Captain Nemo_ The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius - Kevin J Anderson [127]
Nightingale’s nurses were as devoted as she, and worked just as hard. The driven women took shifts sleeping for a few hours apiece, then continued their duties. The soldiers called them “angels.” Indeed, the dark-dressed women were the only spot of brightness in the gloomy hospital.
Nemo and other half-healed victims rinsed and boiled rags for bandages, swept the floors, and removed bodies. Piles of corpses were stacked downwind from the hospital windows, and daily funeral pyres blazed high. Nightingale insisted that rapid disposal of cadavers and amputated limbs was crucial to prevent the spread of disease.
Sitting at her wobbly, splintered desk, she wrote dozens of letters and pleas for supplies. She even sent notes via the new telegraph lines used by war correspondents and army commanders. When she insisted that her demands be transmitted back home, no telegraph operator dared to stand in her way.
The nurses had sent the required documentation to the French commanders regarding Nemo’s injury -- unfortunately, the old Napoleonic veterans had not even noticed the loss of a lone engineer. If he’d been killed on the battlefield at Balaclava, no letter of condolence would have been written, no death certificate signed. Caroline would never have known his fate.
Forgotten, Nemo was content to remain here helping the nurses. . . .
On November fourth, the Russians again attempted to break the siege, this time striking toward the village of Inkerman. The British, French, and Turks once again drove them back, but it was an expensive victory for a relatively minor battle.
After the horrific fighting at Inkerman, wagons hauled bleeding men to the giant hospital barracks where there were no more beds. Nightingale appealed to the army commanders for supplies and assistance, but they refused to lend any of their troops. Nemo and a few volunteers worked harder, but he didn’t mind. The toil drove back boredom and made him forget the twinges of pain.
In the midst of this chaos, a tall, lean man came in search of Nemo: the green-turbaned Turkish commander who had noticed him building siege towers. With a retinue of burly personal warriors, the haughty caliph marched through the hospital, asking questions until he tracked down the engineer.
Florence Nightingale and her nurses were too occupied with emergency duties and triage to waste time with these Turks who, unlike their fellow countrymen, did not lift a finger to help in the frenzied emergency. The caliph discovered Nemo himself, however. Five armed guards stood behind him, dressed in white garments, with ceremonial sabers in their sashed belts and rifles over their shoulders. None of them seemed interested in the war or the politics.
“You are the engineer?” the caliph said in passable French. He studied Nemo’s features. “I have come to take you away.”
“I am busy.” Nemo continued tearing strips of cloth for bandages. “You have no right to command here, sir. I don’t even know who you are.”
The Turk’s skin flushed darker, making the lightning bolt scar on his cheek stand out. “This is a British hospital. You are a French soldier. I have obtained papers to take you to your appropriate assignment.” The caliph held out a sheet of paper that was written in unintelligible Turkish.
“I have work to do.” Nemo gestured around him. “Can’t you see all the wounded?”
“They should have died on the battlefield.” The green-turbaned man jabbed a finger against Nemo’s bandaged ribs. “You have been deemed sufficiently healed and should no longer take up space in this hospital. You will come with me.”
Florence Nightingale bustled in, her sweat-soaked hair in disarray, her gray dress spotted with blood. She hurried over, wearing a stern expression. “What do you want with this man, sir? I need him here.”
“The engineer is to come away with me. The British Hospital Administrator has given orders that no French