Directory of Writers' Circles

A chorus of tormented souls filled the air as the sense of isolation became overwhelming. Soldiers praying, moaning, sobbing, staring at nothing, their minds blank with dread. Some looked as though they could be sleeping. Others stared with frozen eyes at the sky. Their faces were contorted in a twisted mask of humanity. Their torsos were a display of debased flesh, a mockery of the skin that they once possessed. The living was driven insane by their pain, crying the nightmare music of the damned. The vast expanse of land was covered with macabre images of dead bodies entombed with debris, and the wounded writhed under the hot sun as the cries of terror reached a crescendo. But beneath the feet of one of the soldiers could be seen the standard of The Light Brigade.

There were swarms of flies and dust blowing over the men as they cried out for water. Their faces were stained with blood and sweat, tainted them with a brutal sameness that was etched in their hollow eyes.

A Jamaican nurse by the name of Mary Seacole began to move amongst the dead, ministering to the wounded. Her face hinted at a beauty that it once possessed, but now it was stripped away by the years of widowhood and excessive exposure to death.

As she began to look inward whilst taking in the external world, one of the wounded clutched at her skirt.

'Water…' he cried.

She paused for a moment and looked down at him, noticing the grave depth of his struggle for life. He was a Russian survivor, left in a semi-hallucinatory state. His face was pale and ghostly, making him appear more horrible than he actually was. But the horror seemed to be in spite of the soldier's face rather than part of its expression. It was the horror of war. His breathing was shallow and motionless as though the life was gradually being drained out of him.

'Francis, Joe, come quickly', she cried to her Jamaican stretcher-bearers. 'This one's still alive.'

They moved swiftly and placed the soldier on a stretcher.

She watched them as they retreated into the distance towards the Land Transport Corps. Hospital. Her stare changed from an outward one to an inward one, revealing a deeper reality within. The pained lines etched on her forehead were testimony to a life of hard work in Panama, but her mysterious eyes were raw with the ache of a love once lost. She was fighting her own inner-war.

The cries of pain were growing louder in her ears.

She looked around at the corpses in their statuesque positions, empty of life like an exhibit in the gallery of the dead. All of her experiences in Panama could not deliver the resistance needed to sustain her presence of mind. She was being stripped naked emotionally and psychologically, unable to call upon the strength of character that was so aptly displayed by her mother.

She dropped her gaze to her feet, and could see the standard of The Light Brigade, sinking below the surface of the sand, lost forever in the shadows of time.

The voice of the chaplain could be heard as he read from Psalms 23 in the Land Transport Hospital. Smoking kerosene lamps around which moths were fluttering lighted the room, and the shadows of the tormented lined the walls. The crowded beds were almost touching each other, displaying used bandages and rags. The energy level of the survivors was low. They had lost their comrades in battle, killed in action after years of unbroken friendship.

As Mary walked past these beds the faces of the dying looked back at her. They cried out to her, pleading for something to ease their pain. Their moans were like the howl of the dead, tugging away at her soul as they crossed over from one form of existence to another. One soldier scratched his back against the wall, trying to ease the pain of his flailing skin. Another soldier lay dictating a letter to an attendant nurse that sat beside him. Those who were well enough played cards jovially to lift their spirits. Others just lay there waiting for the doctor to attend to them.

There were some who were bent over with stomach cramp, vomiting into a basin as the colour drained from their faces. Their skin was pale and emaciated, passing waste uncontrollably where they sat.

'Nnoooooo', a screaming patient cried out.

She paused for a while, staring in the direction of the sound.

It came from the operating room.

The cry of pain continued to emanate from the room only this time it was way out of proportion. It mingled with the moans of the dying on their beds, creating a cacophony of sound. It then joined with her memories of the cries of terror on the field, fusing together to become part of a big morass of noise with dimensions so frightening that it forced Mary to back away. Her senses were assaulted on all fronts, stirring up a wave of nausea from within.

She was unable to defend herself. The survival instincts of a secure person had escaped her. She wanted to strike back, but she was the prey, not the predator. War had spat out its ugly venom, and the sandy graveyard was its tomb. It had selected her, staked her out, wooed her onto the front lines, and marked her for the kill, ready to strike without warning. Just one more mental nudge and she would become an exhibit herself. Her limited foundations underneath were giving way. There was nothing left for her to fight with.

She whirled around in a frightened state and ran out of the hospital, falling to the floor. She retched over, burying her face in the ground and began to vomit.

She remained there for a while, prostrate, broken, sobbing: her face a battleground of conflicting emotions. This was the lowest point in her life. She was fighting her own desire to flee from this troubled land and return back home; to be true to herself and be with her own people. But yet, in the midst of this turmoil she felt the truest part of her was yet to unfold in the administration of medicine and supplies.

She closed her eyes and drew strength from within - a place of safety, and decided that she would continue.

A clatter of a horse began to approach as she rose to her feet. Sitting tall and erect in the saddle was Captain Peel of the 97th Regiment. He was at one with his horse: a king in his kingdom. He was a man that had a need to preserve his own life and identity through the domination of others.

She could see that he was a seasoned hard-bitten professional with a horseman's lean body. His infantry dress was close fitting, his sabre glistening against his thigh. He was not the type of man that wanted to be seen or act out of uniform. He wore it with meticulous pride, as though it were an extension of himself. Just from the look of him, she thought that maybe he was born with the uniform on. He was of a traditional background, believing in empire and imperialism. But beyond the make-up of his uniform was a man in denial of his heritage. A hurting man. A man with a strain of Jamaican blood stock in him. He was fighting his own private war. He looked upon it as a moment of weakness on his grandfather's part, but he decided to use the uniform as a tool to reinvent himself as the model English soldier.

He dismounted from his horse, and walked over to the granite faced Dr. Wilkins who stood by the door. There was a tilt of pride to his swagger: the personification of command.

'What's the situation, doctor?' he asked.

'One hundred and thirteen dead, two hundred and forty-seven wounded, not to mention four hundred and seventy-five horses killed and forty-two wounded', Dr. Wilkins replied. 'They'll have to be shipped to Scutari because we haven't got the space here to look after them. I could do a lot more with a bigger hospital and more nurses, captain.'

'So out of six hundred and seventy-three men how many of the 17th Lancers have survived to fight another day?'

'Well, it's difficult to say, but I guess after a week or so at Scutari you could be looking at around two hundred battle ready soldiers.'

'So the Light Brigade no longer exists. The 97th Regiment of Foot and the 48th Regiment of Lancers shall take over. We will move in at once to replace their duties.'

'I could tend to the wounded', Mary interjected.

The two men turned round to look at her.

'My mother was a nurse, and my father served as a soldier in the 49th Regiment in Kingston', she continued.

'And what might her name be may I ask?' Captain Peel said, scrutinising her with immediate dislike.

She paused for a moment, taken back by the question.

'She was known as Mrs. Grant', Mary replied.

Captain Peel's could sense something in this woman that he did not quite understand. She had an inner strength about her, a sense of greatness embodied in her presence, and maybe even a threat to his role.

'And your father?' he asked.

'A Scottish officer by the name of Grant', she replied.

There was an awkward silence as he straightened himself to look proud her over. 'And what do they call you, my dear?' he asked.

She looked at him, taking in the full measure of the man. 'My name is Mary Seacole. But to you, I'm Mrs. Seacole', she replied.

'Mrs. Seacole! And where may I ask is Mr. Seacole?'

She took a deep breath trying not to lose eye-contact with him. 'My husband is no longer with me', she replied.

'Out of choice, or circumstance?'

She locked eyes with him, giving him no further opening. 'Circumstance', she stated.

He lowered his eyes in a moment of smug approval.

'And who may I ask are you, captain?' she asked.

'Not that it matters, but I am Captain Peel of the 97th Regiment. Our unit is here to replace the loss suffered by the Light Brigade', he replied.

'Then you'll be needing a nurse to tend to your casualties and provide hospitality to your troops, especially when they're waiting around for the next plan of attack. If soldiers have nothing to do all day then they are prone to idle gossip. A bit of motherly hospitality goes a long way towards lifting morale.'

He paused for a while, almost conceding that he was giving way to an equal. 'Well', he began. 'The freed slave does a bit of caring work, and now she thinks she can run the British army, just because her father was a military officer. Well I'm afraid that we wont be requiring your services, Mrs. Seacole.'

There were strands of bitterness that lay beneath his words.

'But Captain, I could do with a new pair of hands', the doctor interjected.

'Each regiment has six nurses attached to it', Captain Peel countered. 'If the 97th Regiment doesn't have enough supply of nurses then we shall do without.'

'Captain, I don't think you realise the gravity of this situation', the doctor stated. 'These men in there could die without any medical assistance.'

'War is hell, doctor, even when the casualties are ours', Captain Peel retorted. 'One thing I can tell you is that the survival of the British Army does not depend on a charlatan Jamaican nurse.'

She stared at him, feeling the sting of his words getting under her skin. He was impenetrable.

He stepped past the doctor and began to make his way into the hospital. As he did so, Mary ran up to him and grabbed his arm.

'What kind of a captain are you refusing the aid of a nurse?' she challenged him, bringing the weight of her personality to bear on his intelligence. 'You're sending innocent men to their graves because you're blinded by your own bigotry.'

He swung round to look at her, and their eyes locked in silent combat. His stare was a question, and it had the condescending air of a professional looking at an amateur at work.

'What kind of a nurse are you, is the real question?' he replied softly. 'A quack? A sutler who deludes herself that she can administer medicine!' He released his arm from her grip. Their eyes met steadily in a silent battle of looks and wills. 'I've made my position clear, Mrs. Seacole', he continued. 'You are not welcome in this hospital.'

He flashed her a cold stare, and then merged into the shadows.

She watched him melt in the distance, his determination to self-destruct impressing itself deeply into her mind.

Dr. Wilkins came up beside her.

'Our men suffer from the cholera', he opened. 'The water supply that we have is contaminated. Our cooking utensils are unwashed. And the food we eat is cooked on open fires which is advancing our deadly condition. And the only offer of help that we have is rejected by none other than Captain John Peel.'

'He'll pay for his words.'

'No, Mrs. Seacole. What we need is a miracle. Not retribution.'

She watched him as he walked on into the shadows.

Her assistants, Francis and Joe, emerged from the shadows behind her.

'I'm gonna show that Captain Peel', she began. 'I'm going to build my own hospital.'

'They don't need a hospital, Mother Seacole', Francis replied. 'What they need is clean water and good food to eat. They need hospitality, not a hospital.'

She was struck with a flash of inspiration as he spoke those words.

'So be it', she said. 'I'll give them the hospitality they need. I'll build a hotel with my own bare hands.'

'But Mother Seacole', Francis said, taking Mary's hands. 'What can these pretty little hands do?'

A half smile stretched across her lips.

'I don't know, Francis', she replied softly. 'Maybe nothing I suppose.' She looked up to the heavens, and then her voice began to accelerate in volume. 'But I'll tell you this much. One day I'm gonna build a hotel that'll be better any hospital if it is the last thing I do.'

She stood remote and statuesque as she declared her intentions in the heavens.

The sounds of murmuring mingled with the clatter of a passing train as Mary stood watching it go by as if it were ignoring her. It deposited a group of Turkish civilians, and then continued its journey.

She made her way to Spring Hill, an out-of-the-way place somewhat isolated between Balaclava and Sebastopol. There was a two-storey building with doors off the hinges, holes in the roof and deteriorating walls. She stood in front of it, thinking to herself that this would be the ideal place to realise her ambition.

The street was bustling with activity, providing a fever of expansion as two English sailors by the name of Big Chips and Little Chips unloaded drays of lumber. There was a feeling of raw newness about the place, a sense that something great was in the making. Chisels bit deep into concrete with wild abandon. Loud hammer blows assaulted walls, taking with it huge chunks that crashed to the floor. Swirls of white dust grew up from the debris as shafts of sunlight pierced through the dense atmosphere, searching for a new world to inhabit. Brick by brick, stage by stage, each construction added its own unique voice to the grand symphony of building, breathing life into the beginnings of a new hotel.

Mary directed the hanging of a wet sign that read in English and Russian: The British Hotel.

'A little higher', she instructed Joe and Francis as they stood on a ladder positioning the sign.

When they hung it in place, they came down from the ladder and stood alongside Mary to look up at the sign.

'Sounds very English doesn't it?' Mary said.

She traded glances with them, and a smile played across their lips in a moment of silent amusement known only to themselves.

Within six months, the exterior and the bedrooms were complete. Only the bar needed repairing, as it had no glass in the windows.

The moonlight poured through the open window of the bar, swirling sensuously around Mary as she stood talking to Francis.

'There's still a lot to be done, Mother Seacole', he said.

'It'll have to wait a couple of months', she replied. 'I've no money left.'

Just then, Mary noticed a menacing silhouette appear to rise up out of the shadows.

Francis rushed to the door and opened it, casting a light from the kerosene lamp towards the dark figure.

The stranger emerged into the light, covered with the scars of battle, groping at his bleeding arm. His clothes were stained with grime and sweat, and his face was pained with the agony of his wounded elbow.

As he began to approach Mary, he collapsed and fell to the floor.

In the morning after the stranger was relocated to the guest room, Mary tended to his wounds by pouring some brandy on it, and then bathing it to wipe away the caked blood from his arm. She tenderly placed strips of bandages over the wound, and took the opportunity to steal a furtive observation of his face whilst he was still asleep. He had a fine bone structure and a firm chin, reminding her slightly of her late husband, Edward Horatio Nelson.

A tug of deep-seated emotion pulled away at her. It was a nostalgic quality that she always associated with a moment of love lost.

She pulled a blanket over him in an instinctive motherly reaction, and then left the room to give him his privacy when he awoke.

The interior of the hotel was looking in ship-shape. Everything had come together to perform a service for the 97th and 48th Regiment. Soldiers frequented the hotel for their meals and to spend their spare time socialising with friends.

'Are we having mutton today, Mother Seacole?' one of the soldiers called out from the bar.

'Yes, boys', Mary replied from the kitchen, 'we're having mutton today.'

'Hmm, that smells nice', the stranger said, taking in the aroma of pork frying in its fat as he walked into the kitchen.

'You're awake', Mary replied, wheeling round to look at him.

'Yes, I am', the man said. 'Thanks to your kind help, Mother Seacole.'

Her eyes stole a glance at his bandaged arm.

'Does it hurt?' she asked.

'A little', he replied.

'No signs of a break?'

'No.'

'I'm cooking mutton for the boys', Mary said, breaking the deadlock. 'It's their favourite. Would you like to try some?'

'I'd love to', the man replied. 'I wish I could help, but as you can see…'

'No, that's fine. Francis and Joe are more than capable.'

'I've got my book here to read while I wait, if you don't mind.'

'No. Be my guest.'

'Thank you.'

He flashed her a smile, and then turned to walk out of the kitchen. He paused when he reached the door, and then turned back to look at her.

'Oh, erm', he began. 'I know the boys call you Mother Seacole I can see why. But, just out of interest, what is your name?'

She looked at him for a moment and then conceded. 'Mary Seacole', he said. 'I only asked because I'm a reporter and I wanted to write a piece about you for the paper back home.'

'That's very kind of you. And what do I call you?'

'Samuel. Samuel Russell.'

They traded looks with each other, and then he disappeared into the bar to read his book.

When she served him his portion of mutton, she noticed the well-worn book that he was reading.

'What's that you're reading?', Mary asked.

'Ivanhoe', he replied. 'I'll lend it to you when I've finished with it.'

She was struck with an emotion that she could not afford to disclose. Her eyes held his in a pained expression, revealing to him the hidden secrets of her soul.

He suddenly realised what he had said and how it affected her condition.

'Oh, Mary, I'm sorry', he said. 'I didn't know.'

'Do you think you can teach me?' she asked. 'How to read?'

'Of course I can', he replied, as if seeing her inner beauty for the first time. 'Here', he said, handing her a pencil. 'I'll show you how to write your name.'

She grasped the pencil and began forming the letters of her name.

Her smile lit up her whole face.

The dishes were stack high in the sink as she practiced reading the bible, trying to assimilate the letters into words in her head, element by element. At first she was not able to grasp the totality of the words, but eventually she mastered them, stringing them together into sentences.

The next day, she started to reproduce the sentences into paragraphs in her own handwriting, giving back to the text what she had taken out.

'Are we having eggs today, Mother Seacole?' one of the soldiers called out from the bar, interrupting her trail of thought.

'Yes, my boys', she replied. 'We're having eggs today.'

Each day she learned words in earnestness, stimulating her intellectual appetite.

She smiled to herself, thinking about Samuel for a while and how much he was beginning to mean to her. She needed him as much as he needed her because both of them had strengths that the other needed, and he was repaying her back for her kindness by contributing to her education.

In the regiment camp of the 97th and 48th, Mary began busying herself filling mugs with tea for the troops as they ate her sponge cakes before they were ready to march on Sebastopol. Her movements were placid, feeling at home in her new environment. There was a sense of fellowship in her interaction, a human concern in the way she distributed her resources, creating a bonding between human beings from different traditions.

She looked around to determine whether or not everyone had been served. Their private sorrows were forgotten, caught up in the mystic feeling of unity.

'Mother Seacole', Edward Gill, one of the soldiers said.

'Yes, Edward', Mary replied. 'What is it?'

There was a moment's pause as he contemplated what he was going to say.

'I never knew my mother', he conceded. 'I was told by my father that she always made a good cup of tea. I didn't get to know him much either but...well...you're the closest I've ever got to having a mother.'

Tears of compassion filled her eyes as she embraced him in a motherly hug.

'Thank you, my child', she said. 'You're the closest I've ever got to having a son.'

Just then, the regimental bugler blew a rapid, exciting bugle call.

The soldiers turned their attention to Captain Peel as he cantered up to the camp. He slowly dismounted, and then his eyes lingered over every detail of his men and horses.

'We will move out from here in two battalions and attack the lower end of Sebastopol', he informed them.

The bugler signalled for the advance.

'97th of Foot. Fall in', Captain Peel commanded.

There was a faint sound of another bugler from the 48th Regiment.

'48th Regiment! Mount Horses', Colonel Campbell commanded.

They formed a line of squadrons, and then galloped off into the distance in unison.

She watched the soldiers riding off with a look of glory on their faces.

Captain Peel peered deep into her eyes as his face tightened with hatred, trying to prize out her soul.

There was a gust of wind that whipped across Mary as she stood next to the regimental flagpole near the tent. The flag then gave way to the wind, falling into the sand.

Mary stared at the flag, remembering the insignia of the light brigade sinking in the sand.

She struggled with herself for a moment, and then picked up the flag. As she stared at it, she knew within herself that many of those soldiers would not return.

By the time that Mary arrived in Sebastopol on her donkey, the battle had been decided. The scene reminded her of the aftermath of the Light Brigade, only this time she knew the faces of the dead and wounded.

'Mother Seacole', one of them called out to her.

She turned round to identify the man. It was Captain Peel.

She knelt down to rest his head on her breast in a semi-conscious affectionate gesture.

'Forgive me, Mother Seacole', he pleaded. 'I never did thank you for the work you've done for the 97th.'

His confession afforded her immediate entry into his humanity. She could see that behind the mass of self-advancing impulse that made up his being, there was a lonely man in need of love. It was a moment of human solidarity.

He made one last effort to live, but it was not his choice. His body shuddered as the weight of his injury finally got the better of him, and then he died cradled in her arms in unconscious comfort. Mother and son had finally made peace with each other. When the Armistice was announced in early 1856, Mary decided to put on a gala dinner for the remaining members of the regiments before they were disbanded and sent back home. She provided a spread of roast fowl, ham and tongues, joints of beef, salmon, oysters, lobsters, claret, cider cups, raspberry vinegar, ale and whiskey.

The hotel was packed with officers and celebrities alike, including Monsieur Alexis Soyer. Soldiers were dressed to perfection. Their black boots shined against their sabres like knights in shining armour. They were the elite of the British army, well trained, Cambridge educated men. There was no gambling or playing cards. Everyone was on their best behaviour, wearing their Sunday best. There was a sense of triumph that was felt amongst all present. Men and women, black and white, English and French all working together for the common good.

The bar had an affluent English feel to it as though it were catering to the higher echelons of polite society. There were bottles of champagne and exotic fruits peppered across the table. Everything was gleaming: the walls, the tablecloth, and the silverware glistened brilliantly in the candlelight.

This was Mary's pride and joy, the epicentre of her kingdom, the culmination of everything that she had worked towards.

She dressed with extreme care for the occasion, stressing every ounce of femininity that she possessed. The softness of her youth had returned to her face as she stood poised with confidence. Her dress was pleated gently over her breasts, emphasizing their fullness. Her lips were painted a daring red plum shade, and her hair was cut slightly in a very becoming way. Her nervous awkwardness was gone, and she smiled freely as though this was the happiest time that she had experienced in the Crimea. She was flawless.

She glanced around at her prestigious guests dressed in their uniforms, and caught the eye of Samuel watching her from a distance. He stood entranced.

'Good evening, Mr. Russell', she greeted him.

'Good evening, Lady Seacole', he replied. 'And may I say how beautiful you look tonight.'

'Why, thank you, kind sir.'

Her shoulders shined alluringly in the candlelight, accentuating her mature desirability.

He turned to the crowd and drew their attention.

'Ladies and gentlemen', he began. 'I propose a toast. To the woman who has given up all unconditionally, without any suggestion of a reward. Please raise your glasses with me…to the dark angel of Jamaica, and mother to us all….Miss Lady Seacole.'

He looked directly at her as he raised his glass.

She returned his gaze, and they both began to drink.

There was an emotional undercurrent between them that was impossible to ignore.

When the festivities were over and the soldiers were deployed on ships back to Britain, Mary stood alone in the empty bar of the British Hotel. Its former glory was gradually being sucked into the void, peopled by shadows of the past. She was no longer needed to save the world, and her memory was gradually being receded from history. The 97th and 48th Regiments could now survive without her.

She absorbed the loss, and in a moment of desperation she threw the kerosene lamp against the bar, setting the hotel on fire.

Samuel rushed into the building to rescue her, and carried her off into the distance.

He held her in awkward comfort, not knowing to do or what to say. Almost instinctively, he began to kiss her hair, hoping her face would lift so that he could kiss her lips.

'What are we going to do, Sam?' Mary asked, tearfully.

'I don't know, Mary', he replied. 'I guess you have to sell what you've got and go back to London.'

He placed his hand to her face gently to make her look up at him. Their eyes was a scene of lovemaking.

'You taught me how to read and write', Mary began. 'Now, I've got something to write about.'

Their lips came together in a deep kiss, freeing themselves of the inhibitions of the old world, embracing the possibilities of the new world when they return back to England as equals.

Copyright © Jason Young

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