Publication Date: 28th June 2022
Publisher: Vinspire
Page Length: 345 Pages
Genre: Historical Romance
A young woman refuses to become a pawn in her grandmother’s revenge scheme and forgoes a life of wealth and royalty to pursue a nursing career as America enters WWI and the Pandemic Flu of 1918 wreaks havoc in New York City
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INFLUENZA EPIDEMIC HITS CAMP DEVENS 2,000 Soldiers Are Stricken and Washington is Asked to Send More Doctors and Nurses —The New York Times, September 15, 1918
Eleven days later, the first influenza cases were admitted to Bellevue. Kitty set up an isolation unit in Ward A for a young sailor home on leave from France and two workmen from the Port of New York. All three men were in their early twenties, had high fevers, and complained that their lungs hurt. Kitty worked to make them comfortable, sponging them, offering fluids, and administering aspirin powders.
All three were worse the following morning. The sailor tossed and moaned on his bed and screamed when he was touched. The high fevers continued and even morphine didn’t seem to help much. Kitty noticed a blue tint creeping over their skin, starting with the face and moving down over the chest. Bloody mucus drained from their noses and the sailor had it running from his ears. When Kitty walked into the isolation ward on the third day after their admission, the three beds were empty.
“Died about six a.m.” Miss Simpson, a probationer for two weeks, scrubbed the bare mattress. “One right after the other. It was awful.”
That seemed odd. Influenza typically had a longer course, and fatalities were usually limited to the very young and the elderly. These three young men had been in the prime of their manhood, well-nourished, and strong.
Miss Simpson dropped the washrag into the bucket. “If this is what it’s about, then I don’t think nursing is for me.” She glanced about the ward of men filled with influenza patients—coughing, vomiting, moaning—and shuddered. “I’m going to withdraw today and go home.”
“Better to find out early.” Kitty gave her a sympathetic smile. “But this is unusual. You’ve had a difficult introduction. Baptism by fire, I think it’s called.”
“Maybe so. But it’s too hot for me.” Miss Simpson picked up the bucket. “Goodbye.”
Nursing wasn’t for everyone, which was certain. And this influenza was different from what Bellevue had seen in the spring. It was alarming, but she didn’t have much time to think about it because Admitting called. Five more men were being admitted for influenza, or as some laypeople called it, the grippe. With the help of the probationers assigned to the ward today, Miss Field and Miss Blake, she got them settled in their beds.
Patrick Murphy, 26, a dock worker.
John Beckley, 33, a printer.
Mason Abraham, 36, a cook.
Aaron Mandel, 30, a piano salesman.
And Ashford Stuart-White, 35, a professor from Columbia University.
Five men from five different walks of life with the same illness. The rest of the shift flew by as Kitty and the probies sponged the men down for their fevers, emptied their spit basins, and tried to administer fluids.
“Miss Blake.” Kitty followed the probie into the dirty utility room. “Be careful when you’re emptying the basins into the hopper. Keep your head back, or turn your face away, so you don’t get splashed with the contents. And make sure you wash your hands well before you return to the patients.”
“Yes, Miss Winthrop.” Miss Blake was a sandy-haired, petite young woman with a no-nonsense attitude. “I’ll be careful.”
It was time to give aspirin again. Kitty went down the line, taking temperatures. There wasn’t one under 103°. Mr. Mandel’s temp was 104.6°.
“My joints hurt something awful, Miss.” He groaned as he turned onto his side. “I’ve never been this sick in my life.”
“Here.” Kitty handed him aspirin and morphine tablets. “Drink the whole glass of water, please. You need the fluids.
Mandel took the meds and lay back down. “How long is this going to last? I’ve got to get back to work.” He stopped and turned away to cough. “I—I have a family to support.” He fought to draw in some air.
There was no way to know. Especially if it was the same illness that had struck down the first three men admitted to the isolation unit.
“Rest as much as you can. Drink as much water as you can. That will help.”
He moaned again and then grimaced. “I’m sorry…to make so much noise. I can’t help it.”
“It’s all right. Try to sleep. The morphine will start to help soon.”
At lunchtime, Mr. Murphy and Mr. Beckley seemed a bit better. They were able to take some soup and swallow the aspirin, although both complained of severely sore throats. She made a mental note to get some lozenges for them. Mr. Abraham, a stocky fellow with ropy muscles, had lapsed into semi-consciousness and was difficult to arouse. The spit basin on the bedside table was half full of blood- streaked foamy mucus, and his respirations were wheezy and wet. By the end of the shift, Mr. Beckley was worse, Mr. Mandel was unconscious, and Mr. Abraham was dead, his skin color so dark, he looked black. Kitty performed post-mortem care for him.
What was this deadly disease? What could end the lives of vigorous young men so rapidly?
How were their families even going to recognize them?
Renee Yancy is a history and archaeology nut who works as an RN when she isn’t writing historical fiction or traveling the world to see the exotic places her characters have lived.
A voracious reader as a young girl, she now writes the kind of books she loves to read—stories filled with historical and archaeological detail interwoven with strong characters facing big conflicts. Her goal is to take you on a journey into the past so fascinating that you can’t put the story down.
When she isn’t writing, Renee can be found in the wilds of Kentucky with her husband and a rescue mutt named Ellie. She loves flea markets and collecting pottery and glass and most anything mid-century modern.
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