Ahead, panicked voices shrilled. "Fire! Fire!" The frantic ringing of a second bell joined the first. Around Tom, house doors opened and people spilled into yards and began running almost as if mesmerized, without stopping for coats. "Whose is it?" everyone asked, their voices jarred by the impact of barreling downhill.
I don't know. Tom didn't know if he answered aloud or only in his thoughts. His legs churned like steel drivers. His eyeballs dried. His lungs burned.
The man behind him fell off to begin throwing open doors along Burkitt Street, shouting into houses. Somewhere the faint ting of a dinner triangle joined the clong of the churchbells, but Tom scarcely heard. Nearing the foot of Burkitt Street, he joined a mass of others who had been galvanized into motion with the same abruptness as himself. Footsteps thundered louder, growing in number as the crowd approached Main Street, where runners funneled together and bumped one another like a stampeding herd.
Whose place? Whose place?
The throng sailed past the Windsor Hotel, joined by a quintet of men running out the door with their arms full of blankets, and a contingent of women carrying buckets. "Looks like one of the liveries."
Some ran too hard to voice speculation. Others puffed along, trailing the word that seemed to taint the very air Tom sucked in as he raced.
Liveries!
Through a haze of fear and the roaring of his own pulse he caught other scraps of words … she's a big one … it's got to be hay…
From three blocks away he smelled it. From two blocks away he knew it wasn't Edwin's place. From the corner of Grinnell Street he saw the flames already eating the sides of his own livery stable.
Oh Jesus, no!
"Get the horses!" he screamed from a hundred yards away, racing wildly. "I got a pregnant mare in there!" Ahead, figures appeared like charred stick-men as they scurried before the burning building, filling buckets, forming a brigade, pumping at the cistern out front. The red fire wagon, with its trio of bells clanging, bounced along the frozen ruts ahead of Tom, pulled by running men because it would have taken more time to hitch the horses than to tow it manually the two blocks from its storage shed. He passed it and arrived in the tumult just as someone led Buck out. The stallion reared in fright while the man fought to calm him and lead him to safety.
Tom screamed frantically, "My mare! Did anybody get my mare out?"
"No! No mares! Only this stallion so far!"
Another voice yelled, "Man the pumps! Stretch that hose out!" A dozen volunteers gripped the handles of the old Union fire rig, but she was an ancient side-stroke pumper, built in 1853, and scarcely up to the day's standards. As the paltry jet of water fell from her hose Tom shouted at the fire crew, "Aim the water to the right. The mare is in the third stall!"
Another voice bellowed, "Pump, boys, pump!"
On either side of the fire wagon men worked furiously on the wooden handles. Horses whinnied in terror. Men shouted orders. Dogs barked. Women formed a bucket brigade to refill the tank on the old Union pump while others held their children back to watch from a distance.
"Who's getting my horses! Is anybody getting my horses!"
"Easy, boy … it's gotten too—"
"Get your hands off me!" Tom tore a blanket from one of the hotel contingent and ran toward the hose men, yelling, "Wet me down! I'm going in!"
The pump had gathered enough force to set him back a step as the stream of water hit him in the chest. A man grabbed his arm, momentarily blocking the spray. It was Charles.
"Tom, you can't!"
For a split second Tom's eyes flashed hatred. "Goddamn you, Charles, you didn't need to do this! Goddamn you to hell!" Tom shouldered past him, roughly bumping him aside. "Get out of my way!"
"Tom, wait!"
Emily and Edwin appeared in the confusion, grasping Tom's elbows, pleading and warning, but he knocked all hands aside and dashed into the flaming barn.
Behind him, Charles ordered, "Give me one of those blankets!"
"Don't be foolish, boy—"
"Edwin, you do what you want, but I can't let those animals die without trying to help them! Gimme some water, Murphy!"
"Papa, let me go!" Emily screamed, fighting Edwin's hands as she, to, struggled to get a blanket.
"Get to the pump!" he ordered her. "You'll be no help to him dead! Get to the pump and help the women!"
"But Buck is in there and—"
"They got Buck out!"
"—and Patty. Papa, she's in foal!"
"Emily, use some sense! Go get your medicine bag. If they get any more horses out, they'll need it. Then get to the pump with Fannie and keep that water running! Wet down more blankets! I'm going in, too!"
"Papa!" She caught his hand. In the midst of the chaos they exchanged frightened glances. "Be careful."
He squeezed her hand and ran.
Inside, Tom hunkered beneath the wet blanket, running through a sea of smoke. Immediately his eyes smarted and teared, blinding him further. Water splattered around him, sizzling as it struck flaming wood. Sweet Jesus, the beams were already burning and spreading along the loft floor. The stench of scorched leather, wood, and dung stung his nose. He swabbed his eyes with a corner of the sopped blanket, then plastered it over his face. Squinting, he made out the outline of his pride and joy, a new Studebaker carriage standing on the turntable as he'd left it. A chunk of flaming debris fell from above onto its leather bonnet. Surrounded by the terrified shrieks of horses and the thumps of their hooves he forgot about everything that was not flesh and blood. Down one bank of stalls he ran, throwing doors open, yelling. "Git! Git! Hyah! Hyah!" Back up the other side, forgetting about singling out any particular animal. Behind him some of the terrified horses balked at leaving their stalls or milled about, afraid of moving toward the fire surrounding the exits. He threw open the last stall door and charged inside only to be flattened against the wall by a muddled, wild-eyed mare named Bess who tried to turn around in the narrow space. He flung the blanket over Bess's head and clutching it in a clump beneath her jaw, dragged the animal forward. Terrified Bess braced her forelegs and whinnied.
"Goddamn it, Bess, you're comin' if I have to drag you!"
An immense roar rose—hay igniting somewhere, filling his ears like a hurricane. He stretched out a leg and kicked Bess hard in the groin. She fishtailed violently, then reared high, swinging Tom clear off his feet as he gripped the blanket. His ankles slammed against the wall. But when he landed, still clutching the wet wool, Bess followed at a frenzied trot.
He burst from the burning building already tearing the blanket off the horse. "Water!" he shouted. "More water here!" As the spray fanned over him he removed his leather hat and doused his hair, then slammed the hat back on and lowered his hands to fill his gloves. Turning, shrouded again by the blanket, he headed back into the barn with the jet pelting his back, running in an icy river down his plaster cast.
Ten feet inside the barn, he collided with Charles coming out. "I got Hank!" Charles shouted above the roar, leading a dun saddlehorse. "You've got time to get one more but that's all!"
Tom plunged into the wall of heat and light. Running, he sucked hard against the blanket, but even through it he breathed and tasted acrid smoke and singed wool. It burned all the way to his lungs until they felt as if they would explode. Through stinging, watering eyes, he searched and found a frantic Rex who, thankfully, followed him without resisting. But by the time he got Rex outside he turned back to watch a rafter at the far end of the building collapse in a roaring golden rain of sparks that changed swiftly to a white sheet of flame. Emily rushed forward to take Rex.
"Don't go back in, Tom, please!"
"Patty!"
"Leave her! You won't make it!"
"One more trip!"
"No!" She grabbed his arm but he lurched free, heading back inside.
"Water!" she shrieked maniacally, watching him go. "Give him water!"
Sucking in his last clear air Tom flung the blanket over his head an
d bent low, heading inside. Five feet from the door someone tackled him from behind. He rolled through the dirt and came up kneeling, incensed, facing Charles, who was picking himself up from the ground.
"Sonofabitch, Bliss, what're you doing!"
"You're not going back in!"
"The hell I'm not."
"You do and she'll be a widow before she's a bride!"
"Then take good care of her for me!" Tom shouted, bolting into the conflagration before Charles could stop him. Emily witnessed the exchange biting back tears. She watched helplessly as Tom disappeared into the flames; then to her horror, Charles turned and yelled back at the hose men, "Train 'er right on my back!"
His call jolted Emily out of her stupor. "Charles! No!" she called, straining forward only to be dragged back by Andrew Dehart, who'd appeared with his waterwagon to help fight the fire.
"Don't be foolish, girl!"
"Oh God, not Charles, too," Emily despaired, flattening her mouth with the palms of both dirty hands. But Charles ran into the inferno trailed by a puny jet of water.
"You got a horse who could use a little attention," Dehart reminded her, and she grimly forced herself to turn back to Rex, who had a gash on his withers and a raw burned patch on his rump. Someone called from nearby, "Got one over here that needs your help, too, Emily!" Suddenly it seemed that everyone needed her at once. With fear gripping her throat, she immersed herself in duty, substituting efficiency for tears, dusting burns with boric acid, applying pineoleum to others, even slapping a quick bandage on a burned arm in between animals. The pregnant mare showed up, led by Patrick Haberkorn, but she was burned badly, demented with pain, wild-eyed and sidestepping in terror.
"Get Tom!" Emily ordered, grabbing Patty's bridle, already realizing she'd have to be put down.
"I don't know where he is."
"But he went in after her!"
"She ran out on her own."
Patty shrieked in pain, rearing back and yanking Emily off-balance. She stared at Patrick's soot-streaked face, feeling hysteria threaten. The fire leapt and licked the sky fifty feet above the barn. It lit the night to a blinding brilliance. It burned the skin and dried the eyes and turned faces into orange caricatures of gaping awe. The mare whinnied again, reminding Emily of her responsibility.
"Get me a gun," she ordered dully.
Fannie cane running up just then, frantic. "Your father—have you seen him?"
Emily turned to Fannie, feeling as if a winch had tightened about her throat. "Papa?"
"Didn't he come back out?"
"I don't know."
Patrick was handing her a pistol and she could only handle one emergency at a time. Emily took the gun, put it to the mare's head, and pulled the trigger. She closed her eyes even before the dull thud sounded, and turned away from the sickening sound of the mare's last reedy breath. Opening her eyes, she saw Fannie facing the inferno and moved to take her hand and watch it, too. Flames erupted through the roof, sending a section of it dropping into the hayloft. An explosion of sound lifted into the night as another section of hay ignited. In a shocked, disbelieving voice, she said, "Oh God, Fannie, Tom's in there, too."
Watching tragedy occur before their very eyes, the two women stood helplessly, gripping one another's hands. The heat scorched their faces. Tears and heat waves distorted their view of the awesome, shimmering spectacle, which danced and wavered against the night sky.
Men formed a cordon, pressing the crowd a safe distance away. "Get back … get back!" Emily and Fannie stumbled backward dumbly. At some time during their vigil Frankie appeared, his eyes immense with fright. "Where's Pa?" he asked dubiously, slipping his small hand into his sister's, staring at the inferno.
"Oh, Frankie," she despaired, dropping to her knees and wrapping both arms around him. She pressed her cheek to his and held him hard, their faces lit by the blaze. She felt him swallow, felt his jaw slacken as he stared at the awesome spectacle before them.
"Pa?" the boy appealed quietly, his body absolutely still.
Emily's throat filled, her eyes smarted, and she hugged Frank harder. Hot tears rolled from her eyes, evaporated by the intense heat before they reached her chin. Beside her, Fannie stared dully at the flames, crying without moving a muscle.
In the chaos around them none of the three heard Edwin until he called breathlessly behind them.
"Fannie? Emily?"
As one, they spun.
"Pa!"
"Papa!"
"Edwin!"
Frankie catapulted into his father's arms, bawling. Emily flung a stranglehold about his neck while Fannie took two halting steps toward him, covered her mouth, and began sobbing as she had not when she'd thought Edwin lost.
"Pa! Pa! We thought you was in there," Frankie cried while he and his sister clutched Edwin's filthy neck.
He gave a choked, emotional laugh. "I led two horses out the rear door and took them down to our own paddock."
"Oh, Papa!" Emily couldn't quit saying the word.
Still holding Frankie on one arm, he circled her with the other.
"I'm all right," he whispered thickly. "I'm all right." He looked beyond his clinging children to find Fannie still standing with eyes streaming, mouth covered tightly.
"You thought so, too?" he asked, fading out of his children's embraces. He opened his arms and Fannie came into them.
"Thank God," she whispered, closing her eyes against his soot-covered cheek. "Oh, Edwin, I thought I had lost you."
His hand covered her hair and he held her fast against him, little caring that a circle of curious gazes were directed their way as dozens of townspeople witnessed their unguarded embrace. Fannie was the first to pull back, with concern furrowing her brow. "Edwin, did you see Tom or Charles come out the other side?"
Edwin's attention swerved to the structure, which by now had begun to crumble in upon itself. Even the pump men had stopped their helpless firefighting. Those manning the hose held it lifelessly while mere drips of water fell from its nozzle.
At the cistern the women's hands rested inertly upon the steel pumphandle, which had turned lukewarm from the intense heat. At their feet pails sat, filled but unused.
Edwin gulped and murmured, "Dear God."
Emily and Frank stood motionless at his side, holding hands tenaciously, staring at the fire.
At that instant someone called, "Emily, come quick!" It was the hotel owner, Helstrom, gesturing frantically, then taking Emily's arm and dragging her with him. "Around back. Those two men o' yours are out there in a pile!"
Everybody ran—Emily, Edwin, Fannie, and Frank, trailed by a string of others, following Helstrom through the pole gate, around the paddock, to the rear of the building where a knot of men knelt over a sodden heap containing the inert bodies of Tom and Charles. Tangled in wet blankets, the pair lay sprawled on the ground, their eyes closed, their faces streaked and filthy. Doc Steele was already there kneeling beside Tom, opening his bag. Emily skidded to her knees beside him.
"Are they alive?"
Steele pulled up one of Tom's eyelids, popped a stethoscope in his ears, and listened intently. "Jeffcoat is. His breathing is bad though. Must've taken in a lot of smoke. Bring snow!" he called, already beginning a cursory inspection—from Tom's tangled wet hair, which had been protected by a wide leather Stetson; to his midsection, wrapped in wet plaster as effective as asbestos; down his trunk and thighs, which had been covered by heavy sheepskin whose natural fur lining had absorbed a protective barrier of water. Even the narrow space between it and his calf-high leather boots had come through unscathed. Steele assessed it all, then pulled off Tom's gloves, inspected his hands, and pronounced, "I'll be damned. Not a burn on him, nothing but singed eyebrows."
While Steele shifted his attention to Charles, Emily knelt over Tom, still overtly concerned about his breathing. Even without the benefit of a stethoscope she heard the strident hiss accompanying each breath, and saw with what effort his lungs labored.
D
on't die … don't die … keep breathing … I'm sorry … I love you…
Behind her, Doc Steel's voice announced, "Bliss is in no grave danger. His hands got burned, though. Where's that snow?"
Charles! How could Emily have forgotten Charles? She turned to find him lying on his back, staring at the stars with his hands being submerged in two overturned pails of snow. When she leaned over his face he smiled weakly.
"Hiya, Em," he whispered.
"Hiya, Charles," she returned chokily, gulping back a knot of emotion. "How're you doing?"
"I'm not too sure." He lifted one limp hand to test his face, dropping clumps of snow onto it. "Think I'm still alive."
She gently pushed his arm down. "Your hands are burned. You'd best keep them in the snow until Dr. Steele can dress them." She tenderly brushed the snow from his cheek and, in a voice that trembled on the brink of tears, scolded affectionately, "You dear, foolish man—where were your gloves?"
"I didn't stop to think."
"You two are getting to be a lot of trouble, you know, always needing patching up in the middle of the night."
He smiled wanly and let his eyes drift closed. "Yeah, I know. How is he?"
"He's still breathing, no burns, but he's unconscious. Who brought who out?"
He opened his eyes again, wearily. "Does it matter?"
So she knew it was Charles who had carried Tom out. She struggled with a heartful of gratitude and lost the battle to contain her tears. "Thank you, Charles," she whispered, bending low, kissing his forehead.
As she straightened he said in a cracky voice, "Em?"
She couldn't speak through the lump in her throat, could only gaze at him through the tears that distorted his beloved, sooty face with its singed beard and red-rimmed eyes.
"He thinks I set the fire. Tell him I didn't. Will you tell him—"
"Shh." She touched his lips.
Vows Page 38