“It didn’t go well, did it?” Maeve asked John when he came home after retreat.
The sergeant shook his head, his eyes lighting up when Maddie held up both arms for his overcoat. She practically staggered under its weight as she took it into the bedroom. “She’s a help, Maeve,” he said, and kissed his wife. “No, it didn’t go well, God bless the cavalry. The rumor mill says General Crook is preferring charges and specifications against Colonel Reynolds and another officer for neglect, mismanagement, and just about everything else Crook can think of except chilblains. The Northern Roamers are still free to roam, army men are dead and some left on the battlefield, and the Cheyenne have now allied with the Lakota.” John shook his head. “It’ll be a hot summer for campaigning.”
“Must be nice to be an observer and take none of the blame, but dole out all the complaints,” Susanna grumbled.
“It’s no wonder he and his aide de camp took another route back to Omaha,” Sergeant Rattigan said, then grabbed up Maddie when she came back into the parlor. “And how’s my girl?”
Both your girls are fine, Susanna thought, as she walked back to the Reeses’ quarters, where the captain, dirty and needing a shave, had his arms around Emily. Amused, Susanna told them where she was going for the night, and heard no objections. She laughed to herself and walked two doors down, careful to stay in the shadows.
The major had left a lamp burning. Glowing coals in the parlor stove welcomed her. There was a bowl of raisins in the kitchen. “Eat these. Please. I insist,” read the note. She did just that, taking the bowl on her lap, kicking off her shoes and sinking into the major’s armchair, saggy in all the right places, sort of like the major. She read his threadbare copy of Les Misérables until her eyes grew heavy. She took a blanket from the end of Joe’s bed and made herself comfortable on the packing crate settee in the parlor again, where the stove still shed its warmth. She knew sleeping alone in his bed would have made her sad.
After the fort slept and the sentries were occupied, Susanna stayed there two more nights, enjoying the solitude after busy days of teaching. She must have slept more soundly than usual, because there was a note pinned to her blanket on the third morning. “Joe, you are silent,” she murmured as she opened the note.
“Come up tonight, sleepyhead,” she read. “I have a good book that will make the men laugh.”
The odor of carbolic, stronger than usual, tickled her nostrils as she opened the door to the hospital that evening. The single ward must have been full, because there were two hospital beds in the hall with portable partitions around them. She stood there, uncertain, until the post surgeon came out of the ward, still wearing his surgical apron, complete with mysterious stains.
It was his eyes that troubled her. He looked so tired. And there was Captain Hartsuff pulling aside one of the partitions, the same look on his face and a nearly identical apron.
“Did either of you sleep?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
The surgeons looked at each other and both shrugged. “We must have, ma’am,” Al Hartsuff said. “Can’t remember, though. I can stay, Joe.”
“Nope. Get a good night’s sleep and relieve me in the morning, Captain, and that’s an order.” Joe rubbed his hands together, and Susanna noticed how chapped they were. “Go to bed, Al.”
Eyes half-closed, Joe ushered her into the ward, where every bed was occupied. “Croup, bronchitis, frostbite,” he whispered. “We were a little late taking off one leg—how I wish Fetterman’s surgeon had acted! It doesn’t look good. He’s in the hall now, probably dying, so there I must be, too.”
Joe raised his voice so his patients could hear him, leading Susanna into the middle of the ward. “Here she is, gentlemen.” He produced a book from his apron pocket, brushing off some flecks better left unexamined. “Give ‘em two chapters, Suzie. That’s all these wretches deserve.”
Several of the more alert men laughed. Susanna seated herself and looked at the book, Roughing It, by Mark Twain.
“Very well, sirs! Your post surgeon thinks reading is a remedy for everything from dandruff to bunions,” she said, pleased to hear low laughter. She cleared her throat. “Chapter One. ‘My brother had just been appointed secretary of Nevada Territory—an office of such majesty that it concentrated itself