Page 109 of Two Wars and a Wedding

Holt wasn’t sure if Dr. Baird was more afraid of fever or of Betsy, but either way, he made a sufficiently impassioned case to Captain Decker that the word came down that the ship was to put in immediately at Hampton Roads, Virginia, where there was an army base with a hospital of sufficient size to take in the more severely wounded.

The local medical authorities, it seemed, had other ideas.

“Out of the question.” Dr. Pettus, the medical officer tasked with inspection, emerged from the hold looking deeply shaken. He rounded on Betsy and Dr. Baird, who were following behind him. “This ship ought never to have been here! The idea—the idea of bringing these passengers to shore— We haven’t the facilities for containing yellow fever.”

Dr. Baird said weakly, “There’s no evidence that we have yellow fever on board.”

“There’s no evidence you don’t!” Pettus’s voice rose as he hurried across the deck toward the ladder that would take him to his waiting dinghy. “I noted at least six suspicious cases. This ship should never have been allowed to enter Hampton Roads.”

He stopped and turned, facing all of them. He was, Holt realized, shaking. His whole body was shaking. Shaking with anger. And fear.

Pettus raised his voice as he addressed all those on deck, from Captain Decker, standing in the background, looking suitably naval, to those patients who were well enough to take the air, to the American newspapermen, now somewhat less robust than they had been when the voyage began. He glared at them all. “No one is permitted to leave this ship. No one is to approach this ship. All boats will be ordered to lie well to windward until you depart.”

There was a horrible stillness. No one could quite take in the idea that their promised haven wasn’t a haven after all. They had no water, no supplies, a hold full of men getting sicker by the moment. And they were being sent back to sea.

It was Betsy who spoke. In a high, carrying voice, she said, “So you’re signing the death warrant of every man and woman on board.”

Holt could see Dr. Pettus bristle. “There’s no need to be dramatic about it. I have a responsibility.”

“You have a responsibility to the sick.” Betsy was standing on the very tips of her toes, terrible in her anger. Holt half expected snakes to start writhing from her hair.

“I have a responsibility to the people of Norfolk,” Pettus snapped.

“Hey,” said one of the newspapermen. Holt still couldn’t tell them apart. He’d made a habit of avoiding newspapers, and he wasn’t about to change it now. “Some of us are just here as passengers.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said his comrade, who had long since run out of cigars to chomp. “He’ll leave us here to rot with the rest of them.”

“This ship,” said Pettus angrily, “originated in the village of Siboney. That pestilential place has been so overrun with yellow fever that the army saw fit to burn it to the ground.”

Betsy’s feet went flat on the ground. Her face drained of color. “Burned. Siboney? But we’ve only been gone . . .”

“Six days,” Holt supplied for her. Six days for yellow fever to go from a vague rumor to a threat so severe that the army incinerated an entire village.

Dr. Pettus made for the ladder. “I saw enough ugly sickness down below to warrant me in my decision not to allow your surgeons to land these men. I myself shall proceed directly to a quarantine vessel for a complete change of clothing before setting foot onshore.”

Betsy was white as a sheet, in shock. Holt limped forward. “We fully appreciate that, Doctor. But we can’t go back to sea lacking the basic necessities. These men need water, food, and medical supplies. If those items could be provided . . .”

The doctor’s legs and torso were already disappearing over the side. “Make a list and wire it to the shore.”

Within an hour, the supplies began to arrive. Casks of water bumped up against the side of the ship as they were hauled up one at a time with a winch and tackle, delivered by small boats manned by sailors who kept their faces carefully muffled to avoid breathing in infection. Back and forth the boats went, bringing blocks of ice, cartons of medical supplies, food.

Holt found Betsy in the galley, frenetically sorting supplies.

“There’s enough beef tea to keep us for months,” she said, in a bright, unnatural voice. “And malted milk too. If we’re to be lepers, at least we’re to be well-fed lepers.”

She turned her back on him, plunging elbow deep in a box full of packages of Armour’s beef extract.

Elsewhere on the ship, casks of water were being opened, quinine pills distributed, telegrams sent back and forth between the ship and the authorities in Washington. It wasn’t ideal, but their immediate problems had been, if not fixed, at least alleviated.

Holt didn’t think that was what was really upsetting Betsy.

Holt wasn’t sure when it happened, but at some point, maybe in the tent in Siboney, maybe on board ship, he had found himself translating from Betsy to English, as if she were a tablet scratched with ancient writing and he had, tentatively, found the code.

Having once started, Holt couldn’t seem to stop. He found himself absurdly aware of her every mood, every word, every gesture, weighing the meaning of each expression, each half-drawn breath.

Holt propped an elbow against the counter. “You’re worried about your friend. The one with the eyebrows.”

He saw her stiffen, half-bent over the box. Slowly, she straightened and looked at him. “They burned Siboney. How bad does it have to be for them to burn a whole village?”