“But,” said Miss Nightingale, “you never mentioned it.”
“Of course not,” he replied; “why should I? it would only have made you nervous; and I knew that nothing could be done till we arrived here.” After his wound had been dressed, he declared that the shock was so violent at the time, he actually thought his head had been split open.
We regretted that, after having gone through such an adventurous day without accident, a casualty should have happened just at our return. Our valiant friend, P. M., quietly vowed never to go camp-ranging again, especially on a mule who was always bolting before or lagging behind, but never kept parallel with our steeds. Indeed, we called the animal Clockwork, as, when wound up, he would go fast enough, but when run out, nothing but re-winding would move him.
A few days after, by the merest chance, I found a leaf from our friend P. M.’s diary, of which, no doubt, a copy had been sent to his fair Dulcinea. It read as follows:—
Balaklava, Thursday.—Got up at five o’clock. Off for the day, accompanying M. Soyer and other friends. My mule very restive. Accident the first—broke a strap. Weather very hot, water scarce, wine and beer more so. Ride up a ravine—nearly spilt. Quarrel with a Bashi-Bazouk. Gallop away from my friends. Splendid view of head-quarters. Visit the sick and wounded at General Hospital: Miss Nightingale present—troops greet her with cheers. First glance of Sebastopol, peeping through the gabions. Dangerous visit to the Three-gun Battery. A shell! a shell! Barely have time to lie flat upon the grass. One of our party wounded by a splinter. Dangerous travelling at night. Take coffee with the Zouaves. Arrive home safely, but very hungry, after our perilous expedition.
We left Mr. Anderson, the horses were taken from us, and we went on board the Robert Lowe. The captain was in great anxiety about us, thinking that something had occurred to Miss Nightingale, who, indeed, appeared much fatigued with her glorious excursion. She made no remark on the subject; but, on the contrary, requested me to accompany her early the next morning to both hospitals. This I promised to do with great pleasure; and so ended that lady’s first visit to the camp hospitals in the Crimea.
Seven bells was striking—all was silent and at rest in the harbour—nothing was heard save the noise of the bells from the different ships, the booming of the cannon at Sebastopol, with now and then the sharp rattle of musketry, and the gloomy voice of the sentinel’s challenge—“Who goes there?”
“A friend.”