“Thinking of home, Nurse Morrison?” said a cheery voice; and she looked up to see the famous surgeon she served addressing her. “Or of the coming Christmas?”
“Neither, sir. I was thinking of the cruelty of war.”
“It is a relic of barbarism,” said the great man, the while he peered into the hospital tent and saw that things were as he would have them. “Indeed, it is almost the only vestige left to us of the dark ages. The proper way for civilized nations to behave in a difficulty is to submit to peaceable arbitration. War—especially nowadays—is a mere slaughter-house—and the soldiers are the poor sheep led to the shambles. The real nature of the thing is covered up under flying flags and the shout of patriotism, but, as a matter of stern fact, it is a horrible piece of cowardice for one nation to try murdering another just to see which one gets its way first.”
“I am glad you think as I do,” said Violet, her eyes shining. “It is surely better to serve Queen and Country by the peaceful arts and sciences, than by killing men wholesale!”
The surgeon looked at her quizzically.
“Yes, nurse, but you must remember that the arts and sciences are very seldom rewarded—whereas if you kill a few of your human brethren you get notice and promotion! Don’t let us talk about it. We must do as we are told. And when the poor chaps are shot at and battered about, we must try to mend them up as well as we can. You’ve got everything very nice in there—very nice! Now oblige me, nurse, by trying to rest,—for from what I hear you will be actively wanted to-morrow.”
He nodded and went his way. Accustomed to obedience, Violet lay down on her little tent-bed, and before she closed her eyes in sleep prayed fervently for her uncle and her “darling Miss Letty.”
“I wonder how she is?” she thought, “and I wonder if she has yet heard anything of Boy?”
The morning broke clear and calm over the distant heights called Drakensberg, and an intense heat poured down from the cloudless sky, making the very ground scorching to the tread. There was not a breath of air, and the scarcity of water made it impossible to cool the tents by ordinary means. Violet awoke to the thunderous crash of the British naval guns opening fire on Fort Wylie. As dawn deepened into day, the bombardment grew faster and more furious, but no response came from the hidden enemy. For some time, storms of shell and shrapnel poured on in their destructive course without any apparent result, till all at once one shot crashed fiercely from the hills behind Colenso. This was followed by an appalling roar of guns and a deluge of fire from the Boer line of defence, and the fray began in deadly earnest. Sick and terrified at first by the hideous din, Violet instinctively put her hands to her ears, and sat, with one or two of the other nurses, well within the first field hospital tent, waiting for she knew not what. Once the great surgeon looked in, pale with excitement.
“Be ready, all of you!” he said briefly. “This is deadly work!” And he was gone.