d in a light-hearted manner,
it was rather solemn. I felt it to be so, for I never failed (although
who was I, that I should preach?) to say something about God's
providence and relying upon it; and they were very good. No army of
parsons could be much better than my sons. They would listen very
gravely, and shake me by the hand again, while I felt that there was
nothing in the world I would not do for them. Then very often the men
would say, "I'm going in with my master to-night, Mrs. Seacole; come
and look after him, if he's hit;" and so often as this happened I
would pass the night restlessly, awaiting with anxiety the morning,
and yet dreading to hear the news it held in store for me. I used to
think it was like having a large family of children ill with fever,
and dreading to hear which one had passed away in the night.

And as often as the bad news came, I thought it my duty to ride up to
the hut of the sufferer and do my woman's work. But I felt it deeply.
How could it be otherwise? There was one poor boy in the Artillery,
with blue eyes and light golden hair, whom I nursed through a long and
weary sickness, borne with all a man's spirit, and whom I grew to love
like a fond old-fashioned mother. I thought if ever angels watched
over any life, they would shelter his; but one day, but a short time
after he had left his sick-bed, he was struck down on his battery,
working like a young hero. It was a long time before I could banish
from my mind the thought of him as I saw him last, the yellow hair,
stiff and stained with his life-blood, and the blue eyes closed in the
sleep of death. Of course, I saw him buried, as I did poor H----
V----, my old Jamaica friend, whose kind face was so familiar to me of
old. Another good friend I mourned bitterly--Captain B----, of the
Coldstreams--a great cricketer. He had been with me on the previous
evening, had seemed dull, but had supped at my store, and on the
following morning a brother officer told me he was shot dead while
setting his pickets, which made me ill and unfit for work for the
whole day. Mind you, a day was a long time to give to sorrow in the
Crimea.

I could give many other similar instances, but why should I sadden
myself or my readers? Others have described the horrors of those fatal
trenches; but their real history has never been written, and perhaps
it is as well that so harrowing a tale should be left in oblivion.
Such anecdotes as the following were very c