They had an intense pity for the poor men in the trenches,
badly clad and half starved, grand, patient, ill-used, uncomplaining
fellows!
"My heart bleeds to think of it," wrote the Prince, of the army
administration. He corresponded with Florence Nightingale, and encouraged
her in her brave and saintly mission. When the sick and wounded began to
arrive, in England both he and the Queen were faithful in visiting them
in the hospitals, and Her Majesty had a peculiar sad joy in rewarding the
bravest of the brave with the gift of the Crimean medal. In a private
letter she gives a description of the touching scene. She says:
"From the highest Prince of the blood to the lowest private, all received
the same distinction for the bravest conduct in the severest actions....
Noble fellows! I own I feel for them as though they were my own
children.... They were so touched, so pleased! Many, I hear, cried, and
they won't hear of giving up their medals to have their names engraved
upon them for fear that they may not receive the identical ones put into
their hands by me. Several came by in a sadly mutilated state."
One of these heroes, young Sir Thomas Trowbridge, who had had one leg and
the foot of the other carried away by a round shot at Inkermann, was
dragged in a Bath-chair to the Queen, who, when she gave him his medal,
offered to make him one of her _Aides-de-Camp_, to which the gallant
and loyal soldier replied, "I am amply repaid for everything.
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