an overly eager heart? Heartbeats separated them for a while longer until she could not hold back the rush of emotions coursing through her.
“I never thought I’d see you again,” she said, rushing forward to take the man she loved into her arms.
Stirling also took a few steps forward until they met. They embraced. With Clementine being a head shorter than Stirling, she lifted her head a little and buried her nose onto Stirling’s neck, while he submerged his nose into her hair. They remained frozen like that for a long time until Clementine lifted her head to look at him.
He smiled at her affectionately. Clementine had to swallow down a happy tear, for she could see the love returned to her in his eyes that sparkled in happiness. Before she knew it, Clementine impulsively moved forward and kissed Stirling on the lips. Instantly, he responded and the two of them kissed like there was no tomorrow. For now, Clementine was just a woman in
love and she wanted to bask in that love for a little while longer.
Breaking away from her somewhat too roughly, Stirling became serious. For a moment, Clementine was worried but noticing her man’s nervousness, she relaxed a little.
“Clementine, I love you,” he blurted.
Clementine laughed. The sound of her happiness made Stirling’s heart melt with joy. After all the horror he had seen, she was the most beautiful creature in the world and he would never again let her out of his sight.
“I love you too, Stirling,” said Clementine wanting to kiss Stirling again. She frowned when he pulled away.
Stirling then went down on one knee, making Clementine frown. “My love, I want nothing more in this life than for you to be my wife. Clementine Delaney, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”
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