Where Love Shines (6 page)

Richard Greyston’s fever continued. He became Jennifer’s personal crusade. On the days when the fever was the worst, she raced through her work—never slighting it, but simply putting more energy into it—and then made her way as quickly as possible to his ward carrying the inevitable cup of wine and basin of vinegar water. And now she could open the windows in the ward and let out the fetid air. Sister Mary Margaret and the nuns had taken to spending any spare moments they could snatch to run outside and gather wild flowers. Jenny saw to it that the jar of flowers in Lieutenant Greyston’s ward stood close enough for him to smell them since he could not see them.

Some days Richard was well enough to sit up and talk about his family, about his days at Cambridge, and about his ambitions for his career—how he looked forward to advancement, how he would care for the men under his command, and how he would work to avoid the blunders he had witnessed in the Crimea.

At times Jenny wondered if she should suggest that he consider other possibilities—a less active career—but she could not bring herself to think, much less to recommend, a career a sightless man could undertake.

And more than once he had interrupted her thoughts by saying, “I can’t wait to get these bandages off. I want to see you, Miss Neville.” So she never gave voice to her fears.

But there were many days when the fever was too bad for conversation—days when her patient slipped beyond the reach of fresh air, flowers, and vinegar water—when even the quinine drops Dr. Menzies had finally approved seemed to do little good. Then Jenny sat by Richard’s cot and held onto him by the sheer force of her will. She demanded—of him? of herself? of God?—that he get well. He did not get well. But he did not die.

Then the commission announced their findings. Jennifer could hardly believe it, and yet nothing less appalling could have explained it all so completely. For five months Florence Nightingale and her angels, as they had become known, had been nursing in a veritable cesspool.

Beneath the buildings lay open sewers choked with filth. The plaster walls soaked it up. The decaying mass sent up something much worse than the putrid smell. It emitted poisonous gasses. The mystery of the death-trap beds was solved. They were near the doors of the privies where the deadly gasses were the worst.

And worse discoveries followed. The water supply was contaminated. It was mixed with sewage and the entire system filtered through the decaying body of a dead horse. The water storage tanks stood right next to the temporary privies set up for the needs of men suffering from diarrhea. Jennifer thanked God for every cup of wine she had given Lieutenant Greyston instead of water.

The commissioners hired an army of Turkish workers. The morning after their findings were complete, the hospital was invaded by two hundred workers who began carrying off garbage, flushing the water system, and cleansing the privies. Inside they tore out the wooden shelves circling the wards and exterminated the thousands of rats harboring there. Then they lime-washed the walls.

Florence Nightingale voiced everyone’s thoughts: “It is a miracle that anyone survived. The commission has saved the British army.”

And many heads nodded at Jennifer’s reply. “But without your insistence, Miss Nightingale, there would have been no commission.”

Almost overnight the death rate dropped. Within two weeks they began releasing men for whom a short time before there had seemed little hope. And, best of all to Jennifer, for the first time since her night vigil by his bed, Lieutenant Greyston’s hand had felt cool when he held it out to greet her.

The morning had begun bright, but now the sun hid behind dark clouds. Jennifer paused at the window across from Richard’s cot. She hoped it would rain. Rain on the spring green grass made her feel as if she were back in England. For a moment the longing for home rose, cramping her chest and throat, making it hard to breathe. She forced herself to take a deep breath of the air, blessedly free of stench, and turned to her duties, accompanied by hammering sounds from the workmen in the next ward and the shouts of the Turks carting off refuse from the yard below.

Suppressing her nervousness over the news the day promised, she began in her orderly fashion at one end of the room, smoothing bedding and filling canteens with the now-purified water. But with every movement at the doorway, she looked up. Was that Dr. Menzies? No, it was one of the workers come for some tools he had left there. She moved to the next bed, giving each man her attention, and yet never unaware of the still form of the waiting man on the bed in the middle of the next row. For she knew that, anxious as she was for Dr. Menzies’s examination, her anticipation could be nothing compared to Richard Greyston’s.

He had lain in the darkness of his bandages for months, waiting first for his wounds to heal, then for the fever to abate, so he could finally be evaluated and released. All he had talked of in the past days was his hope of finding Legend—if only he had survived the carnage. “I just hope whoever took him up after the battle has taken good care of him. I can’t imagine going back to the Lancers on any horse but Legend.”

Jennifer made no attempt to keep the impatience out of her voice. “Lieutenant Greyston, can you find nothing more sensible to talk about? Haven’t you suffered enough? Hasn’t your family waited long enough?”

“What? Are you suggesting I should return home? Abandon my duty?”

She sighed. “Certainly you have a duty to do. But don’t you even want to return to your family in England?”

He sounded surprised at her suggestion, as if the thought had not crossed his mind. “Before the war is over? Before we’ve beaten the Russians and taken Sebastopol? Before the victory is complete?” He shook his head. “When all that is accomplished, it will be time enough.”

Even as she argued with him, Jennifer had to admire such commitment. This was his chosen career. He would consider nothing short of doing his full duty.

So the day had arrived. The day he was to return to the Lancers.

“Nurse!” Dr. Menzies bustled in with his abrupt manner. A small man with black hair and beard, he never wasted time and never showed fatigue. Jennifer had seen his black eyes snapping as brightly after hours of performing surgery as they did now. She hurried to assist, holding the bag of instruments and bandages for him.

Richard held out his hand. Jenny took it and gave it a reassuring squeeze. But they did not speak.

“Scissors.” Jennifer placed them in the doctor’s hand. “Now we shall see how you do.” Dr. Menzies spoke to the top of Richard’s head as he unwound the first layer of bandages.

Richard had only one question. “May I return to my regiment tomorrow, Doctor?”

“We shall see. Bring a basin and sponge, nurse.” Jennifer turned to obey as another layer of bandages came off. Outside she was all cool efficiency. Inside she could hardly breathe. Would the healing now be complete? Would Lieutenant Richard Greyston now be returned to the battlefield to be shot at again?

The earlier dark clouds rolled away. Bright sun streamed in the window opposite them as Dr. Menzies began on the last bandage. Jennifer smiled at the sensation of warmth on the back of her head. It must be a good omen.

The bandage fell away. Richard looked up. Jennifer had a fleeting impression of blue-gray eyes surrounded by red puckered skin. But it was only fleeting.

Richard gave a cry of piercing pain and flung his hands over his face.

Dr. Menzies nodded. “Just as I feared. Photophobia from corneal burns.” He took the roll of clean bandages that Jennifer held in suddenly numb fingers and rewrapped Richard’s eyes with three quick circles around his head. The springy blond curls had grown back sporadically around the scars on Richard’s head. Tender red skin showed above and below the white strip that covered the light blue eyes.

After his initial outcry, Richard sat in stony silence and rocklike stillness.

“Doctor—” If Richard wouldn’t ask, Jennifer would. And yet she couldn’t find the words.

Dr. Menzies shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? Sometimes there is improvement. Sometimes not. In time he may be able to bear light enough to see. Or he may not. Go home, young man, and wait.”

Richard was silent.

Jennifer wanted to reach out to him. There must be something she could say. Something she could do. But she could think of nothing.

“Clean up here, nurse.” Dr. Menzies indicated the bandages he had flung on the floor. “Then I shall need you to assist in surgery.” Jennifer must have been slow to respond because he added, “Immediately.”

Jenny just managed to brush Richard’s hand as she turned to follow the doctor’s orders.

She was on duty for the next eight hours. It was time for quarters—just past, actually—when she finished her last task. The rules were incontrovertible. She would be severely reprimanded for being in the corridors after eight o’clock. Nurses had been sent home for little more than that. But she must speak to Richard.

It was a cold night. After that critical burst of sunlight that had given so much pain to Richard’s light-sensitive eyes, the clouds had returned. Now the rain fell heavily. Jennifer threw her short gray uniform cape around her shoulders and ran down the tower stairs, not bothering to take a lamp with her.

The corridors were deserted. Now with the success of the Sanitary Commission, men were recovering so rapidly that almost all their patients had been moved into real beds in wards. But what did recovered mean? Were men missing arms or legs recovered? Were men whose scars had healed but who still cried out in their sleep recovered? Were blind men recovered? Richard. Would he ever recover?

Jennifer opened the door and slipped into the silent, darkened ward. Hurrying down the row, she counted the beds almost subconsciously. But there was no mistake when she arrived at the middle. She was too late. Lieutenant Richard Greyston was gone.

F
ive months later, on a bright day in August, Jennifer stood on the deck of the
Hansard
with a light breeze blowing her skirts. Gulls wheeled and called, and the white chalk cliffs of home welcomed her. She wanted to push back the bonnet confining her thick hair, but gently bred Englishwomen did not go bareheaded in public.

“What will you do now?” Louisa, one of the returning “lady” nurses, leaned against the rail beside Jennifer.

Jennifer gave her a startled look. “Why, go home, of course.”

“Of course! But I mean, will you nurse in a hospital? Or take private patients?”

The question perplexed Jenny. She had given the matter so little consideration. During all the months of battling overwhelming disease and filth, she had concentrated so hard on helping her patients survive and on surviving herself that she had given almost no thought to what she would do when it was all over. Most of the time it seemed that the horror would never end.

But it did end. Although the war was not yet over, by the end of July when the Sanitary Commission finished their work, there were only 1,100 patients in the Barracks Hospital, and fewer than 100 of those were confined to their beds. Florence Nightingale had been able to extend her influence to hospitals in the Crimea itself, and the demands on her nursing staff were greatly reduced. It was then that Jennifer had received one of her mother’s persistent letters begging her to return home.

My very dear dau.,

You know nothing can give your father and myself more gratification than that our only child should be engaged in so worthy an activity. Indeed it is incumbent upon all of us who name Him Lord that we never neglect our duty to visit the poor and give comfort to the sick. But, my dear, there are so many needy right here in London. Cannot you find your way clear to return to doing good in the bosom of your own family? I know that you will be pleased to learn that the excellent Mr. Merriott has undertaken the added task of factory inspection.

Your loving mother, Amelia Neville

For once Jennifer actually had time to consider her mother’s pleading. And she decided that perhaps her mother was right. But now she must confront the issue that Louisa’s question raised. Jenny had known from her early days in Scutari that she didn’t want to continue nursing. But she was surer than ever that she did want to help people. She was a far different woman from the compliant girl who had sailed across the Channel in the opposite direction less than a year before. She had seen what energy and determination could do. She had learned how far her own strengths could reach, and she now had some concept of what must be accomplished. She couldn’t imagine what those who knew her before in her proper sheltered life would think of her. Her life would never be the same.

But she also knew that shedding her old life would not be enough. She must take up a new one. The hospital had been a success. The army had been saved. Richard had lived. Now she must find new causes she could care about as passionately as those. But she had no idea what they would be.

“Perhaps I will return to my ragged school work.” Her vague reply satisfied Louisa, who turned to talk to another of the returning nurses. But Jennifer wondered whether it satisfied herself. The schools, mostly begun by missionaries of the London City Mission and overseen by the Earl of Shaftesbury, were a wonderful work. They brought the light of knowledge and of the Gospel to half-naked children living in the unspeakable squalor of London’s slums amid bad water, open drains, and crumbling overcrowded homes. Such thoughts brought back the horrors of the first months at the Scutari hospital to her, and for a moment she felt stifled with putrid air in spite of the fresh sea breeze around her.

She shook her head. When she had taken part in Mary Stanley’s excited vision of going out to Turkey to “help dear Flo and inspire our brave soldiers,” Jennifer had had no idea she was to undertake anything that would change her own life.

And apparently not all felt so changed. Louisa and Felicia Burkston-Hodder talked excitedly about their plans. “I, for one, have had quite enough of changing bandages and fetching and carrying.” The ribbons of Felicia’s bonnet whipped in the breeze.