Page 107 of Two Wars and a Wedding

Broken wounds, broken limbs, sprained wrists, new cases of fever. They worked through a dawn that never dawned, a morning dark as night, as the ship bucked around them. The men who’d been sleeping on the decks had to be moved back to the hold; Betsy could have wept for it.

“Give them the smoking room,” she said hoarsely. The newspapermen could smoke their smelly cigars elsewhere. She wasn’t sticking her recuperating wounded back in the hold to pick up goodness only knew what. She’d tried to isolate the fever cases in cabins, but it was like emptying the sea with a spoon. For every case she moved, new cases broke out, and there were no more cabins, there was no more space, there was no air in this blasted hold.

“We’re out of ice,” Captain Dowdy told her bluntly when she sent him for a chunk to dilute the brackish water for her fever patients.

“No ice,” Betsy repeatedly numbly.

They’d known it would happen. They’d known the ice would run out. Without it, the water in the tanks was undrinkable; it had been barely drinkable with the ice. Holt’s ingenious contraption produced just enough pure water for a fraction of a cup each for the worst of the fever sufferers. How long could they survive without water?

Three days, they’d told her. This was . . . July 16. They’d been on this ship three nights already. Surely they had to be nearing New York.

They weren’t.

When they still hadn’t made port by the following morning, Betsy put a guard on Holt’s water system; dehydration and fever rendered many completely prone, but those who were ambulatory couldn’t be trusted not to try to break in and slake their thirst. She’d tried giving the passengers and the wounded the water from the tanks, but it was too vile to drink undiluted; the well lost their lunch over the side of the rail and the sick retched up what little they had in their stomachs.

“Whiskey,” Dr. Hicks suggested. That heavy bag that Dr. Hicks had brought on had turned out to consist almost entirely of whiskey bottles. Medicinal whiskey, he had specified, although he seemed to treat himself as liberally as he did the patients.

“Fine,” said Betsy. It would only make them more dehydrated, but perhaps then they wouldn’t mind as much. She was tempted to take a swig herself.

A fine thing it would be when they made port in a ship full of whiskey-scented wounded. But she didn’t care, just as long as they did make port. If they ever made port. Grimly, Betsy toured the ship, whiskey bottle in hand, pouring out a tot each for those who could stomach it.

When they still hadn’t made land the day after that, six days after leaving Siboney, Betsy sent Holt to the captain to find out where on earth they were.

“Cape Henry,” Holt reported grimly.

“Where’s Cape Henry?” Betsy asked, frantically shaking her poor, overused thermometer. They were developing new fever cases by the minute. Her understanding of geography was limited to the Greek islands and the route from Northampton to New Haven.

“Not New York,” said Holt. When Betsy gave him a look, he clarified, “Virginia.”

“Virginia?”

Even in normal conditions, it took at least a day to get by steamer from Virginia to New York.

They didn’t have a day. They had no water, they had no bandages. Oh, they had food, all right. Tinned bully beef cans that bulged suspiciously and exploded on you if you were brave enough to open them, and hardtack, impossible for the sick to chew. Army rations. The passengers had offered to share their food—they’d been provisioned properly—but it wasn’t going to spread far among the rapidly growing number of sick. What they needed was beef tea, oatmeal, and malted milk, all of which were nearly gone.

“Captain Decker says it’s the rough seas. They’ve slowed us down.”

“We can’t afford to slow down!” How much longer could they last on board like this? Not long. And the longer they stayed, the more disease spread. Even one more night could be fatal for some of her patients. Could be fatal for Kit. Betsy bit her lip, hard, using the pain to steady herself. As calmly as she could she said, “Can you go check on the cabins for me? I need to find the doctors.”

She found Dr. Baird gray with exhaustion, practically dead on his feet, tending to Sergeant Pagelow, whose lung wounds were producing alarming quantities of pus.

If they’d been on the hospital ship Relief, those wounds could have been dealt with within hours. As it was, he was drowning, drowning in the fluids from his own lungs.

Betsy wanted to scream, except it was no fair screaming at poor Dr. Baird, who had been working as hard as she had and seemed on the verge of imminent breakdown.

“Where’s Dr. Hicks?” Betsy demanded.

“He’s ill.”

Betsy had no patience left for euphemisms. Or for Dr. Hicks. “Do you mean drunk?”

“No. Fever.” Dr. Baird looked numb, just an empty shell of a man. “It was just a matter of time. . . .”

“We need to make port,” said Betsy bluntly. “I don’t care where, but we need to make port. The captain won’t change orders for me, but he might for you.”

“I don’t think . . .” began the doctor.

Betsy wasn’t having any of that. “I’m out of quinine, I’m out of water, I’m out of bandages—I’ve already torn up my petticoat!”