But that was
not Miss Nightingale's opinion, and she was justified. The
private soldier began to drink less and even-- though that seemed
impossible-- to save his pay. Miss Nightingale became a banker
for the Army, receiving and sending home large sums of money
every month. At last, reluctantly, the Government followed suit,
and established machinery of its own for the remission of
money.Lord Panmure, however, remained sceptical; 'it will do no
good,' he pronounced; 'the British soldier is not a remitting
animal.' But, in fact during the next six months ?71,000 was sent
home.
Amid all these activities, Miss Nightingale took up the further
task of inspecting the hospitals in the Crimea itself. The labour
was extreme, and the conditions of life were almost intolerable.
She spent whole days in the saddle, or was driven over those
bleak and rocky heights in a baggage cart. Sometimes she stood
for hours in the heavily failing snow, and would only reach her
hut at dead of night after walking for miles through perilous
ravines. Her powers of resistance seemed incredible, but at last
they were exhausted. She was attacked by fever, and for a moment
came very near to death. Yet she worked on; if she could not
move, she could at least write, and write she did until her mind
had left her; and after it had left her, in what seemed the
delirious trance of death itself, she still wrote.
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