Miss Arbuthnot, the granddaughter of Sir William Muir, the friend of John Inglis, was one of those who helped to nurse Dr. Inglis:—
‘I sometimes looked after her when the Sister attending her was off duty. Her consideration and kindness were quite extraordinary, while her will and courage were quite indomitable. To die as she did in harness, having completed her great work in getting the Serbs away from Russia, is what she would have chosen.
‘I first met Dr. Inglis at Hadji Abdul, a small mud village about ten miles from Galatz. She was looking very ill, but was always busy. For some time she had been ill with dysentery, but she never even stayed in bed for breakfast till it was impossible for her to move from bed.
‘During our time at Hadji we had about forty Serbian patients, a few wounded, but mostly sick. Dr. Inglis did a few minor operations, but her last major one was a gastro-enterotomy performed on one of our own chauffeurs, a Serb, Joe, by name. The operation took three hours and was entirely satisfactory, although Dr. Inglis did not consider him strong enough to travel back to England. She was particularly fond of this man, and took no end of trouble with him. Even after she became so very ill she used constantly to visit him.
‘The Serbs entertained us to several picnics, which we duly returned. Dr. Inglis was always an excellent hostess, so charming and genial to every one, and so eager that both entertainers and entertained should equally enjoy themselves. Provided her permission was asked first, and duty hours or regular meals not neglected, she was always keen every one should enjoy themselves riding, walking, or going for picnics. If any one was ill, she never insisted on their getting up in spite of everything, as most doctors, and certainly all matrons, wish us to do. She was strict during duty hours, and always required implicit obedience to her orders—whatever they were. She was always so well groomed—never a hair out of place. In appearance she was a splendid head. One felt so proud of her among the dirty and generally unsuitably dressed women in other hospitals. She was very independent, and would never allow any of us to wait on her. The cooks were not allowed to make her any special dishes that the whole unit could not share. As long as she could, she messed with the unit, and there was no possibility of avoiding her quick eye; anything which was reserved for her special comfort was rejected. Once, a portion of chicken was kept as a surprise for her. She asked whether there had been enough for all, and when the cooks reluctantly confessed there was only the one portion she sent it away.
‘During one of the evacuations, an order had been given that there were only two blankets allowed in each valise. Some one, mindful of her weakness, stuffed an extra one into Dr. Inglis’ bag, because in her emaciated condition she suffered much from the cold. It stirred her to impetuous anger, and with something of the spirit of David, as he poured out the water brought him at the peril of the lives of his followers, she flung the blanket out of the railway carriage, as a lesson to those of her unit who had disobeyed an order.
‘Every Sunday Dr. Inglis read the Church service with great dignity and simplicity. On the weekday evenings, before she became so ill, she would join us in a game of bridge, and played nearly every night. During the retreats when nothing more could be done, and she felt anxious, she would sit down and play a game of patience. During the weeks of uncertainty, when the future of the Serbs was doubtful, and she was unable to take any active part, she fretted very much.
‘After endless conflicting rumours and days of waiting, the news arrived that they were to go to England. Her delight was extraordinary, for she had lain in her bed day after day planning how she could help them, and sending endless wires to those in authority in England, but feeling herself very impotent. Once the good news arrived, her marvellous courage and tenacity helped her to recover sufficiently, and prepare all the details for the journey with the Serbs. We left on the 29th October, with the H.G. Staff and two thousand Serbian soldiers, in a special train going to Archangel.
‘Dr. Inglis spent fifteen days on the train, in a second-class compartment, with no proper bed. Her strength varied, but she was compelled to lie down a great deal, although she insisted on dressing every morning. On two occasions she walked for five minutes on the station platform; each time it absolutely exhausted her. Though she suffered much pain and discomfort, she never complained. She could only have benger, chicken broth and condensed milk, and she often found it impossible to take even these. If one happened to bring her tea, or her food, she thanked one so charmingly.
‘At Archangel there was no means of carrying her on to the boat, so with help (one orderly in front, and one lifting her behind), she climbed a ladder twenty feet high, from the platform to the deck of the transport. She was a good sailor, and had a comfortable cabin on the ship. She improved on board slightly, and used to sit in the small cabin allotted to us on the upper deck. She played patience, and was interested in our sea-sick symptoms. There was a young naval officer very seriously ill on the boat. Our people were nursing him, and she constantly went to prescribe; she feared he would not live, and he died before we reached our port.
‘After some improvement, Dr. Inglis had a relapse; violent pain set in, and she had to return to bed. Even then, a few days before we reached England, she insisted on going through all the accounts, and prepared fresh plans to take the unit on to join the Serbs at Salonika. In six weeks she expected to be ready to start. She sent for each of us in turn, and asked if we would go with her. Needless to say, only those who could not again leave home, refused, and then with the deepest regret. The night before we reached Newcastle, Dr. Inglis had a violent attack of pain, and had no sleep all night. Next morning she insisted on getting up to say good-bye to the Serbian staff.
‘It was a wonderful example of her courage and fortitude, to see her standing unsupported—a splendid figure of quiet dignity. Her face ashen and drawn like a mask, dressed in her worn uniform coat, with the faded ribbons that had seen such good service. As the officers kissed her hand, and thanked her for all she had done for them, she said to each of them a few words accompanied with her wonderful smile.’
As they looked on her, they also must have understood, ‘sorrowing most of all, that they should see her face no more.’
‘After that parting was over, Dr. Inglis collapsed from great weakness. She left the boat Sunday afternoon, 25th November, and arrived quite exhausted at the hotel. I was allowed to see her for a minute before the unit left for London that night. She could only whisper, but was as sweet and patient as she ever was. She said we should meet soon in London.’
After her death, many who had watched her through these strenuous years, regretted that she did not take more care of herself. Symptoms of the disease appeared so soon, she must have known what overwork and war rations meant in her state. This may be said of every follower of the One who saved others, but could not save Himself. The life story of Saint and Pioneer is always the same. To continue to ill-treat ‘brother body’ meant death to St. Francis; to remain in the fever swamps of Africa meant death to Livingstone. The poor, and the freedom of the slave, were the common cause for which both these laid down their lives. Of the same spirit was this daughter of our race. Had she remained at home on her return from Serbia she might have been with us to-day, but we should not have the woman we now know, and for whom we give thanks on every remembrance of her.
The long voyage ended at last. Miss Arbuthnot makes no allusion to its dangers. Everything written by the ‘unit’ is instinct with the high courage of their leader. We know now how great were the perils surrounding the transports on the North seas. Old, and unseaworthy, the menace below, the storm above, through the night of the Arctic Circle, she was safely brought to the haven where all would be. More than once death in open boats was a possibility to be faced; there were seven feet of water in the engine-room, and only the stout hearts of her captain and crew knew all the dangers of their long watch and ward. As the transport entered the Tyne a blizzard swept over the country. We who waited for news on shore wondered where on the cold grey seas laboured the ship bringing home ‘Dr. Elsie and her unit.’
In her last hours she told her own people of the closing days on board:—
‘When we left Orkney we had a dreadful passage, and even after we got into the river it was very rough. We were moored lower down, and, owing to the high wind and storm, a big liner suddenly bore down upon us, and came within a foot of cutting us in two, when our moorings broke, we swung round, and were saved. I said to the one who told me—“Who cut our moorings?” She answered, “No one cut them, they broke.”’
There was a pause, and then to her own she broke the knowledge that she had heard the call and was about to obey the summons.
‘The same hand who cut our moorings then is cutting mine now, and I am going forth.’