When I got on board the Canada I was rejoiced to find that Sister —— was returning too, and three of our original medical officers.
The ship was very full (122 in the saloon), and there were sixteen sisters and one other lady; but my old friend, the stewardess, was kind enough to manœuvre so that I got a small cabin to myself.
Just before we got away the Manhattan backed into our stern, and sent us first with such a bang against the wharf, that the people standing there fell down flat like ninepins (and it was raining, so there were inches of mud for them to fall into!); and then we broke away from our moorings, with some visitors and the embarkation officers still on board. After a little excitement they managed to anchor off Netley, and found our damage was chiefly to the boat deck (one boat was stove in) and the railings—it would have been more serious if our steam had not been up and ready for us to get away, so they were able to get her under control at once—but there we had to remain all the next day repairing, and it was very tantalising having to waste that time on board, especially as I have some relations who live within a couple of miles of where we were anchored.
Before we sailed we heard that the Queen was very ill, and I fear she has been very feeble lately, and very much troubled about the war; so we all feel anxious, and every night when the band plays "God Save the Queen," and all stand at the salute, we wonder how she is.
XLI
S.S. "Victorian" (between Cape Town
and Durban), February 1901.
Just as we got in sight of St. Helena on February 2nd our engines broke down, and we had to lay to for some hours while they were being repaired.
Then, as we steamed slowly up to the anchorage, H.M.S. Thetis signalled to us that our Queen had died on January 22nd; so we ought to have been singing "God Save the King" for the past eleven days.