by Jill Barnett
Through the crowd Hallie caught a glimpse of shadows moving in a brightly lit area cordoned off with sheets. Moans and sobs welled from behind the translucent sheet, the sounds louder than the noisy chatter and cries in the open area. One loud wail had the twins clinging to her, and Knut unknowingly squeezed her burned leg. Hallie sucked in a pain-whistled breath.
Agnes was too occupied rinsing cloths in a bucket of water to notice Hallie or her reaction. “Set the little ones up here and I’ll fix those burns.” She wrung out the cloth and came at Knut.
He eyed her suspiciously. “You’re not gonna hurt me are you?”
Agnes paused. “Of course not. I’m only going to wash off this dirty soot and then put some medicine on those blisters.”
Hallie had been holding her breath, knowing the twins to be especially leery of anything remotely painful. Agnes apparently had more experience with four-year-old children than Hallie had imagined. Agnes picked up a large brown bottle of antiseptic and poured it on a clean cloth. “Now, dearie, this might sting just a little, but—”
“What’s a sting?” Knut demanded.
“Bees sting, dummy!” Gunnar stated. “And it hurts real bad!” The argument began.
Hallie shifted her weight off her bad leg, and Dagny must have noticed. She elbowed Hallie to get her attention. “Get your leg tended first,” she whispered. “The boys’ burns are minor, and they’ll fight Mrs. Treadwell all night if they think they’ll get away with it.”
“I’ll get my leg looked at later.” Hallie no more wanted the scatterbrained Mrs. Treadwell tending her hurts than did the boys.
Dagny lifted her chin to apparently tell Hallie a thing or two, but she was too late. Liv, the picture of innocence and goodness, approached the minister’s wife.
“Mrs. Treadwell, Hallie’s hurt real bad. Much worse than these two. Please help her.” Liv’s sweet little plea worked. She pointed a tattling finger at Hallie’s leg.
“Well, Lord Almighty, why didn’t you say something before? Let me see, Hallie.” She plucked a lantern off the pole and leaned down to get a closer look. “My eyes! Sit up here right now while I go get a doctor.”
Resigned to her fate, Hallie sat on the table. Four anxious, dingy faces stared at the angry red flesh of her exposed leg. Dagny looked worried, Liv was the color of pea soup, and the twins’ identical faces mirrored their curiosity.
“Hallie?” whispered Knut.
“Hmm?”
“Does it . . . sting?”
“No, love. A sting isn’t so bad, you know. It’s just kind of a strong tickle.” She looked at her leg. The white skin on the inside of her calf and lower thigh had mottled into ridged bloody blisters. The edges were charred black. She closed her eyes for a moment.
“My, my, what’s this, young lady?” A harried doctor examined the burn. He noticed the fretful faces surrounding her. “I think, if this wound continues up as far as I think it does,” he said, “that we’d better fix you up in the back area.” He helped her off the table and led Hallie away from the others.
Cots lined the back wall of the tent, each bed filled with severely charred bodies. Women dipped toweling in buckets of milk and saturated the burned areas. Antiseptic couldn’t conceal the stench of burned flesh that tainted this air. The doctor led Hallie to another sheeted area and helped her onto the table. “Lie flat, young lady, and let’s have a look at this.”
Hallie laid silently while the doctor worked, cleaning her burn and piercing the festering blisters.
“I’ll just be a moment more. You’re a real soldier, young lady. Better than most men I’ve seen. I’ll need to put this salve on it and then wrap it to keep it clean.” He walked to the head of the table, and Hallie wiped the quiet tears from the corners of her eyes. His smile was kind, and he patted her hand. “You know, you’ll have a scar from this.”
Hallie nodded.
“Well, not to worry, my dear, any girl as pretty as you needn’t worry about scarring. No one but your husband will ever see it. Now you’ll need to change this bandage every few hours for a day or so, and then at morning and night for a week. Pop any blisters that fester up and apply this salve. Once it scabs over, you can stop wrapping it, but keep the salve on the scabs to keep them from cracking. The itch will drive you crazy, but it’ll pass. Use vinegar if it gets unbearable.”
He finished his doctoring and helped her up. “You can use this salve on those facial burns, too. Oh, and if there’s any sign of infection, you come see me right away. Second floor, Brannan Building, California and Stockton, Dr. Jim.”
Hallie found Agnes awaiting her at the entrance. The woman toddled toward her. “Are you all right, my dear? I got the others settled there on the hill. How’s that leg? Do you need some help?”
“No, I’m just so tired. How are the boys? Did they give you any trouble?”
“Heavens no! We got them all fixed up and they’re bedded down right up here.” Agnes followed a narrow trail through the throng of homeless, tired people that covered the lower slopes.
The women reached a small group snuggled sleepily near the gate to the signal house. Blankets and precious pillows were piled high for their comfort, and Hallie knew this was Agnes’s doing. “Thank you, Mrs. Treadwell. They’ve all been through so much today.”
“It’s nothing, my dear. I feel just terrible about this whole thing. The reverend and I lost the rectory, the church, and the school. We’re staying up here tonight and with my sister until we can rebuild.” Agnes placed her small hand on Hallie’s arm. “I feel just dreadful. We can’t offer you a place to stay right now.”
“Don’t you go worrying yourself over us. I’m sure I’ll have no trouble finding a place.” Hallie knew this was one of those times when a little lie would make things easier for everyone concerned. Although, she wondered briefly if it was a greater sin to lie to a preacher’s wife. “We have a place to stay if we need it. My father made Mr. Howland our guardian, and he’ll provide us with a home.” And pigs fly!
Agnes couldn’t disguise her relief. “Oh, that kind man! I’m sure the reverend will be as pleased as I am, my dear. We’ll check on you soon. Take care now.” She walked down the path a few feet before she turned. “Be sure to give Mr. Howland my best.”
That man needs someone’s best, Hallie thought. He was the last person on this earth she’d turn to now. Her injured leg pulsed painfully beneath the bandage. The area behind her knee hurt the worst. As Hallie laid down by her exhausted family, she stretched her leg out carefully, thoughts of the despicable Kit Howland absorbing her mind.
The idea that he’d sell the Sea Haven for fill was unbearable. She would stop him somehow. She leaned back against the incline of the hill, so tired she couldn’t sleep. Somewhere out there in the great beyond that was left of San Francisco, they’d have to find a place to live. But from the hundreds of sleeping bundles scattered in front of her, Hallie knew finding a new home wouldn’t be easy. Part of the city now glowed like cooking coals, and other sections still raged with flames.
From there on the hillside the view was expansive, and she watched the fire spread toward the bay. At the water’s edge smoke rose upward and hid the stars from view as it floated high over the harbor. She could see all the ships abandoned in the bay. They were crammed together like herrings, and their masts spiraled into the air, creating a spiky forest against the horizon. Somewhere in that forest was the Sea Haven, awaiting its fate.
Just like us.
She sat up. That was it! She had the perfect solution! She would move the family on board the Sea Haven. They’d have a comfortable place to live, and Kit wouldn’t be able to sell the ship. After all, wasn’t possession was nine points of the law? And if it wasn’t, she’d be able to keep an eye on Da’s ship and his traitorous ex-friend.
For the first time in days Hallie laughed. She ha
dn’t lied to Agnes Treadwell after all. Kit was providing them with a home. She snuggled back down contentedly into her blankets and closed her eyes, feeling lighter for the first time in days. She could sleep, because she had great, surefire scheme.
“We’re going to lose it!” Kit shouted as flames engulfed another wall of the DeWitt warehouse. He ran past the laboring men of the bucket brigade to where Lee Prescott and some of his crew worked feverishly on a jammed water pump. Both men pulled on the pump crank but nothing happened. Lee jumped onto the bed and pried open the pump casing, while Kit planted his boot against the wagon bed to get better leverage and tried the crank again, straining and pulling on the metal bar with such exertion that his muscles quivered. “What the hell’s wrong with it?”
“I can’t tell,” Lee yelled back, leaning down to poke around inside the mechanism.
Kit wedged his body between the wagon and a brick wall and kicked at the crank to loosen it. Finally it moved and the pump kicked in, but no water came through the hose. Lee hopped down and followed the hose to the water tank near the dock. He cupped his hands and hollered, “The tank’s empty!” He pointed toward the bay. “It’s low tide!”
Some of the men ran over and began to bail from the ebbing waterline into the tank, but Kit knew it was a lost cause. The whole city could burn before they could fill the tank pail by pail, especially with a receding tide. He paced the loading dock. “Goddammit, this is useless! Look at that.” He gestured to the group of men heaving bucket after bucket of saltwater on the flames. The water didn’t douse the fire; it only turned to clouds of steam that billowed skyward with the smothering smoke.
The fire spread to the neighboring brick building. It was supposed to be fireproof, but the iron shutters and doors glowed red from the trapped heat, and within minutes they melted as the supporting walls crumbled like month-old bread.
“Can we get any barrels out through the waterside doors?” Lee asked.
Kit shook his head. “There’s no way to get to them. The wharves were broken up to keep the fire from spreading out to the ships. Apparently, munitions and gunpowder are stored in the two barks at the end of the wharf.”
The wind picked up, fanning the flames like giant bellows. Havoc and noise from the blaze filled the air, forcing Kit to move closer in order to hear Lee shout, “Where’s the oil stored?”
“Near the back section.” Kit pointed to a wall of flames.
“Jesus!” Lee swore. “What about the baleen?”
“The warehouseman handled the storage on it. That bone could be anywhere.” Kit was about ready to give up. In a last effort, he searched for the warehouseman and found him bailing water out of the bay, into the shallow water reservoir. “I’m Howland. Where’s the bone from the Sea Haven stored?”
“On the wharf side behind those barrels of vinegar.”
“Vinegar? What vinegar?” Kit asked.
“There’s eighty thousand gallons of vinegar stored in the front section.”
“Christ, man! Why didn’t you say something before now!” Kit raced back to the engine, firing orders along the way. He pulled men off the bucket line and had them roll out barrel after barrel of vinegar and dump it into the water tank. Lee cranked up the pump, and Kit and some others aimed the hose at the fiery building.
The sharp odor of vinegar filled the air, more acidic and suffocating than just the smoke alone. The flames lessened and began to die when a thunderous blast torched the fire a good twenty feet into the air as half the warehouse ignited. Winds fanned the blaze and flames lit the area like full sunlight. The right rear section of the building burned like hell, and along with it went all of Jan Fredriksen’s whale oil.
A blast soared in the distance, its deep bass timbre drummed out over the bay. Waves lapped at one of the many neglected ships, rocking it, and the wind blew, the masts creaked, and deep within the dank hold, Abner awoke.
Old, slivered wood from the overhead bunk stared back at him. Sitting up, he rubbed his sleep-numb fingers into the sockets of his scratchy eyes and then peered into the room. The other bunks were empty, but an aged Chinese woman sat against a center beam, rocking with the ship’s movement and rolling something between her long, clawed fingers. Square bricks of black, claylike opium were piled beside her, and she plucked small wads of the drug and rolled it into olive-sized balls, placing the black pellets in a reed basket.
Abner stood, his hand grasping support from the upper bunk. “Where am I?”
The woman rolled another ball.
“Answer me! Are we at sea?” His sharp voice tinged with panic.
She rocked, autistically, as her skillful fingers rolled. Then the woman turned her sunken, glazed eyes at him, staring blankly before she returned to her task.
God, what time is it? Abner felt for his pocket watch, but it wasn’t there. The gold! All his winnings! He searched his pockets frantically and ripped the shabby linen from the bunk. They were gone.
He turned on shaky legs just as Chi Ho scurried down the steerage steps. Abner grabbed the man’s silk tunic in his tight fists, and with a strength driven by drugged anger, flung the Chinaman onto the empty bunk.
“You thieving little bastard!” Abner’s hands closed around the small man’s fragile neck and his thumbs pressed into the chink’s throat, garbling the foreign chatter that cackled from his mouth. His long, mandarin nails dug pits into Abner’s wrists before the terrorized man miraculously pulled a silken pouch from beneath his clothing. Abner stopped choking him and grabbed it, jerking open the strings and dumping its contents on the bunk.
All his belongings, the gold, his watch, a few coins, and his door key, fell onto the flat mattress.
“You try kill Chi Ho!” The Chinaman cowered against the ship’s wall. “I keep safe for you. No thieving bastard!” He turned and pointed to some bunks hidden in the deeper caverns of the hold. Three of the four beds were occupied, and one of the bundles awakened, turning his fathomless features toward them before he reached a long, filthy arm toward the old woman in a beckoning gesture.
“They steal if Chi Ho not keep for you.”
Abner watched the woman pick up a tinder box and walk to the man’s side. Sliding open the lid, she roasted an opium ball posed on a needle-shaped holder until the smoke drifted upward in a steady stream. Pulling a wooden crate from nearby, she stood on it, slowly waving the kindled ball under the man’s nose. A sweet, searing smell filled the narrow cubicle.
Chi Ho pulled on Abner’s coat. “You understand! No steal! Chi Ho help! Understand?”
“Sure, sure.” Abner shrugged off Chi Ho’s pestering hand and turned back to the bed, shoving his possessions into his pockets. He gathered up the gold bag and heaved it in his palm to check the weight.
Having no idea how long he’d been here, he flipped open his watch. It was almost five o’clock. He had to get home before sunset to meet that slimy Duck. He pocketed the watch and headed for the short companionway, went out through the steerage and then up the last few steps to the deck.
There was no sunlight, but it wasn’t night.
It was a smoky, gray dawn.
On shaky legs Abner slowly made his way to the rail, staring in silent horror at the sight before him. Light from the eastern sun cast the city’s hills into smoldering shadows. The heart of San Francisco was destroyed, devoured by a carnivore of fire.
Something batted against the portside, capturing Abner’s attention. It was a small dinghy tied to the ship’s ladder. He had to get home! He climbed down the ladder and fell into the rocking boat. Sitting at the row bars, he grabbed the oars and rowed the few hundred yards to shore.
Within ten minutes he reached the devastated square behind his home. People pushed and crowded toward a guarded barrier, while others wandered aimlessly in circles, as if they had no direction. He elbowed his way to the front of the
barrier and started to climb over it.
“Hey there, now. Where do ya think yer a-goin’?” A burly guard gripped Abner’s arm and waved a pistol in his face.
“I’m Abner Brown, the undertaker. I live there and have to get home!” Abner tried to pull away from the man, but he was held fast.
“I’ve me orders. There’s been plenty o’ lootin’ here tonight. Have ya got any proof who ya are?” he asked.
“Find Sheriff Hayes or one of his men. Any of them can identify me! And hurry up!”
At that moment a fire wagon rolled down the hill toward the barrier. Duncan was driving.
Abner grabbed the guard’s arm and pointed. “Over there! That man on the wagon can identify me. Duncan!” Abner jumped up hollering. “Duncan!”
Pulling the wagon to a stop, Duncan slowly climbed down. The guard started to speak, but Abner interrupted. “Duncan, tell him who I am! He won’t let me pass.”
Duncan spoke to the guard. “He’s who he says. The funeral home is behind this square.”
The guard released Abner, and he raced to the wagon. “Come on! You can drive me there faster!” Abner hopped onto the wagon seat, demanding that Duncan hurry.
They drove the few blocks to his home. The entire area was charred into burnt rubble. When they pulled up to the remains of his home, Abner was in shock, unprepared for the sight that greeted him. No walls were left, just piles and stacks of blackened wood. He jumped down and stepped over the debris scattered where the planked walk once paralleled his bustling street. He kicked at a beam and it slid down to the ashy ground. Cracked pieces of his mother’s most valuable urn were scattered through smoldering remnants of his burl desk. The same one that scummy Duck had run his finger across. Abner’s stomach churned, his head ached, and he lost control.