Page 71 of Two Wars and a Wedding

Kit’s pen had been busy, writing indignant essays that her editor would probably never print. They wanted only guns and glory, Kit had complained to her. But she wrote her articles anyway, pouring out her indignation and frustration at the mismanagement, the mishandling, the sheer waste. Betsy was terrified Kit was going to burn herself out, doing two jobs at once, and putting too much into both.

As Betsy finished yet another endless shift, she saw Kit wobbling down the steps of the hospital building, there to relieve her.

“Betsy—oh, darn.” Kit slapped at a mosquito with both hands, swayed, and grabbed the side of the tent for balance. “Horrible things. They’re everywhere.”

“We need those big mesh hats beekeepers wear,” Betsy said. There were red welts across Kit’s forehead, as there were on the men, no matter how much she slapped the bugs away. The rainy season had brought out the mosquitoes with a vengeance. “Are you all right?”

“Just tired,” said Kit, with a shadow of her usual jaunty smile. Beneath the livid bites, her face was an alarming shade of gray, her eyes glassy.

Given the way they were all working, Betsy suspected she looked equally corpselike. She wanted nothing more than to flop down on her pallet and close her eyes. The urge was so strong, she could practically feel her eyes closing where she stood.

But she had done this before. Kit hadn’t. And Kit had people waiting for her at home. Children waiting for her at home.

It took all her resolve to say, “Why don’t you go lie down a bit? I can take your shift.”

Kit rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “Are you sure you couldn’t use the rest yourself? I can—”

“I know, I know, you can sleep when you’re dead,” said Betsy sharply. Behind Kit, the detail from the 23rd Michigan Volunteers who’d been sent to dig graves for them was filtering past, muddy shovels over their shoulders. “But being dead is highly overrated and I’d prefer to send you home to your children on your own two feet, not in a box.”

Kit blinked at her. “I was only going to say I can use the nap, if you’re sure you don’t mind. You’ve been on your feet all day.”

“Oh.” Betsy felt like an idiot. She made a valiant attempt at flippancy, spoiled slightly by a massive yawn. “What’s a few hours more? I’m fine. You go.”

She hoped Sisters Minnie and Anna were back on their feet soon; it wasn’t clear how long they could keep going on like this. She performed her tasks by rote, in the state of fatigue where everything felt vaguely floaty.

There was a new man in the ward, annoying his neighbors with a high-pitched whistling noise.

“Can you gag him?” one man begged. “Or at least make him hold a tune?”

The man whistled again, louder and harder.

Private Holt was the last man on Betsy’s rounds. He was always the last man on Betsy’s rounds. It was, of course, entirely because he was next to the end of the ward and not because she deliberately arranged it that way so she could stop and spar with him for a few moments.

“How’d you get that man to be quiet?” he asked, as Betsy knelt down to gently pry off his old dressing.

“It was quite simple. He thinks he’s a steamboat on the Mississippi River. Named the Clara Belle,” she added, dropping the soiled dressing into her basket.

“Is that right?” She could see Holt trying not to grin. He was looking considerably better. There was color in his cheeks and the head wound had healed enough that the large bandages had been replaced by a small patch. Any day now, he was going to be well enough to discharge. “So did you explain to him he has no paddle wheel?”

“Of course not.” Betsy sat back on her heels, allowing herself just the slightest moment of smugness. “I told him he’d been taken in for repairs and there’s no coal in his scuttle.”

Holt gave an abrupt bark of laughter. Betsy knew that laugh by now. It was the laugh of someone not used to laughing and it always felt like a small, personal victory.

“How’s the leg?” he asked, as Betsy bandaged him back up. He’d stopped clutching the sheet a few days back, although she could tell he still wanted to. “Will I keep it?”

“Through no fault of your own,” said Betsy severely. “You’re lucky we’re not planting you over there.”

Holt grimaced. “I’m hard to kill.”

Betsy gave his bandage one last twist. “Don’t make me want to try.”

Holt smiled at her. Not a grin, not a grimace, but an actual smile, of surprising and unexpected beauty. “Thank you.”

“Just doing my job,” said Betsy, and stumbled out of the tent, dizzy with more than lack of sleep.

Chapter Eighteen

Dear Ava,