Page 95 of Two Wars and a Wedding

July 14, 1898

“We must go back.”

Someone was speaking in an agitated whisper. Holt tried to sit up, and promptly banged his head on a plank.

He was lying, he realized, in a coffin-sized space, just long enough and wide enough for his recumbent body. It was roughly a thousand degrees in his impromptu casket, the air heavy with moaning and snoring and snuffling, some of which seemed to be coming from above him.

Holt carefully maneuvered his legs over the side of the plank. Straw rustled beneath him, and the very movement made him sweat, but his legs did what he told them. He slithered out of the bunk and found himself standing—swaying, really—in the very narrow space between rows of similar bunks. There was, he realized, a man who had been sleeping below him and two more piled on top. As far ahead as he could see, and to either side, bunks had been lined up like shelves, with corridors in between rows so narrow that Holt could just fit.

On the plus side, it meant he had two sides to grab when his legs wobbled under him.

“We can’t go back.” The voice was coming from somewhere down the close-packed row of bunks. Not far away, but the thicket of beds confused him. Or maybe he was just confused generally. Holt felt about as substantial as tracing paper. His legs didn’t like the idea of holding him, but Holt forced them to anyway, partly out of—what had Nurse Hayes called it?—bloody-mindedness, and partly because he wasn’t sure he could climb back into that bunk even if he wanted to, which he didn’t.

“We can’t go on, not like this.” In her agitation, Nurse Hayes wasn’t keeping her voice quite as low as she should. Slowly, Holt followed the sound, until he could see her through the beds, just a row away, facing off against a man in a dark coat. “There’s not a single medical instrument on the ship, Doctor!”

The doctor murmured something barely distinguishable.

Nurse Hayes put her hands on her hips. “Oh, pardon me. A forceps. A single forceps. But there are no other surgical instruments and half a dozen men desperately in need of surgical intervention!”

“I am as distressed by the situation as you are—” the doctor began, but Nurse Hayes cut him off, her voice clipped.

“Distress doesn’t measure temperatures or stanch blood. We have ninety-four wounded on this boat, and the only medical supplies are the ones I brought in my satchel!”

“We sent a requisition form to the Relief,” the doctor said weakly.

“It’s impossible, you have to see that. We can’t in all conscience keep going.”

The doctor’s shoulders stiffened. “We can’t go back. We have orders. . . .”

Nurse Hayes let out a noise like a kettle on the boil. “Orders? Orders that you let these men die on a floating disaster?”

“I’ll just do my rounds now,” said the doctor, and scurried away, leaving Nurse Hayes staring after him, her face very white and her lips very set.

Holt meant to slip around the side of the bunk, but stealth wasn’t so easy when the room tended to wobble. He stubbed his toe, and Nurse Hayes was at his side in a moment, grabbing him to steady him, as though she were a Titan rather than five foot nothing and about ten pounds.

“Private Holt? What are you doing up?” Her face underwent a remarkable transformation, lighting with sudden, fierce joy. “You’re up! You’re not shaking!”

It was like staring at the lighthouse of Alexandria; she glowed like a beacon. Holt couldn’t look away from that small, brilliant face.

“The quinine seems to have done the trick,” he said thickly. “Er, mostly.”

“Well, what did you expect? First you were bedbound and then you were feverish. If you were steady on your feet, I’d suspect dark arts. Or someone behind you, propping you up.” She slid an arm around his waist. Her head came just to his chin. “Come on. Put your arm around my shoulders. I’ll brace you. I don’t want you falling and breaking something.”

Holt looked down at the top of her head. Her spirit was so towering, he tended to forget how little she was. Her shoulder bone felt tiny and fragile beneath his hand. “I don’t want to weigh you down.”

“You’re the least of the weights on me,” she said grimly. “Let’s get you back to your bunk.”

No. The idea of going back there—Holt wasn’t sure he’d make it out again. “Would it be possible to get some air?”

He could feel her hesitate. “I’m the only nurse on board.”

“You don’t have to linger by my side. I’ll sit on the deck out of the way. Just drop me anywhere.”

“Overboard? Your chances are probably better swimming for shore than staying on here with us.” She shook her head. Her flyaway hair tickled his chin. “Never mind. Forget I said that. All right, then. One foot after the other.”

“I heard you talking back there. To the doctor.” Holt sucked in the salt air as they made their way up onto the deck. He hadn’t realized how foul the air below was until he was out of it. “What’s wrong?”

“What isn’t? I have nearly a hundred sick men and no way to treat them.” Nurse Hayes blindly waved a hand. “There’s a deck chair for you.”