The correspondence that had poured in upon her and upon Mr. Herbert was overwhelming, and there was a personal interview with all who seemed in the least degree likely to be admitted to her staff; so that she worked very hard, with little pause for rest, to get through her ever-increasing task in time. Each member of the staff undertook to obey her absolutely.
Among the many who were rejected, though most were unsuitable for quite other reasons, there were some who objected to this rule. Many who were full of sympathy and generosity had to be turned away, because they had not had enough training. Advertisements had appeared in the Record and the Guardian, but the crowd of fair ladies who flocked to the War Office in response were not always received with such open arms as they expected. Mr. Herbert was well on his guard against the charms of impulsive, but ignorant, goodwill, and he issued a sort of little manifesto in which he said that “many ladies whose generous enthusiasm prompts them to offer services as nurses are little aware of the hardships they would have to encounter, and the horrors they would have to witness. Were all accepted who offer,” he added, with a touch of humour, “I fear we should have not only many indifferent nurses, but many hysterical patients.”
He and his wife were untiring in their efficiency and their help.
The English Sisterhoods had made a difficulty about surrendering control over the Sisters they sent out, but Miss Nightingale overcame that, and the Roman bishop entirely freed the ten Sisters of his communion from any rule which could clash with Miss Nightingale’s orders.
It was on the evening of October 21, 1854, that the “Angel Band,” as Kinglake rightly names them, quietly set out under cover of darkness, escorted by a parson and a courier and by Miss Nightingale’s friends, Mr. and Mrs. Bracebridge of Atherstone Hall.
In this way all flourish of trumpets was avoided. Miss Nightingale always hated public fuss—or, indeed, fuss of any kind. She was anxious also to lighten the parting for those who loved her best, and who had given a somewhat doubting consent to her resolve.
The Quakerish plainness of her black dress did but make the more striking the beauty of her lovely countenance, the firm, calm sweetness of the smiling lips and steadfast eyes, the grace of the tall, slender figure; and as the train whirled her out of sight with her carefully-chosen regiment, she left with her friends a vision of good cheer and high courage.
But however quiet the setting forth, the arrival at Boulogne could not be kept a secret, and the enthusiasm of our French allies for those who were going to nurse the wounded made the little procession a heart-moving triumph. A merry band of white-capped fishwives met the boat and, seizing all the luggage, insisted on doing everything for nothing. Boxes on their backs and bags in their hands, they ran along in their bright petticoats, pouring out their hearts about their own boys at the front, and asking only the blessing of a handshake as the sole payment they would take. Then, as Miss Nightingale’s train whistled its noisy way out of the station, waving their adieus while the tears streamed down the weather-beaten cheeks of more than one old wife, they stood and watched with longing hearts. At Paris there was a passing visit to the Mother-house of Miss Nightingale’s old friends, the Sisters of St. Vincent de Paul, and a little call on Lady Canning, also an old friend, who writes of her as “happy and stout-hearted.”
The poor “Angels” had a terrible voyage to Malta, for the wind, as with St. Paul, was “contrary” and blew a hurricane dead against them, so that their ship, the Vectis, had something of a struggle to escape with its many lives. They touched at Malta on October 31, 1854, and soon afterwards set sail again for Constantinople.