And when Fitz had gone, in company with many others whom the Major knew, another parting took place which caused the old man a very decided twinge of pain, and almost moved him to urge his own personal claims against those of duty. One of the famous surgeons for whom Violet had worked so well, was leaving for hospital work at the front, and made it a particular request that “Nurse Morrison” should also go on the same steamer.
“We don’t want any amateur ‘fancy’ nurses out there,” he said, explaining the position to the Major, who heard him with a mingling of pride and pain,—pride that his niece’s skill was so highly valued—pain at the idea of her leaving him,—“We want brave capable women, who will be examples to the others, and who really mean to work. There is no one I know who will be so valuable to me in my operations on the wounded as Nurse Morrison. I have talked to her about it, and she is quite willing to go if you give her leave.”
The matter had to be decided in a hurry, and so the Major, with a somewhat dismal face, confided it all to Miss Letty, who at once pleaded eloquently that Violet might be permitted to undertake the high duties offered to her.
“Let her go, Dick, by all means,” she said. “It’s a splendid chance for her—I know she will win the highest honours. She is perfectly fearless, and she may help to save many a valuable life.”
“But you, Letty,” said Desmond. “Who’s going to look after you?”
Miss Letty smiled.
“I’m all right, Dick! I have my maid,—and if I get any worse than I am, I will ask my old Margaret to come over from Scotland and nurse me. We mustn’t be selfish in our old age, Dick! We must let Violet go. Her services will be invaluable, and if we miss her, as of course we shall, during her absence, we shall at any rate feel we are doing our little best towards helping our brave soldiers by giving our dear girl to their cause.”
And so Violet sailed for the seat of war, bidding her uncle and Miss Letty good-bye with many tears, forebodings and private griefs,—but moved to heroic resolution to do her best where her work was so strenuously demanded. The moment she arrived at the Cape, she and the eminent surgeon who had secured her services were sent on to join the forces moving towards Colenso, and she soon had her mind as well as her hands full with the instructions she received as to the interior arrangements of hospital field tents, and the preparations for what has been rightly termed the “merciful cruelty” of the operating tables.
On the eve of the now famous battle of Colenso she stood at the entrance of one of these tents, pale but resolute, gazing out into space, her heart strangely heavy, her eyes burning with the heat of the dry, dusty air, and her whole mind oppressed with premonitory forebodings. Danger and death seemed very near,—and though cheerfulness was one of her qualities as a nurse, she found it difficult on this particular night to shake off the gloom and dread, which, like a black storm-cloud, steadily darkened down over her soul. She tried to think of all the things connected with her work—of the field hospital train, which she had walked through from end to end at the request of her commanding surgeon, examining everything, and admiring the forethought and care with which so many comforts had been provided for the coming wounded. The coming wounded! A faint shudder ran through her frame,—how un-Christian, how terrible it seemed, that shot and shell should be used to tear poor human beings to pieces for a quarrel over a bit of land, so much gold, or a difference as to the gain or loss of either!
“If the politicians who work up wars could only realize the true horror of bloodshed they would surely be more careful!” she thought. “It is terrible to be waiting here for the bodies of the poor fellows, mangled and bleeding, who have to suffer the most frightful agonies just at the command of Governments sitting safe in their easy chairs!”