Page 117 of Two Wars and a Wedding

The surgeon general, George Sternberg, took the train to New York, convening a hurried conference that included the New York medical officer and Doctors Hicks and Baird—but notably not Betsy. After a few hours huddled together, he emerged to pronounce that he had undertaken a review of the situation. No blame was to be attached to the army or the authorities in Siboney. They had done exactly as they ought, clearing the field hospital to make room for new casualties. As to the ship not being provisioned—nonsense. They’d had quinine pills, bandages, malted milk, and beef tea aboard.

The entire hullaballoo was “absurd and absolutely false.” It was all in the fevered imagination of a hysterical woman: Miss Elizabeth Hayes.

Betsy, never one to let herself be cowed, fired back. There were more drawings. Betsy in front of the St. Denis Hotel addressing a mob of reporters: “If it is hysteria to speak the truth and speak it plainly, then I am, indeed, what they say. I have every faith that a formal inquiry will reveal the truth of my statements.”

NO FURTHER INQUIRY INTO THE CASE OF THE SENECA.

The morning paper came with Holt’s coffee. He shook it out, read it once, and then again, feeling sick as he tried to make the little black marks form into words and sentences. General Sternberg, the surgeon general, had made inquiry into the case and concluded that the entire matter was exaggerated. Perhaps they might not have had as many supplies as were needed, but that wasn’t the fault of the authorities; it was entirely the responsibility of the inexperienced, junior doctors, who weren’t part of the army at all, but only contract workers, and ought to have applied more forcibly for stores before sailing. As for the allegations made by the Red Cross nurse . . . the army placed no importance on the utterances of hysterical females.

Holt thought of Dr. Baird, crying over the patients he didn’t have the tools to help.

He thought of Betsy, working determinedly, tirelessly.

He thought of all those men down there, in the hold, in the dark, in the stench, on those horrible, close-packed bunks. The brackish water that was almost worse than no water at all. The fever, the pain, the fear.

Holt wanted to put General Sternberg on that ship, in those conditions, for seven days and see who was hysterical.

Holt drained his coffee without tasting it. He couldn’t let this end like this. He couldn’t let them call Betsy hysterical.

Something had to be done. And Holt had a pretty good idea of what that something was. Two ideas, actually. Both of them loathsome.

He made himself face the worst first. Going down to the front desk, he dictated a telegram. It was a long telegram. But it wasn’t the price that made him grit his teeth. It was the recipient.

Holt felt a bit like he needed to scrub himself with carbolic after he’d sent it—he felt soiled down to his soul—but he didn’t have any carbolic and there was one more teeth-gritting-but-necessary task ahead of him.

Holt took his hat and his brand-new cane and headed downtown on the streetcar.

Kit wasn’t staying at the St. Denis. She had chosen a smaller, cheaper, less storied hotel, closer to Park Row, where the New York World’s gold dome sneered at the spire of the New-York Tribune as they both lorded it over the squat building of the New York Times. The entire street thrummed with the rhythm of underground printers churning out the latest scandals. Holt had no idea how Kit managed to sleep through any of it, but it seemed to energize her. She was looking considerably better than she had when he’d last seen her, although that might have also been due to the very grown-up six-year-old who asked his name and admitted him, and the somewhat less grown-up four-year-old who promptly took his toy soldiers and crawled under a table.

“You’re looking better,” said Holt.

Kit snorted. “It would have been hard to look worse. My husband told me he’s seen corpses in better shape. He said it with love,” she added, as an afterthought. “Thanks for helping to keep me alive on the Seneca.”

“It was mostly Betsy. Thanks for helping to keep me alive in Siboney.”

Kit grinned at him. “It was mostly Betsy. I’m assuming Betsy is why you’re here.”

Holt hovered next to her chair. “How did you guess?”

“My penetrating powers of observation. Sit down. You’re giving me a crick in my neck.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Holt folded himself into the indicated chair, resting his stick against the arm. “Have you seen Betsy? How is she?”

“How do you think? Furious. Hurt.” Kit looked sideways at him. “She comes and visits every day, you know.”

Holt didn’t know.

Kit looked meaningfully at Holt. “You might go and hold her hand.”

“She told me to go away,” Holt mumbled.

Kit snorted. “Oh, honey. And you listened?”

Kit’s six-year-old was watching with undisguised interest. Holt was strongly tempted to crawl under the table with the four-year-old.

“I take what Betsy says seriously,” said Holt with dignity. “That’s why I’m here. Because we have to do something about the defamation of her character.”

“All right,” said Kit, although there was still a glint in her eyes that made Holt distinctly squirmy. “What’s the plan?”