The reports of Dr. Inglis as chief medical officer to the London Committee were as detailed and foreseeing in the very last one that she wrote as in the first from on board the transport that took her and her unit out. She writes:—‘In view of the fact that we are in the middle of big happenings I should like Dr. Laird to bring ½ ton cotton wool, six bales moss dressings, 100 lb. chloroform, 50 lb. ether, 20 gallons rectified spirits. I wonder what news of the river boat for Mesopotamia?’ After they had landed and were at work:—‘I have wired asking for another hospital for the base. I know you have your hands full, but I also know that if the people at home realise what their help would mean out here just now, we would not have to ask twice. And again:—’Keep the home fires burning and let us feel their warmth.’ She soon encountered the usual obstacles:—‘I saw that there was no good in the world talking about regular field hospitals to them until they had tried our mettle. The ordinary male disbelief in our capacity cannot be argued away. It can only be worked away.’ So she acted. Russia created disbelief, but the men at arms of all nations saw and believed. In November she wrote back incredulously:—‘Rumours of falling back. Things look serious. Anxious about the equipment.’ In bombardments, in retreat, and evacuations the equipment was her one thought. ‘Stand by the equipment’ became a joke in her unit. On one occasion one of the orderlies had a heavy fall from a lorry on which she was in charge of the precious stuff. Dusty and shaken, she was gathering herself up, when the voice of the chief rang out imperatively urgent, ‘Stand by the equipment.’ On the rail certain trucks, bearing all the equipment, got on a wrong line, and were carried away:—‘The blue ribbon belongs to Miss Borrowman and Miss Brown. They saw our wagons disappearing with a refugee train, whereupon these two ran after it and jumped on, and finally brought the equipment safely to Galatz. They invented a General Popovitch who would be very angry if it did not get through. Without those two girls and their ingenuity, the equipment would not have got through.’

She details all the difficulties of packing up and evacuating after the despatch rider came with the order that the hospitals were to fall back to Galatz. The only method their own, all else chaotic and helpless, working night and day, the unit accomplished everything. At the station, packed with a country and army in flight, Dr. Inglis had a talk with a Rumanian officer. He told her that he had been in Glasgow, and had there been invited out to dinner, and had seen ‘English customs.’ ‘It was good to feel those English customs were still going on quietly, whatever was happening here, breakfast coming regularly and hot water for baths, and everything as it should be. It was probably absurd, but it came like a great wave of comfort to feel that England was there quiet and strong and invincible behind everything and everybody.’

As we read these natural vivid diary reports, we too can feel it was good of England that Dr. Inglis was to the last on that front—

Dr. Inglis never lost sight of the Army she went out to serve. She refused to return unless they were brought away from the Russian front with her.

‘I wonder if a proper account of what happened then went home to the English papers? The Serbian Division went into the fight 15,000 strong. They were in the centre—the Rumanians on their left, and the Russians on their right. The Rumanians broke, and they fought for twenty-four hours on two fronts. They came out of the fight, having lost 11,000 men. It is almost incredible, and that is when we ought to have been out, and could have been out if we had not taken so long to get under way.’

In the last Report, dated October 29, 1917, she tells her Committee she has been ‘tied by the leg to bed.’ There are notes on coming events:—

‘There really seems a prospect of getting away soon. The Foreign Office knows us only too well. Only 6000 of the Division go in this lot, the rest (15,000) to follow.’

There is a characteristic last touch.

‘I have asked Miss Onslow to get English paper-back novels for the unit on their journey. At a certain shop, they can be got for a rouble each, and good ones.’

To members of that unit, doctors, sisters, orderlies, we are indebted for many personal details, and for the story of the voyage west, when for her the sun was setting. Her work was accomplished when on the transport with her and her unit were the representatives of that Serbian Army with whom she served, faithful unto death.

Miss Arbuthnot, the granddaughter of Sir William Muir, the friend of John Inglis, was one of those who helped to nurse Dr. Inglis:—

‘I sometimes looked after her when the Sister attending her was off duty. Her consideration and kindness were quite extraordinary, while her will and courage were quite indomitable. To die as she did in harness, having completed her great work in getting the Serbs away from Russia, is what she would have chosen.

‘I first met Dr. Inglis at Hadji Abdul, a small mud village about ten miles from Galatz. She was looking very ill, but was always busy. For some time she had been ill with dysentery, but she never even stayed in bed for breakfast till it was impossible for her to move from bed.

‘During our time at Hadji we had about forty Serbian patients, a few wounded, but mostly sick. Dr. Inglis did a few minor operations, but her last major one was a gastro-enterotomy performed on one of our own chauffeurs, a Serb, Joe, by name. The operation took three hours and was entirely satisfactory, although Dr. Inglis did not consider him strong enough to travel back to England. She was particularly fond of this man, and took no end of trouble with him. Even after she became so very ill she used constantly to visit him.

‘The Serbs entertained us to several picnics, which we duly returned. Dr. Inglis was always an excellent hostess, so charming and genial to every one, and so eager that both entertainers and entertained should equally enjoy themselves. Provided her permission was asked first, and duty hours or regular meals not neglected, she was always keen every one should enjoy themselves riding, walking, or going for picnics. If any one was ill, she never insisted on their getting up in spite of everything, as most doctors, and certainly all matrons, wish us to do. She was strict during duty hours, and always required implicit obedience to her orders—whatever they were. She was always so well groomed—never a hair out of place. In appearance she was a splendid head. One felt so proud of her among the dirty and generally unsuitably dressed women in other hospitals. She was very independent, and would never allow any of us to wait on her. The cooks were not allowed to make her any special dishes that the whole unit could not share. As long as she could, she messed with the unit, and there was no possibility of avoiding her quick eye; anything which was reserved for her special comfort was rejected. Once, a portion of chicken was kept as a surprise for her. She asked whether there had been enough for all, and when the cooks reluctantly confessed there was only the one portion she sent it away.

‘During one of the evacuations, an order had been given that there were only two blankets allowed in each valise. Some one, mindful of her weakness, stuffed an extra one into Dr. Inglis’ bag, because in her emaciated condition she suffered much from the cold. It stirred her to impetuous anger, and with something of the spirit of David, as he poured out the water brought him at the peril of the lives of his followers, she flung the blanket out of the railway carriage, as a lesson to those of her unit who had disobeyed an order.

‘Every Sunday Dr. Inglis read the Church service with great dignity and simplicity. On the weekday evenings, before she became so ill, she would join us in a game of bridge, and played nearly every night. During the retreats when nothing more could be done, and she felt anxious, she would sit down and play a game of patience. During the weeks of uncertainty, when the future of the Serbs was doubtful, and she was unable to take any active part, she fretted very much.

‘After endless conflicting rumours and days of waiting, the news arrived that they were to go to England. Her delight was extraordinary, for she had lain in her bed day after day planning how she could help them, and sending endless wires to those in authority in England, but feeling herself very impotent. Once the good news arrived, her marvellous courage and tenacity helped her to recover sufficiently, and prepare all the details for the journey with the Serbs. We left on the 29th October, with the H.G. Staff and two thousand Serbian soldiers, in a special train going to Archangel.

‘Dr. Inglis spent fifteen days on the train, in a second-class compartment, with no proper bed. Her strength varied, but she was compelled to lie down a great deal, although she insisted on dressing every morning. On two occasions she walked for five minutes on the station platform; each time it absolutely exhausted her. Though she suffered much pain and discomfort, she never complained. She could only have benger, chicken broth and condensed milk, and she often found it impossible to take even these. If one happened to bring her tea, or her food, she thanked one so charmingly.

‘At Archangel there was no means of carrying her on to the boat, so with help (one orderly in front, and one lifting her behind), she climbed a ladder twenty feet high, from the platform to the deck of the transport. She was a good sailor, and had a comfortable cabin on the ship. She improved on board slightly, and used to sit in the small cabin allotted to us on the upper deck. She played patience, and was interested in our sea-sick symptoms. There was a young naval officer very seriously ill on the boat. Our people were nursing him, and she constantly went to prescribe; she feared he would not live, and he died before we reached our port.

‘After some improvement, Dr. Inglis had a relapse; violent pain set in, and she had to return to bed. Even then, a few days before we reached England, she insisted on going through all the accounts, and prepared fresh plans to take the unit on to join the Serbs at Salonika. In six weeks she expected to be ready to start. She sent for each of us in turn, and asked if we would go with her. Needless to say, only those who could not again leave home, refused, and then with the deepest regret. The night before we reached Newcastle, Dr. Inglis had a violent attack of pain, and had no sleep all night. Next morning she insisted on getting up to say good-bye to the Serbian staff.

‘It was a wonderful example of her courage and fortitude, to see her standing unsupported—a splendid figure of quiet dignity. Her face ashen and drawn like a mask, dressed in her worn uniform coat, with the faded ribbons that had seen such good service. As the officers kissed her hand, and thanked her for all she had done for them, she said to each of them a few words accompanied with her wonderful smile.’

As they looked on her, they also must have understood, ‘sorrowing most of all, that they should see her face no more.’

‘After that parting was over, Dr. Inglis collapsed from great weakness. She left the boat Sunday afternoon, 25th November, and arrived quite exhausted at the hotel. I was allowed to see her for a minute before the unit left for London that night. She could only whisper, but was as sweet and patient as she ever was. She said we should meet soon in London.’

After her death, many who had watched her through these strenuous years, regretted that she did not take more care of herself. Symptoms of the disease appeared so soon, she must have known what overwork and war rations meant in her state. This may be said of every follower of the One who saved others, but could not save Himself. The life story of Saint and Pioneer is always the same. To continue to ill-treat ‘brother body’ meant death to St. Francis; to remain in the fever swamps of Africa meant death to Livingstone. The poor, and the freedom of the slave, were the common cause for which both these laid down their lives. Of the same spirit was this daughter of our race. Had she remained at home on her return from Serbia she might have been with us to-day, but we should not have the woman we now know, and for whom we give thanks on every remembrance of her.

The long voyage ended at last. Miss Arbuthnot makes no allusion to its dangers. Everything written by the ‘unit’ is instinct with the high courage of their leader. We know now how great were the perils surrounding the transports on the North seas. Old, and unseaworthy, the menace below, the storm above, through the night of the Arctic Circle, she was safely brought to the haven where all would be. More than once death in open boats was a possibility to be faced; there were seven feet of water in the engine-room, and only the stout hearts of her captain and crew knew all the dangers of their long watch and ward. As the transport entered the Tyne a blizzard swept over the country. We who waited for news on shore wondered where on the cold grey seas laboured the ship bringing home ‘Dr. Elsie and her unit.’

In her last hours she told her own people of the closing days on board:—

‘When we left Orkney we had a dreadful passage, and even after we got into the river it was very rough. We were moored lower down, and, owing to the high wind and storm, a big liner suddenly bore down upon us, and came within a foot of cutting us in two, when our moorings broke, we swung round, and were saved. I said to the one who told me—“Who cut our moorings?” She answered, “No one cut them, they broke.”’

There was a pause, and then to her own she broke the knowledge that she had heard the call and was about to obey the summons.

‘The same hand who cut our moorings then is cutting mine now, and I am going forth.’

Her niece Evelyn Simson notes how they heard of the arrival:—

‘A wire came on Friday from Aunt Elsie, saying they had arrived in Newcastle. We tried all Saturday to get news by wire and ’phone, but got none. We think now this was because the first news came by wireless, and they did not land till Sunday.

‘Aunt Elsie answered our prepaid wire, simply saying, “I am in bed, do not telephone for a few days.” I was free to start off by the night train, and arrived about 2 A.M. at Newcastle. I found the S.W.H. were at the Station Hotel, and I saw Aunt Elsie’s name in the book. I did not like to disturb her at that hour, and went to my room till 7.30. I found her alone; the night nurse was next door. She was surprised to see me, as she thought it would be noon before any one could arrive. She looked terribly wasted, but she gave me such a strong embrace that I never thought the illness was more than what might easily be cured on land, with suitable diet.

‘I felt her pulse, and she said. “It is not very good, Eve dear, I know, for I have a pulse that beats in my head, and I know it has been dropping beats all night.” She wanted to know all about every one, and we had a long talk before any one came in. She told me how good Dr. Ward had been to her, always, and we arranged that Dr. Ethel Williams should come. Aunt Elsie then packed me off to get some breakfast, and Dr. Ward told me she was much worse than she had been the night before.

‘I telephoned to Edinburgh saying she was “very ill.” When Dr. Williams came, I learnt that there was practically no hope of her living. They started injections and oxygen, and Aunt Elsie said, “Now don’t think we didn’t think of all these things before, but on board ship nothing was possible.”

‘It was not till Dr. Williams’ second visit that she asked me if the doctor thought “this was the end.” When she saw that it was so, she at once said, without pause or hesitation, “Eve, it will be grand starting a new job over there,”—then, with a smile, “although there are two or three jobs here I would like to have finished.” After this her whole mind seemed taken up with the sending of last messages to her committees, units, friends, and relations. It simply amazed me how she remembered every one down to her grand-nieces and nephews. When I knew mother and Aunt Eva were on their way, I told her, and she was overjoyed. Early in the morning she told me wonderful things about bringing back the Serbs. I found it very hard to follow, as it was an unknown story to me. I clearly remember she went one day to the Consul in Odessa, and said she must wire certain things. She was told she could only wire straight to the War Office—“and so I got into touch straight with the War Office.”

‘Mrs. M‘Laren at one moment commented—“You have done magnificent work.” Back swiftly came her answer, “Not I, but my unit.”

‘Mrs. M‘Laren says: ‘Mrs. Simson and I arrived at Newcastle on Monday evening. It was a glorious experience to be with her those last two hours. She was emaciated almost beyond recognition, but all sense of her bodily weakness was lost in the grip one felt of the strong alert spirit, which dominated every one in the room. She was clear in her mind, and most loving to the end. The words she greeted us with were—“So, I am going over to the other side.” When she saw we could not believe it, she said, with a smile, “For a long time I meant to live, but now I know I am going.” She spoke naturally and expectantly of going over. Certainly she met the unknown with a cheer! As the minutes passed she seemed to be entering into some great experience, for she kept repeating, “This is wonderful—but this is wonderful.” Then, she would notice that some one of us was standing, and she would order us to sit down—another chair must be brought if there were not enough. To the end, she would revert to small details for our comfort. As flesh and heart failed, she seemed to be breasting some difficulty, and in her own strong way, without distress or fear, she asked for help, “You must all of you help me through this.” We repeated to her many words of comfort. Again and again she answered back, “I know.” One, standing at the foot of the bed, said to her, “You will give my love to father”; instantly the humorous smile lit her face, and she answered, “Of course I will.”

‘At her own request her sister read to her words of the life beyond—“Let not your heart be troubled—In my Father’s house are many mansions; if it were not so I would have told you,” and, even as they watched her, she fell on sleep.

‘After she had left us, there remained with those that loved her only a great sense of triumph and perfect peace. The room seemed full of a glorious presence. One of us said, “This is not death; it makes one wish to follow after.”’

As ‘We’ waited those anxious weeks for the news of the arrival of Dr. Inglis and her Army, there were questionings, how we should welcome and show her all love and service. The news quickly spread she was not well—might be delayed in reaching London; the manner of greeting her must be to ensure rest.

The storm had spent itself, and the moon was riding high in a cloudless heaven, when others waiting in Edinburgh on the 26th learnt the news that she too had passed through the storm and shadows, and had crossed the bar.

That her work here was to end with her life had not entered the minds of those who watched for her return, overjoyed to think of seeing her face once more. She had concealed her mortal weakness so completely, that even to her own the first note of warning had come with the words that she had landed, but was in bed:—‘then we thought it was time one of us should go to her.’

Her people brought her back to the city of her fathers, and to the hearts who had sent her forth, and carried her on the wings of their strong confidence. There was to be no more going forth of her active feet in the service of man, and all that was mortal was carried for the last time into the church she had loved so well. Then we knew and understood that she had been called where His servants shall serve Him.

The Madonna lilies, the lilies of France and of the fields, were placed around her. Over her hung the torn banners of Scotland’s history. The Scottish women had wrapped their country’s flag around them in one of their hard-pressed flights. On her coffin, as she lay looking to the East in high St. Giles’, were placed the flags of Great Britain and Serbia.

She had worn ‘the faded ribbons’ of the orders bestowed on her by France, Russia, and Serbia. It has often been asked at home and abroad why she had received no decorations at the hands of her Sovereign. It is not an easy question to answer.

On November the 29th, Dr. Inglis was buried, amid marks of respect and recognition which make that passing stand alone in the history of the last rites of any of her fellow-citizens. Great was the company gathered within the church. The chancel was filled by her family and relatives—her Suffrage colleagues, representatives from all the societies, the officials of the hospitals and hostels she had founded at home, the units whom she had led and by whose aid she had done great things abroad. Last and first of all true-hearted mourners the people of Serbia represented by their Minister and members of the Legation. The chief of the Scottish Command was present, and by his orders military honours were paid to this happy warrior of the Red Cross.

The service had for its keynote the Hallelujah Chorus, which was played as the procession left St. Giles’. It was a thanksgiving instinct with triumph and hope. The Resurrection and the Life was in prayer and praise. The Dean of the Order of the Thistle revealed the thoughts of many hearts in his farewell words:—

‘We are assembled this day with sad but proud and grateful hearts to remember before God a very dear and noble lady, our beloved sister, Elsie Inglis, who has been called to her rest. We mourn only for ourselves, not for her. She has died as she lived, in the clear light of faith and self-forgetfulness, and now her name is linked for ever with the great souls who have led the van of womanly service for God and man. A wondrous union of strength and tenderness, of courage and sweetness, she remains for us a bright and noble memory of high devotion and stainless honour. Especially to-day, in the presence of representatives of the land for which she died, we think of her as an immortal link between Serbia and Scotland, and as a symbol of that high courage which will sustain us, please God, till that stricken land is once again restored, and till the tragedy of war is eradicated and crowned with God’s great gifts of peace and of righteousness.’

The buglers of the Royal Scots sounded ‘the Reveille to the waking morn,’ and the coffin with the Allied flags was placed on the gun carriage. Women were in the majority of the massed crowd that awaited the last passing. ‘Why did they no gie her the V.C.?’ asked the shawl-draped women holding the bairns of her care: these and many another of her fellow-citizens lined the route and followed on foot the long road across the city. As the procession was being formed, Dr. Inglis’ last message was put into the hands of the members of the London Committee for S.W.H. It ran:—

‘November 26, 1917.

‘So sorry I cannot come to London. Dr. Williams and Dr. Ward are agreed, and quite rightly. Will send Gwynn in a day or two with explanations and suggestions. Colonel Miliantinovitch and Colonel Tcholah Antitch were to make appointment this week or next from Winchester; do see them, and also as many of the committee as possible and show them every hospitality. They have been very kind to us, and whatever happens, dear Miss Palliser, do beg the Committee to make sure that they (the Serbs) have their hospitals and transport, for they do need them.

‘Many thanks to the Committee for their kindness to me and their support of me.

‘Elsie Inglis.

‘Dictated to Miss Evelyn Simson.’

How the people loved her! was the thought, as she passed through the grief-stricken crowds. These, who knew her best, smiled as they said one to another, ‘How all this would surprise her!’

Edinburgh is a city of spires and of God’s acres, the graves cut in the living rock, within gardens and beside running waters. Across the Water of Leith the long procession wound its way. Within sight of the grave, it was granted to her grateful brethren, the representatives of the Serbian nation, to carry her coffin, and lower it to the place where the mortal in her was to lie in its last rest. Her life’s story was grouped around her—the Serbian officers, the military of her own nation at war, the women comrades of the common cause, the poor and suffering—to one and all she had been the inspiring succourer.

November mists had drifted all day across the city, veiling the fortress strength of Scotland, and the wild wastes of seas over which she had returned home to our island strength. Even as we turned and left her, the grey clouds at eventide were transfused and glorified by the crimson glow of the sunset on the hills of Time.

Printed in Great Britain by T. and A. Constable, Printers to His Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press