Page 46 of Two Wars and a Wedding

“I agree,” said General García. His voice was mild, but there was an edge to it that made Betsy stop squirming and pay attention. “It is a pity the government of the United States did not recognize us sooner and let us do our own fighting. We are sorry to sacrifice your soldiers. It is a great pity—and a great waste.”

It had never occurred to Betsy that the Cuban revolutionaries might not be happy to have them there. From the looks on the faces around her, she wasn’t the only one.

She thought of Paul’s officious friend, with his droopy mustache and his thin, interesting face, talking about saving the women and children of Cuba. But what about the men of Cuba? And why assume it was always women and children who needed saving? Betsy would generally prefer to save herself.

“War is always a waste,” said Miss Barton briskly. “What is past is past. One can only grapple with the present. We shall do our best to make sure as few young men as possible make the ultimate sacrifice—now that the army has deemed it fit to allow us to do so.”

General García bowed. “I wish you the best of success. If I may ever be of assistance . . .”

“We shan’t hesitate to ask.”

When the general had taken his leave, Miss Barton turned back to her troops. And by troops, Betsy meant nurses.

“We have a great task ahead of us. I refer not just to the battle against dirt and disease but to the ridiculous prejudice that attends female endeavor.”

Betsy glanced sideways at Kit. Kit grimaced back, completely and utterly in accord, without a word needing to be said.

She’d never had that before. Ava understood her, but it was a different kind of understanding. What would it have been like to have someone like Kit beside her in Greece? Betsy pressed her lips shut hard against a sudden, burning surge of grief.

She couldn’t let herself think that. Not about what might have been. And certainly not about what was.

What had Miss Barton said? The past was past. They could only tackle the present. Betsy drew in a long, deep breath, forcing herself to focus on Miss Barton, who was still speaking, two bright circles in her cheeks that had little to do with rouge.

“The surgeon in charge told me that if he had his way, he would send all of us home. It is thanks entirely to the extremity in which they find themselves and the outcry of the men that they have summoned us at all—and they await any opportunity to send us away again.”

Miss Barton’s voice was rigorously controlled, but Betsy could hear the anger underneath. Betsy could feel that anger burning, spreading; they were all burning with it, all of them, every single one who had been told she couldn’t do a man’s work, couldn’t dig for antiquities, couldn’t write for the papers, couldn’t nurse on the front. Catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Keep your voice down. Don’t let the men know you’re smarter.

“They can’t do that,” Betsy heard herself saying. “We won’t go.”

Miss Barton looked at her, those old, hooded eyes meeting hers, seeing straight through her. “That, ladies, depends on you. It is incumbent on every one of us to prove him wrong. Every one of us.”

Betsy dug her nails into her palms to stop herself panicking. This wasn’t Greece. She had Kit. And Miss Barton, who, in her passion, seemed roughly seven feet tall and possessed of a flaming sword. One couldn’t imagine anything, including infection, defying Miss Barton.

Miss Barton regarded them all solemnly. “It is a double burden we bear: not just the lives entrusted to our care but the weight of proving ourselves capable, equal to this and any other situation. We shall and we must rise to the occasion. Not just for ourselves but for our sisters at home.”

There was no going back. But at least she wasn’t alone this time.

“What do you need us to do first?” asked Betsy.

Chapter Twelve

Darling Ava,

All is in readiness for your arrival! Aikaterini has the third best guest room aired; Herakles has polished my bicycle to a fine sheen; and everyone is agog to meet you, particularly the Harvard boys. I’ve told them to be very afraid, which only intrigues them more.

I can’t wait to show you off to everyone and to introduce all my new friends to you. Athens has been all aflutter over the news from Crete—you should see the deputies in Parliament twirling their conversation beads like anything—and martial sentiment is running high, so we shall have exciting times for you. They’ve let me join the Union of Greek Women even though I’m not. Greek, that is. My feminine state is something of which Professor Richardson never ceases to remind me. I’ve tried scowling him into a standstill but I just don’t have the eyebrows for it, the way you do.

I’m writing nonsense, aren’t I? I know it’s rather silly writing to you when by the time this letter reaches Concord you will have reached me, but I’m giddy with the thought that in just a day, or maybe two, you’ll be here with me. The world feels like it’s spinning around me faster and faster and I need you and your calm good sense to keep me from spinning with it. You will, won’t you?

I can’t wait to show you my Athens. . . . I hope you adore it as much as I do.

All my love,

Betsy

—Miss Betsy Hayes ’96 to Ava Saltonstall ’96

Athens, Greece