Alarmist reports quickly spread, and at Balaclava it was currently reported that Florence Nightingale was dying. The sad tidings were told at the Barrack Hospital at Scutari amidst the most pathetic scenes. The sick men turned their faces to the wall and cried like children. The news in due time reached London, and the leading articles in the papers of the time show that the public regarded the possible death of our heroine as a great national calamity. Happily the suspense was brief, and following quickly on the mournful tidings came the glad news that the worst symptoms were passed, and that in all human probability the precious life would be spared.
Miss Nightingale, in a touching bit of autobiography, attributes her first step towards convalescence to the joy caused on receiving a bunch of wild-flowers.
During the time that Miss Nightingale lay in her hut on the Genoese heights, some very sharp skirmishes were taking place between the allied troops and the enemy, and it was reported that the Russians were likely to attack Balaclava by the Kamara side. Miss Nightingale’s hut being the nearest to that point, would, in the event of such a plan being carried out, have been the first to be attacked. Thomas, the page boy, constituted himself guard of his beloved mistress and was ready to die valiantly in her defence. It would, however, be an injustice to the Russian troops to imply that they would knowingly have harmed even a hair of Florence Nightingale’s head. Her person was sacred to friend and foe alike.
Lord Raglan was deeply concerned at Miss Nightingale’s illness, and as soon as he heard from the doctors in attendance that he might visit her, rode over from headquarters for the purpose. Mrs. Roberts, the nurse, thus related to M. Soyer the account of the Commander-in-Chief’s unexpected call:—
“It was about five o’clock in the afternoon when he came. Miss Nightingale was dozing, after a very restless night. We had a storm that day, and it was very wet. I was in my room sewing when two men on horseback, wrapped in large gutta-percha cloaks and dripping wet, knocked at the door. I went out, and one inquired in which hut Miss Nightingale resided.
“He spoke so loud that I said, ‘Hist! Hist! don’t make such a horrible noise as that, my man,’ at the same time making a sign with both hands for him to be quiet. He then repeated his question, but not in so loud a tone. I told him this was the hut.
“‘All right,’ said he, jumping from his horse, and he was walking straight in when I pushed him back, asking what he meant and whom he wanted.
“‘Miss Nightingale,’ said he.
“‘And pray who are you?’
“‘Oh, only a soldier,’ was the reply; ‘but I must see her—I have come a long way—my name is Raglan—she knows me very well.’