Merline Lovelace (19 page)

She had taken less than a dozen steps before the glow faded and reality set in. There wasn’t any question now about leaving Cuba. She couldn’t think just of herself. Or Sam. She had to consider the child she might be carrying.

As she slogged through the mud, skirts held high, Callie May’s parting advice echoed over and over in her head. Victoria had to board the
Sea Cloud
tomorrow. If she was indeed pregnant, she shouldn’t remain around fever patients.

Her mind still spinning, she found a table at a small taverna on the plaza and hurriedly composed her final dispatch from Cuba. Once she’d sent it over the wires, she made a quick tour of the market to purchase parting gifts, then returned to the house on Calle San Giorgio to pack her bag.

Retrieving her personal items from the clothespress, she plopped them on the bed beside her valise. She had made enough purchases over the past weeks to make packing a distinct challenge. Frowning, she overturned the valise and dumped its contents on the bed.

Her stacks of notebooks tumbled out, along with
Richard Harding Davis’s now moldy cork helmet, Sam’s service revolver and the unused linen rags Victoria had so belatedly remembered. With a shake of her head, she set the helmet and linens aside and picked up the holstered revolver. Small patches of mildew greened the leather, but careful examination showed the Colt itself still glistened with a thin sheen of protective oil.

Chewing on her lower lip, Victoria debated for some moments before returning both the weapon and her notebooks to the valise. Those items alone ate up almost half the available space, but she wouldn’t leave them behind. It took only a few moments more to sort through her clothing and cram in what she could.

Once packed, she paced the tiled floors and waited for Sam to return from his duties at the governor’s palace.

Of course he had to be late!

Their last night in Cuba. With only hours left for them to be together for God knew how long. And Victoria fairly shivering with wonder, with excitement, with curiosity about how he would react to her news.

Señora Garcia set dinner back twice, but Victoria finally sat down to a solitary meal of stewed chicken served with a spicy sauce of diced tomatoes, onions and peppers. She forced herself to eat
every bite. If she
was
breeding, both she and the baby would need sustenance.

After dinner, she retrieved one of her notebooks and tried to compose some reflections on her time in Cuba for a longer article, perhaps a retrospective. She gave up after the fourth or fifth attempt and filled several pages with doodles.

Still Sam didn’t return.

The candles had begun to sputter when at last she heard the outer door slam and a low exchange in Spanish. The sound of boots on the tiles brought her around in her chair. Swallowing her disappointment, she welcomed Max Luna with a smile.

“You’re quite late this evening.”

“I know. I earned my pay tonight, I can tell you. General Wood held a number of meetings with Santiago’s civic and military leaders.”

Excitement kindled in his dark eyes. Victoria felt it emanating from him in waves as he tossed his hat aside and joined her at the table.

“It looks like the United States and Spain have finally come to terms on a peace agreement.”

“Max! Tell me at once! Is the war really over?”

“Apparently. We received a cable from the War Department this afternoon. Spain has agreed to evacuate its forces from Cuba, cede Puerto Rico and the island of Guam to the United States, and sell us the Philippines for an as-yet-undisclosed sum.”

A fierce satisfaction shot through Victoria’s veins. All those gallant soldiers and sailors hadn’t fought in vain. The news reporters who’d covered the rebels’ fierce struggle for so long hadn’t espoused a hopeless cause. Finally,
finally,
the thousands of peasants who’d been forced into reconcentration camps by the Spanish, decimated by sickness and starved by war would be able to return to their homes.

“Cuba will have its independence at last!”

“Well…” Dropping into the chair opposite hers, Max shook his head. “Not quite yet.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Evidently a number of influential businessmen with sugar interests in Cuba have petitioned President McKinley. They feel strongly that the island should remain under the jurisdiction of an American military governor.”

“For how long?”

“At least until we’re assured a native government will protect American economic interests.”

Victoria could have cared less about American economic interests at the moment. Her only concern was that Sam would remain indefinitely with the military administrator.

“The rumor is General Wood will be appointed governor-general of all Cuba,” Max said, confirming her fears.

“Will he want to keep you with him, do you think? You and Sam?”

“So he’s indicated.”

“Oh, no!”

Swallowing an unladylike curse, Victoria slumped back in her chair. This was her last night in Cuba. Her last hours with Sam, perhaps for some years to come. They should be celebrating the peace agreement. Discussing the incredible possibility that they might have made a child together. Saying their private, passionate farewells.

“I suppose that’s why Sam’s still at the governor’s palace,” she muttered. “No doubt he’ll have to remain on duty most of the night.”

Max glanced at her in surprise. “He’s not at the palace. Didn’t he send you word?”

“No.”

“I’m sure he meant to, but he must not have had time before he dashed out this afternoon.”

“Where did he go?”

“Siboney. He received a message that a friend is down with the fever.”

Slowly, Victoria sat up. “Did he mention the name of the friend?”

“Mrs. Prendergast. I believe you know her, don’t you?”

She opened her mouth. Tried to speak. Swallowed and tried again. “Yes. I know her.”

D
ark, cloud-covered night blanketed Sam as he spurred his mount along the rutted dirt track that ran from Santiago to Siboney. Mud flew up from the gelding’s hooves, spattering both horse and rider, but thankfully the rain had slowed to a drizzle. At least Sam could see more than a few yards in front of him.

What he saw wrung a frustrated oath.

Those lanterns flickering up ahead indicated another damned checkpoint. With close to seventy thousand troops bivouacked in the hills, their tents strung out over every cleared patch of ground between Siboney and Santiago, sentry points seemed to have sprung up every hundred yards or so.

“Halt! Who goes there?”

Gritting his teeth, Sam reined in. “Captain Samuel Garrett. First Volunteer Cavalry, on detached duty with General Wood’s staff.”

“Come forward, sir.”

He moved into the pool of lantern light and dug out the official document he’d hastily written before leaving Santiago.

“Here’s my pass.”

After being shown to so many other sentries, the ink had all but washed away. Just as well, since Sam had signed the thing himself. The two infantrymen squinted at the soggy paper, but couldn’t decipher it any more than they could distinguish his unit insignia.

“Where you headed, sir?”

“To the hospital at Siboney. On a mission of some urgency.”

“Must be urgent,” one of the men muttered. “Can’t imagine anyone going to that charnel house unless they have to.”

His companion handed Sam the soggy pass. “You know you’ll need a paper from the surgeon to get back through the lines, don’t you, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Our major gave us strict orders,” the soldier warned, stepping aside. “We can’t let anyone through from the hospital unless the surgeon certifies in writing they’ve had no contact with yellow fever patients.”

Biting back another curse, Sam pocketed the pass and dug his heels into his mount’s sides. Damn Alger and those idiots in Washington. Their fears
about a potential yellow fever epidemic had now spread to the troops in Cuba. Rumors ran rampant through the camps. Commanders at every level believed thousands, if not tens of thousands, were down with the dreaded disease.

From the daily reports coming in to General Wood, Sam knew the actual count was closer to three hundred. Yet the paranoia persisted, and Alger’s misguided order to segregate the sick from the well had become carved in stone. Anyone—anyone—known to have contact with yellow fever patients had suddenly become the enemy.

Like Mary.

With every thud of his horse’s hooves, the message from the hospital commander drummed in Sam’s head. Brief. Terse. To the point.

Captain Garret had asked to be kept apprised of Mrs. Prendergast’s situation. She was down with malaria. Only malaria at this point. But in her weak and exhausted condition, it could well lead to jaundice and complications of the liver. Or worse.

Sam had left Santiago with one purpose and one purpose only. He wasn’t about to lose Mary to malaria. Or to Secretary Alger’s order.

By the time he cleared the last checkpoint and spurred his weary mount up the hill to the hospital, midnight had come and gone. Flickering campfires showed specks of red against the dark fields. Long,
silent rows of white tents stretched into the night like sleeping ghosts. Lamps illuminated the interior of the larger surgical tents, displaying dark silhouettes of those still at their work.

Beyond the main hospital, the rolls of concertina wire surrounding the contagion ward glinted in the moonlight. Only a few lamps glowed inside the cordoned-off area. The rest, Sam guessed grimly, had been doused in the hopes the stricken patients might get some rest.

He sat still in the saddle, surveying the isolation unit, noting the sentry posted at the single entrance, working out a tactical plan in his mind. Then he swung down and went in search of the hospital commander.

He found McKenna at his tent. The flap was up, the interior lit by an oil lamp. The gray-haired colonel sat on his cot. Elbows propped on his knees, he dangled his hands between his legs. His head drooped between slumped shoulders. Snores resonated with each rise and fall of his chest.

“Colonel?”

The surgeon’s head shot up. “Who? What?”

Blinking owlishly, he searched the tent. Sam stepped into the light.

“Captain Garrett, sir. I received your message.”

“Oh. Yes.” His shoulders slumped once again. “Come in, man. Come in.”

Sam ducked under the flap and forced out the
question burning a hole in his head. “How is Mrs. Prendergast?”

“Delirious, according to the last report.”

“When was that?”

“Three, maybe four hours ago. I lose track of time, especially at night.” Wearily, McKenna rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I understand why you’ve come. You’re concerned about her. We all are. But there’s nothing you can do for her now.”

Yes, there was, Sam thought grimly. He could take her out of the contagion ward. Lessen her exposure to other fevers. Help her fight the malaria. Which was exactly what he intended to do. With a nod to the colonel, he turned to leave.

“Garrett!” The surgeon shoved off his cot. “You’re not thinking of doing anything foolish, are you? Like trying to enter the contagion area?”

Sam looked him square in the eye. “No, sir.”

Their glances locked. Tension crackled in the air until, at last, McKenna broke it with a harsh sigh.

“I’ve lost so many of my people. Orderlies. Cooks. Three of my surgeons. Almost half of the volunteers from the Twenty-fourth Infantry. And my nurses.” Pain edged his voice. “Fifteen of them dead of dysentery and typhoid so far.”

“But not from Yellow Jack.”

“No,” he said slowly. “None lost to Yellow Jack. So far.”

Mary wouldn’t be the first, Sam vowed fiercely.

The colonel must have read his thoughts in his face.

“Think before you do something you’ll have cause to regret,” he cautioned. “Secretary Alger’s order is very specific. You risk a court-martial if you attempt to circumvent it.”

“You and I both know that order resulted from misinformation and near hysteria,” Sam said quietly.

They both also knew that Mary’s life was well worth a court-martial. McKenna wouldn’t have sent him word of her condition otherwise.

“Mrs. Prendergast has worked in the contagion ward for weeks now,” the surgeon conceded wearily. “If she hasn’t contracted yellow fever by now, it’s clear she’s immune. But an order is an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

With the dragging walk of an old man, he moved to a table tucked under the slope of the tent. It was littered with the implements of his trade. His hand closed around a cardboard box of quinine tablets, the same box that had been issued to every soldier before departing for Cuba.

“Here. Take these. You might need them. The dosage is two every four hours. Now get the hell out of my tent.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Sam decided on a frontal approach. He’d use the hundred or so yards of darkness that separated the contagion area from the main hospital to his advantage. That, and the element of surprise. All he had to do was get close enough to bring the sentry down. Quietly. Efficiently.

Holding his mount’s reins in a gloved fist, he walked through the churned up mud and cane stubble. As he neared the entry point, he noted that the man on duty wore khaki instead of regulation blue. Cursing under his breath, Sam recognized one of the corporals from the company commanded by Bucky O’Neill, the mayor of Prescott, Arizona, who’d taken a bullet through the head during the battle of San Juan Hill.

The corporal recognized Sam, too. Not even a coating of mud could disguise the Rough Riders’ distinctive khaki pants and spotted neckerchief. Squinting through the darkness, the Arizona miner peered at Sam in surprise.

“Captain Garrett?”

“Yes. It’s Peters, isn’t it.”

“Yes, sir. What are you doing here this time of night?” Concern flashed across his face. “You ain’t coming down with the fever, are you?”

“No.” Sam dropped the reins and took a step closer. “I’ve come to see one of the nurses. Mrs. Prendergast.”

The man’s eyes rounded. “You want to go inside?”

“Yes.”

“We’re not supposed to let anyone in ’cepting the grave detail. Do you have authorization from Colonel McKenna?”

“No.”

“Sorry, sir. Can’t let you pass.” He shook his head apologetically. “Orders are orders, you know.”

“Yes,” Sam said for the second time in the past ten minutes. “They are. And I’m sorry, too, Peters.”

“’Bout what, sir?”

“This.”

Whipping up his arm, he delivered a vicious undercut to the man’s jaw.

“
Very
sorry,” he grunted, catching the Arizonan before he hit the ground.

Quickly, he dragged him into the shadows.

The nightmare of the ride back to Santiago would haunt Sam for the rest of his life.

He cradled Mary in front of him. Wrapped in his poncho and a thin gray blanket, she alternated between body-racking chills and raging fever. When the fever gripped her, Sam peeled back the blanket and let the rain bathe her burning skin. When the chills rattled her teeth and shook her from head to
toe, he hugged her tight against his body to give her what heat he could. She took the quinine tablets without protest, but turned her head away when he tried to get her to swallow the brackish water from his canteen.

Throughout the long ride, he listened for sounds of pursuit. All the while, he detoured around checkpoints and dodged sentries. Twice he had to clamp a hand over Mary’s mouth to keep her from moaning while they waited behind thick stands of palmetto for the men marching picket duty to pass by. Once, a vigilant soldier caught the rustle of a palm frond and whirled. His companion spun around, as well, eyes wide and rifle leveled.

“What’d you hear?”

“I dunno. Something.” Raising his voice, the sentry called out a thin, reedy order. “Whoever’s behind that bush damned well better show hisself!”

With the stealth of a mountain cat, Sam dismounted and gently deposited Mary on the ground. He’d bluff his way through this if possible. If not…

A sudden thrashing stopped him in his tracks. Just ahead, a dog-size creature scuttled out of the bush.

“Shee-it! It’s one of them land crabs.”

Cursing a blue streak, both soldiers hurriedly backed away. Sam waited, his heart slamming against his ribs, for a full minute before he picked up Mary and climbed back into the saddle.