It Happened at the Fair: A Novel

by Deeanne Gist

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, “one of my graduates is here at the fair instructing young deaf students in the Children’s Building. If you’ve not been to their exhibit, I suggest you make it a high priority. And be sure to ask for Miss Adelaide Wentworth—a name to pay attention to as we strive to liberate the deaf through lip-reading and stamp out sign language once and for all.”

  Della flushed with pleasure. Cullen assumed Bell hadn’t seen her in the audience, otherwise he most likely would have pointed her out.

  As the crowd broke up, she touched Cullen’s arm. “Come. I want to introduce you to Dr. Bell.”

  He pulled back, his gaze shooting to the front. Dr. Bell, whose name was carved on one of the tablets above Machinery Hall, was holding a lively conversation with Miss Keller and her teacher, Miss Sullivan. “He’s a bit occupied right now, and I don’t think he realizes you’re even here.”

  “That won’t matter a bit.” She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “He came by the Children’s Building to see me and has promised to introduce me to Miss Keller at some point. May as well be now.”

  Clearing his throat, he took a half step back. “You go ahead. I’ll wait just outside the door.”

  Her face wilted. “You don’t want to meet them?”

  “I, I wouldn’t know what to say.”

  “What about, ‘How do you do. So nice to meet you’?”

  He immediately thought of their sign-language lesson in the rose garden. She’d taught him those phrases. Her hands moving in a beautiful pantomime. Graceful, supple hands that had become way too alluring.

  He continued walking backward and indicated the exit with his thumb. “No, you go on. I’ll be right outside the door. Take your time.”

  She looked to the front of the room, then back at him. “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.” Turning, he quickly joined the rest of the crowd.

  She didn’t make him wait long, and her excitement over meeting Miss Keller was infectious. “She’s been given special permission to touch some of the exhibits so she can ‘see’ them—even the African diamonds. And she’s so sweet, Cullen.”

  “She spoke to you?”

  “She did.”

  “And she put her hand on your face while you were talking?”

  “Yes, it was—”

  Ringing gongs, piercing whistles, and the clattering of hooves blasted them from behind. “Clear the track!”

  Cullen grabbed Della by the waist and swung her to the edge of the thoroughfare.

  Big, powerful horses leaped by pulling a fire engine, its driver half-crouched in the seat. Swift hose carriages, rattling hook-and-ladder trucks, well-secured water towers, and patrol wagons loaded with firemen followed close behind.

  “That’s John’s battalion,” Cullen said, pointing.

  “What?”

  Nearby guards shouted themselves hoarse warning pedestrians to move out of the way. Boys in blue who hawked guidebooks hurried from their posts in the wake of the engines.

  Grabbing Della’s elbow, Cullen quickened their pace. “John’s on duty today.”

  “John?”

  “John Ransom. The fireman who works the booth beside mine. I’ve told you about him.”

  She nodded. “I remember.”

  “He’s so proud of the work he does. It would please him to no end if he found out I saw him in action.” He stopped suddenly. “Is that okay? I know you said you wanted to go to the Midway Plaisance.”

  “It’s fine. We can always go afterward.” Gasping, she pointed. “Cullen, look.”

  Turning around, he scanned the horizon. The Cold Storage Building’s central tower had a small jet of flame dancing about its head.

  “This will be the fourth time that tower’s caught fire,” he said.

  “The fourth time?” She studied it for a moment. “It doesn’t look too serious, does it?”

  “No, it looks more like a flame that comes from the chimney of a rolling mill.” He quickly guided her through the Court of Honor.

  A second alarm sounded. Buildings began to empty. Passengers in gondolas urged their crews to change their course and follow the crowd. Curious fairgoers spread the word—the smokestack of the Cold Storage Building was on fire.

  Releasing her elbow, he clasped her hand. “Hold on tight. I don’t want to lose you. All right?”

  “All right.”

  By the time they reached the Cold Storage Building, streams of people poured around every corner. Straight ahead, a company of firemen in red shirts uncoiled hoses from their engines and wagons in a nonchalant manner. If it weren’t for yellow flames in the cupola, Cullen would have assumed the department was out on dress parade doing a demonstration for the crowds.

  FIRE ENGINE

  He scanned the men, finally spotting John. “There he is.” He pointed. “The short one. See him?”

  She furrowed her brows, then smiled. “Yes. I think so. He has a number one on his helmet?”

  “Right. All the boys in Company One do.”

  Another group leaned a five-story ladder against the roof of the building.

  Tall parapets stood on each of its four corners, topped with flags snapping in a northeasterly direction. A steeple-like tower three times the height of the parapets rose from the roof’s center. On its side, huge painted letters spelled out “Hercules Ice-Skating Rink.” Above it a railed ledge. And above that, the fire.

  COLD STORAGE BUILDING

  Della touched his sleeve. “Who’s the man in the white helmet?”

  “That’s Chief Murphy. He and Chief Swenie are in charge of all the fair’s battalions.”

  “Fitzgerald,” Murphy shouted. “Go up to the cupola with Companies One and Two and we’ll hoist some hoses to you. If the fire gets too hot, there are lifelines hanging on the west side of the tower.”

  Cullen glanced at the left face of the tower. Painters’ ropes hung from a ledge near the top all the way down to within a few feet of the roof.

  “Pshaw,” said Fitzgerald. “We’ll put this one out just like we did the others.”

  Companies One and Two headed toward the building’s entrance, John becoming lost in their midst.

  “There’s a winding staircase inside,” Cullen explained to her. “They’ll have to climb clear up there with their axes, ropes, and everything.”

  “What about the ice-skaters?” she asked.

  “The rink was listed in the paper as one of this week’s closed exhibits. It was having mechanical problems, I think, so there shouldn’t be anyone in there other than a few guards, carpenters, and engineers. They’ll evacuate at the first sign of trouble, if they haven’t already.”

  On the ground, Chief Murphy slung a coiled rope over his head and shoulder, then mounted a ladder that stretched five stories high. His men followed suit. The moment they reached the roof, they secured their ropes to cornices and called for hoses and more ladders.

  The crowd swelled. Columbian Guards in blue-braided uniforms began to push them back in order to make room for the firemen.

  Cullen glanced at Della. “You stay close. The crowd is starting to grow.”

  “I will. And we’re right here at the front. Plenty of room.”

  He thought he’d have plenty of room on opening day too. This group didn’t compare to that one, but even so, he didn’t want to subject her to anything like that again.

  A loud cheer erupted from the crowd.

  Cullen glanced up at the building. Black silhouettes of about thirty firemen appeared on the uppermost ledge of the tower just below the cupola and fire. John was easy to spot, short as he was. Kneeling down, he began to haul up a hose attached to a painter’s rope. The man beside him let his rope down.

  The flames consuming the crown of the tower grew. Pieces of blazing wood dropped inside the inner walls of the tower.

  As there was scant room to work, one of the men fastened his hose to the balcony with a rope before bringing up another one. Cullen marveled at thei
r calm confidence. The ledge was a good hundred feet higher than the roof. The only thing between them and a ten-story drop was that bit of cornice molding along the edges.

  John captured a hose, released it from the rope, and stood in readiness, as did several others. One of them cupped a hand around his mouth and shouted to Chief Murphy. Cullen wondered if he was their leader, Fitzgerald.

  “Cullen,” Della gasped. “Look.”

  He followed the direction of her finger. Trails of smoke slithered through crevices around the painted “Ice-Skating” sign. Unease began to creep through him. Something below John was on fire. He hoped it didn’t block the winding staircase the men had planned to descend.

  Chief Murphy leaned over the edge of the roof. “A hundred-twenty-five pounds, boys,” he shouted to the engines on the ground.

  At the command for water, the crowd whistled and waved their hats. But Murphy’s back was to the tower, making him unaware of the new menace. Turn around, Cullen thought.

  Finally, he did. Pandemonium struck as he and the crowd caught sight of the increasing smoke underneath the men. Firemen on the roof shouted to their comrades on the tower. Spectators screeched their warnings. The men on the ledge either didn’t hear or shrugged it off.

  Leaning over, Cullen put his mouth close to Della’s ear. “There are numerous escape lines hanging from the tower to the roof below. And look.” He pointed to Engine One on the ground. “They’re almost ready for action. They’ll pump water up before you—”

  A deafening explosion cut off his sentence. Flames and thick rolling fumes erupted from a portico halfway up the tower, igniting its staff-covered walls.

  Women screamed, their shrieks rising above the roaring and crackling of the flames. Della slammed her hands over her mouth. Cullen sucked in his breath, gooseflesh skittering down his spine.

  The firemen on the roof who had shouted warnings mere seconds before stood frozen in silent shock.

  Through a veil of smoke, John and the men in his company scurried back and forth on their prison ledge, looking for a means of escape.

  Above them, the dome burned furiously, its cupola white with heat. Below, the portico blazed on all four sides, each archway a seething, open furnace door.

  There would be no getting down the staircase, for the interior of the tower emitted black smoke streaked with cyclones of flame. Escaping down the painters’ ropes, however, would mean sliding right through the fire before reaching the other end.

  A third alarm sounded. Columbian Guards shouted at the crowd across from them who blocked the thoroughfare, then urged them to make way for more engines.

  Chief Murphy barked an order to the men on the ground. They sprang to the hook-and-ladder wagons, then began the slow process of hoisting big ladders up to the roof.

  Cullen swung his attention back to John. There was no time. Not near enough to wait on those ladders. And even if they could get them up, they wouldn’t be anywhere close to ten stories high.

  One black silhouette grasped the hose he’d tied to the cornice and swung over the balcony.

  Not a sound issued forth as the crowd held its collective breath.

  Fire enveloped the man momentarily before he shot down to the bottom of the hose, then made a short leap to the roof. His clothes were on fire, but fellow firefighters rushed to assist him.

  A roar of approval shook the ground as hope sprung anew.

  “Was that John?” Della asked.

  Cullen shook his head. “No, he’s in the middle.” He pointed. “See him?”

  “Yes.”

  Thousands of voices called to the men, begging them to slide.

  Go, John, he urged. Go.

  But he and the other men hesitated. And in those precious seconds, a gust of wind swept flames around the hoses, melted the rubber, and burned them in two. They coiled down like dead snakes, then disappeared into the fire.

  The hair along Cullen’s arms and neck rose.

  In a black knot, John and the others clustered about one man. By his gestures, it was evident he was issuing orders.

  Cullen looked at the painters’ ropes, still intact.

  Go, he begged. Quit talking and go.

  Before his thought was complete, the lines of the ropes began to part like cotton string in a gas jet. Their lengths, unable to withstand the heat, disintegrating to a scant few feet.

  He groaned, hardly aware of the crowd doing the same. Della pressed herself against his side, the fragrance of roses intermingling with the smell of smoke. He encircled her waist with his arm.

  Please, God, he thought. Get them down safely.

  With great caution, one by one, they turned and crawled around the balcony to the west side, the flames almost touching their hands and feet. There was no hurrying, no panic. Every man waited his turn.

  John insisted another go before him. Then another. And another. Until he was at the end of the line.

  Anger surged through Cullen. He knew he shouldn’t begrudge the men in front of John. He knew why John had let them pass. He was unmarried. Had no children. And was the least among them.

  But Cullen wanted him down. Selfish as it was, he wanted his friend off that blasted tower.

  The multitude stilled during the men’s perilous journey, then cheered on its completion. But the men were no better off there. The flames had worked their way upward all around the tower.

  They would have to make a choice. Either leap a hundred feet to the roof or let flames consume them.

  CHAPTER

  21

  Cullen had managed, with a herculean effort, to suppress thoughts of his mother, but now it was impossible. He’d come over only to watch John put out a fire he’d conquered three times before. Never had Cullen dreamed a tragedy of this magnitude would unfold.

  Once again he was twelve, standing helpless outside a mill in Charlotte as fire engulfed every door, every window, every possible means of escape.

  She’d gone in to give a blanket she crocheted to a man whose wife had just had a baby. Cullen had been thrilled to be free of her super-vision, only too anxious to break away and run to the blacksmith’s. The man would often allow Cullen to work the bellows, and he’d raced off, never thinking it would be the last glimpse he’d have of his mother.

  A deep, aching pain crushed him in a vicious grip. His throat began to close.

  “Look!” a man shouted, bringing Cullen back to the present.

  He made himself take a deep, calming breath, laced though it was with smoke.

  A silhouette on the tower stripped off his helmet and spun it down to his companions on the roof. It was a mute appeal for those below to make one more effort at a rescue. Another helmet joined his.

  Several firemen on the roof picked up a hose. The crowd cheered, but Cullen remained silent. He’d seen fire engines before. Knew the limitations of their hoses.

  The jets activated. A thin stream of water lifted its head, barely reaching two-thirds of the way up.

  Della moaned. The man beside them cursed. Cullen withdrew inside himself. He didn’t pray. He didn’t cry. He didn’t feel.

  Closer and closer the men huddled. One broke free of the rest, pushing his way through the band of comrades. He grasped one of them by the hand, then yanked him forward and threw his arms about his neck.

  Brothers, Cullen thought. John had said two of the men in his company were brothers. And now they said their good-byes.

  The self-imposed shell around Cullen’s heart began to fracture.

  One after the other hugged their friends on the ledge. They ruffled John’s helmet, grasped his shoulder, squeezed him close.

  Tears streamed down the faces of the firemen on the ground. The crowd prayed and cursed in turn. Della openly wept, her face drawn with horror.

  Firemen on the roof frantically whipped off coats, vests, and even trousers to form a makeshift catching net.

  Clanging ambulances and multiple fire engines tore the crowd asunder. Panic-stricken guards struggle
d to form lines and keep the people back. British soldiers, Russian soldiers, and French marines in disordered uniforms all materialized out of the throng. Without needing direction, they faced the mob and forced an opening where before there had been none.

  The crowd cheered the soldiers and every new fire engine that came from the city.

  Incoming horses shone with white lather, barely able to pull their engines to the finish line. Groups of firemen, guards, hospital guides, and ambulance attendants met them with canvas cots, stretchers, and stoic expressions.

  People from all over the world in a dozen languages bemoaned the fate of the men on the tower. Positioned as he was, Cullen could see the fear and disbelief on the faces of the truckmen just arriving.

  Would his sprinkler system have prevented the tragedy? He wasn’t sure. He’d not tested it for explosions like this. But it might have helped. Perhaps bought just enough time for John and the others to slide down those ropes.

  One of the men on the tower disentangled himself from the tight knot their group had formed. Reaching down, he grabbed a rope.

  No, Cullen thought, for the line had been burned and couldn’t be more than fifteen feet long.

  The fireman went over the edge, slid down the rope, and dangled at its end for what seemed a lifetime.

  Cullen tensed. The crowd didn’t move. Not a sound could be heard other than the crackling flames licking the man’s feet.

  Cullen glanced at John and realized the fire blocked his view. He and the other men made large gestures with their hands, as if asking one another what had happened to the man who still held on mere feet below them.

  Raising his knees, the man on the rope propped his boots against the wall, then sprang away from it, releasing the rope at the same time. He cartwheeled through space, his outline sharp against the whitewashed wall.

  The people sent up a roar of hurrahs.

  The firemen below scrambled to follow his trajectory with their net.

  The man ripped right through it, rebounded off the roof, then settled in a heap.

  The sound of impact could be heard even over the fire. The crowd jumped at the crash. Confusion ensued as everyone spoke at once. Then, when realization hit, shrieks, cries, and curses abounded.