Page 22 of Two Wars and a Wedding

“I’m sure we can fit some of your boys aboard,” said Roosevelt calmly. “After we get settled. You over there! What are you young men up to?”

Two men were in the process of setting a hand-cranked camera on a tripod by the side of the gangplank. One looked up from his work. “We’re from the Vitagraph Company, Colonel Roosevelt,” he said tentatively, as if waiting for Roosevelt to bite. “We’re going to Cuba to take moving pictures.”

The lieutenant colonel stepped aside, motioning them to proceed up the gangplank. “I can’t manage a regiment, but I’m sure I can squeeze in two more,” he said genially.

“This is absurd,” blustered the commanding officer of the 71st New York. “It’s nothing short of highway robbery!”

“My apologies,” said Roosevelt, showing all his teeth, just as the men of the 71st had demanded that morning. Holt doubted they liked it so much now, standing there in the sun, balked of their boat. “I’m under orders from my commanding officer to hold the gangplank. My hands are tied.”

He spread his hands, which were very clearly not tied. Colonel Wood might technically be commanding officer, but there was very little doubt who really ran the regiment.

The commanding officers of the 71st and the 2nd US Infantry stomped off to complain to General Shafter as the Vitagraph men cranked their camera and Roosevelt turned his wide grin to his men.

“Individual initiative, boys. That’s what it’s about. Now let’s get our gear on board before someone else tries to steal our ship!”

A great cheer shook the ship. Men were hanging from the sides, hollering their approval, as the weary 71st tramped away in search of another transport.

From the ship, the dock looked even more chaotic than before, companies broken up between ships, men staggering out from the makeshift bars trying to find their regiments. Holt found himself wondering whether individual initiative was really the best way to organize an invasion and hoping that wouldn’t be the order of the day when it came to battle.

Paul slung an arm around Holt, yanking him into an exuberant hug. “You’re my lucky charm, Holt. Just think if I’d had my pants down and missed this! Huzzah for Colonel Roosevelt! Huzzah for the Rough Riders!”

As the Yucatan began to back slowly away from the pier, toward Cuba and glory, the 2nd Infantry’s band struck up the opening strains of “A Hot Time in the Old Town.” It did seem a bit skewed to Holt that there hadn’t been room for the 71st on the ship, but they’d managed to fit in the Vitagraph men and the 2nd Infantry band.

“You’re singing it wrong!” shouted Paul with glee. “There’ll be a hot time in Cuba next week!”

And the whole company took up the refrain, “A hot time in Cuba next week!”

Port Tampa, Florida

June 16, 1898

“Cuba? Now?”

“What else could it be?” Kit shoved an armload of bandages into the cupboard and slammed the door with a triumphal bang. “Miss Barton is finally back and the stevedores have been loading like nobody’s business.”

Betsy stared dumbly at Kit, her own burden of blankets all but forgotten. They’d been on the State of Texas for two weeks now, long enough for their life on the ship to settle into a routine. “But—we can’t leave. We haven’t got orders. And what about the other nurses? The New York contingent?”

“You mean your friend?” Kit asked shrewdly. “I guess they’ll join us when they join us. You really think Clara Barton is going to wait around for a group of auxiliary nurses when the army is on the move?”

“But are they? Really?” The army had boarded over a week ago and been sitting there, sweating on their ships, ever since. There’d been news of a Spanish warship sighted. Betsy knew it was unpatriotic but she was grateful for that Spanish warship if it kept the fleet from doing whatever it was fleets were meant to do. “They’ve said they’re going before and haven’t.”

“This time it’s for real.” Under her tidy cap, Kit was fizzing with excitement. “They’ve sailed already. No one knows where they’ve gone. Goodness only knows if they know where they’re going! But wherever it is, we’ll be there too.”

“I thought the secretary of the navy hadn’t answered any of Miss Barton’s letters.” The scuttlebutt among the nurses was that their services had been tendered to the army—and ignored.

Kit grimaced. “He still hasn’t. Just like a man. But Miss Barton is made of sterner stuff. When he changes his mind, we’ll be there.”

“But . . .” Betsy looked down and realized she’d unraveled a whole corner of the blanket. They couldn’t be sailing. Not yet. Ava wasn’t here.

She should be glad of that. Ava wasn’t here. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? To stop Ava coming to Cuba.

Only, Betsy realized, with a sickening lurch of her stomach that had nothing to do with the movement of the ship, it wasn’t. Not really.

She hadn’t come to save Ava. She’d come because, as much as she’d hurt Ava, as much as she’d pushed Ava away, she’d hoped, deep down, that Ava would say, “Oh, Betsy,” in that exasperated way of hers, and then hold out her arms and let her rest. She’d come because she’d trusted that Ava would forgive her, as she’d always forgiven her before. Even if the offenses this time had been so much worse.

If she didn’t have Ava, she didn’t have anyone.

“Are you all right? You’re looking green about the gills.”