Maria and the Bellasis Family 15

 

 

 

I walked at 9 o’clock from our home  to Harrow Road, and caught an omnibus from there to the Church of our Lady of Holy Souls.  It was about two  and a half miles, and the journey took me less than half an hour, so I was early for the service.

The church, a rather shabby two story building, was open, but nothing seemed to be going on.  So I walked across the road to the chapel that accompanies the Catholic Cemetery in Golders Green.  

The funeral itself was to be performed in a small chapel attached to the cemetery, and looking at the listing on the door, Mrs. Seacole’s funeral was one of 15 that would take place here today.  It was scheduled for 10 o’clock, and it seemed as if the building was currently  being used for another’s funeral, but several people were starting to line up outside. 

I went up to a gentleman who seemed to be confident in himself, and I took him to be in charge.  “I assume we are both waiting for the funeral of Mrs. Seacole,” I said to him.

“Yes, that is correct. But it is not a public funeral. May I ask why you are attending today? Did you know Mrs. Seacole personally?”

“No, I am Miss Bowring, and I didn’t know her, but I have come at the request of Florence Nightingale, who felt she could not come herself, and asked me to represent her.  May I ask who you are?”

He seemed quite startled that I should not have known.  I am William Howard Russell, and I have been associated with Mrs. Seacole since her days in the Crimea. I wrote the articles in the Times about her, and set up the fund to provide her with sufficient money  for life.”

I gave him my letter from Florence, and he looked at it briefly.  “I don’t see why you should not attend,” he said, “as you are here, as long as you stay in the back and don’t attempt to speak to anyone.  I presume you won’t know any of the other mourners.”

“No,” I said, “and it would be very kind if you could tell me some of their names so I can pass the information  on to Florence.”

“There will be none of her family members here,” he said.  “Her sister lives in Jamaica. But her great friend, Sarah Kent, whom she called Sally, will be here. She was Mrs. Seacole’s companion for a great many years, and travelled everywhere with her.   He stopped a moment and then said, “I shouldn’t like it to be known that I told you, but some say she is actually Mrs. Seacole’s daughter but nothing has been said publicly. Mr. William Day who she was a business partner with,  was some sort of relative of her husband’s, who died within a few years of their marriage. Mr. Day  lives in London and might  be here.“

“I have a second envelope that Miss Nightingale asked me to give to a relative or close friend. Could I give it to you to give to Sally?”

“Yes,” he replied, “I can do that for you,” and pocketed both of the letters. About that time others who were obviously here for the funeral arrived and Mr. Russell excused himself and went off to chat with them. 

There were only perhaps 10 or so of us who gathered, and walked behind the coffin and  Sally seemed to be very much upset.  The others were asked to sign a sheet of those who had attended, but I didn’t put my name on it.  Mr. Russell left it at the end of my pew as he walked down the aisle - no doubt for me to see for my report to Florence.  The names were somewhat difficult to make out, but as well as those whom I knew already, also included were William Farquharson, Colonel Kean, Count Geichen, Julia Henriques, Ernest Henriques, Florence Seacle Kent, and Ada Frances Kent, who I took to be Sally’s daughters, 

It did give me a chance to take notes, as there was no one to see me and wonder what I was doing.

The service was taken by Archbishop Henry Manning, which surprised me, as thinking that she was very much a commoner, he must have been induced to take the service by one of the obviously very important men in the main seats at the front. 

There wasn’t a mass, as I had expected, but with only half an hour slots between funerals, there would not have been time.  There was a choir who sang De Profundis, Psalm 129

 

Out of the depths I have cried unto Thee, O Lord; Lord, hear my voice.

Let Thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplication.

If Thou, O Lord, shalt mark our iniquities: O Lord, who can abide it?

For with Thee there is mercy: and by reason of Thy law I have waited on Thee, O Lord.

 

My soul hath waited on His word: my soul hath hoped in the Lord.

From the morning watch even unto night: let Israel hope in the Lord.

For with the Lord there is mercy: and with Him is plenteous redemption.

And He shall redeem Israel from all his iniquities.

 

Eternal rest give to her, O Lord.

And let perpetual light shine upon her.

May she  rest in peace.

Congregation: Amen

Priest:  Lord, hear my prayer.

Congregation: And let my cry come unto Thee.

Priest: Let us pray.

O God, the Creator and Redeemer of all the faithful; grant to the souls

 of Thy servant departed the remission of all her sins, that by our devout supplications she  may obtain that pardon which she has always desired. Who livest and reignest world without end. 

Congregation: Amen.

Priest:  Eternal rest give unto her, O Lord.

Congregation:  And let perpetual light shine upon her

Priest: May she  rest in peace.

Congregation: Amen.

The Archbishop said some prayers over the casket, and circled it twice with holy water and incense.  

The eulogy was given by Mr. Russell and I shall try to reproduce it here.

Thank you all for coming here today to remember our beloved Mrs. Mary Seacole, who made such a difference in so many lives. She truly was  an Angel on earth, doing all that she could over the years for whatever people she was with needed most. I witnessed her devotion and courage and I saw her nurse the sick and the wounded, who were brought out for her to aid and succour them and she prepared for lasting glory, the illustrious dead. She was a person of truth.  

Mrs. Seacole cared for the English, French, and Sardinian combatants, as well as for the Russians, often while under fire. She helped doctors transfer the sick and wounded from the mules and ambulances into the transports that had to carry them to the hospitals at Scutari or Buyukere, and she lived on an ammunition ship while caring for the wounded on the sick wharf in Balaclava. To the battlefields, she carried "lint, bandages, needles, thread, and medicines," and food from her own stores. She spent much of her own limited capital on medicine for the wounded and often came to their aid without request, tending the wounded on a beach, for example, where they otherwise might suffer unattended for many hours.

Mrs. Seacole's and Mr. Day's British Hotel included a store, a canteen for enlisted men, a kitchen and small mess hall for officers, as well as a medical dispensary and sick bay. The establishment provided relief from life on the front, and many soldiers went there daily for treatment as outpatients. Mrs. Seacole's rules did not permit intoxicants, cards, or dice on the premises, and the fame of her medical and nurturing skills led to her being known as "Mother Seacole" among the wounded.

In 1856, following the sacking of Sebastopol, the war was suddenly ended. Mrs. Seacole and Mr.Day were forced to sell their hotel and inventory at a great loss, leaving her deeply in debt. She returned to England "shaken in health … wounded, as many others did … and found myself poor—beggared." But word of her good works had preceded her, and she soon discovered that she was held by many in high regard, and acclaimed by The Times, Punch, and the Illustrated London News. Subscriptions were raised to release her from bankruptcy, and the lively autobiography she wrote to raise money became a bestseller.

She was born in Jamaica in 1805, so she had lived on earth for 76 years.  Her mother taught her the craft of healing and she practiced it from a very early age, and as well, learned how to provide the needs for people she came in contact with.  She travelled to England several times as a young woman, and always felt that it was her home. Her grandfather had been Scottish, and her father was from this country.  She married Edwin Seacole, but he only lived a few years, so she became a childless widow, but with her will and energy provided medical help and needed supplies wherever she went. 

She joined  her brother Edward when he set up a store in Panama to help those who were making the Canal, and also those who went from there onto California.  And she had much contact with military men when she aided them during the cholera crisis in Jamaica. But when she heard about the conflict in Turkey, she came as quickly as she could to England and tried to get into the regular recruits who volunteered to help in the cause. She was told that Florence Nightingale had sufficient nurses already,  but rather than being put off by this, she decided to fund herself, and she and Mr. William Day, who was a relative of her late husband’s went to Scoutari.  Miss Nightingale provided them with  her good wishes, and a place to stay until they moved on to be close to the fighting. Miss Nightingale's hospital was many miles from the battles, and the injured had to be sent up in boats to reach her ministrations. 

 

Before long Mrs Seacole and Mr. Day had set up their shack, and the stream of soldiers and officers to their quarters was constant day and night.  She provided good meals, shelter and quiet when needed, offered medical assistance when it was within her power to do so. For so many, she was the mother figure that those boys longed to see, and cling to, and often she was holding their hands when they breathed their last.

 

She became a Catholic just after her autobiography was published, and has been active in the church ever since. 

 

We give thanks to God  for the life of Mary Seacole, and for how she touched the hearts of so many. 

 

Then the coffin led by the archbishop and choir processed into the cemetery. Her grave was in a very prominent place, and I noticed that a nearby tombstone was for royalty (August Frederick Duke of Sussex).  The place was beautiful and calm.  The acolytes held up their twinkling tapors and the choir sang  the Miserere in Latin, but I have provided the English translation, as I know Florence won’t be familiar with Latin. It is psalm 51. 

 

Have mercy on me, God, in your kindness. In your compassion blot out my offense. O wash me more and more from my guilt and cleanse me from my sin. My offenses truly I know them; my sin is always before me. Against you, you alone, have I sinned; what is evil in your sight I have done. That you may be justified when you give sentence and be without reproach when you judge. O see, in guilt was I born, a sinner was I conceived. Indeed you love truth in the heart; then in the secret of my heart teach me wisdom. O purify me, then I shall be clean; O wash me, I shall be whiter than snow. Make me hear rejoicing and gladness, that the bones you have crushed may revive. From my sins turn away your face and blot out all my guilt. A pure heart create for me, O God, put a steadfast spirit within me. Do not cast me away from your presence, nor deprive me of your holy spirit. Give me again the joy of your help; with a spirit of fervor sustain me, that I may teach transgressors your ways and sinners may return to you. O rescue me, God, my helper, and my tongue shall ring out your goodness. O Lord, open my lips and my mouth shall declare your praise. For in sacrifice you take no delight, burnt offering from me you would refuse; my sacrifice, a contrite spirit. A humbled, contrite heart you will not spurn. In your goodness, show favor to Zion: rebuild the walls of Jerusalem. Then you will be pleased with lawful sacrifice, holocausts offered on your altar.

 

We then left the cemetery and I caught an omnibus before too long, to take me back to the centre of London.