by John Jakes
He heard boat bells and horns, too: faint clangs and squeaks above the hubbub of the surging crowds. Probably the horns and bells belonged to vessels trying to negotiate the Chicago River to its mouth, and safety.
As he turned the team into Michigan and saw the dark lake rippling with red highlights not far to his right, the earth shook and the sky reverberated with thunderous noise. People shrieked and began to rum like animated dolls—without purpose, without direction. Somewhere dynamite was being set off. In the hope of creating firebreaks, Gideon supposed.
And above all the cacophony—bells, horns, detonations, screaming—the fire itself made a noise like a continuous gush of air from a great bellows. All across the downtown, that damnable wind was fanning the flames and creating storms of fire that literally roared.
“Damn!” Gideon said in a despairing voice when some smoke cleared and he surveyed Michigan Avenue for several blocks ahead. It was jammed with people and small mountains of personal items and household goods. Obviously a great number of residents from further west had fled with their possessions toward the lake.
Well, he was cursed if he’d turn back just because the street was impassable. He yanked the reins and sent the landau swaying off the wood paving blocks to the weedy strip of open space between the avenue and the shore of the lake.
The landau bumped and lurched north across the uneven ground. There were piles of household things out here as well, and people camping on them. Gideon maneuvered around one such squatter as a man howled from the street, “It’s the judgment of the Almighty! He has seen this city sink in corruption worse than Sodom’s. That’s why we’re all going to die! The Lord has cursed Chicago!”
People flung rocks and dirt at the hysterical doom-cryer, probably because they feared he was right. Gideon could almost believe he was.
Three poorly dressed men came slipping up from behind, moving in an oblique line toward the landau’s left rear wheel. Gideon’s blind spot. He wasn’t aware of them until heavy boots thumped on the floorboards and the carriage swayed.
Instinctively, he twisted around to the right so he could have a wider field of vision with his good eye. But one of the men had jumped aboard just behind his left shoulder. The man had a short length of pipe in his hand. Before Gideon saw him, he brought the pipe down on top of Gideon’s head.
At the impact, Gideon dropped the revolver. The horses lunged. “Get hold of ’em, Barney!” a man yelled. The one who’d struck Gideon leaped down and dashed in front of the team. He brought the horses to a halt.
Dazed, Gideon was trying to stand. His head rang. Bile rose in his throat. Someone shoved him toward the right side of the seat. A voice growled, “Every liveryman in town’s bein’ offered five, ten times the normal fare for short hauls.” Another shove. “So a couple of us enterprisin’ lads”—Gideon tried to punch at the source of the voice but his head was whirling and he missed—“we’re enterin’ the livery business. Thanks kindly for helpin’ us get started.”
The unseen man grabbed Gideon’s shoulder, tearing his shirt as he booted him off the seat. Swearing, Gideon dropped into the weeds. He hit hard. A rock raked his cheek. He heard the three men laughing and congratulating themselves as they took possession of the landau.
Then, just before Gideon blanked out, one of the men bellowed, “Buggy for hire! Take your personal goods to safety. Buggy for hire!”
Gideon’s face twisted with rage as he tried to push himself up. The roaring fire and the man’s shout blended together. The ground flew up at him and engulfed him in darkness from which all the firelight swiftly faded.
ii
No one bothered him where he lay amid some weeds whose dry stalks rattled in the hot wind. In about twenty minutes he came around. As soon as he regained his feet, he began to think about what he should do next.
On Michigan Avenue, those attempting to escape and those arriving from further west combined to create congestion of unbelievable magnitude. Northward, in the direction of the bridge, he saw nothing but a red-lit ocean of humanity. To try to go all the way to the town limits on foot would take the rest of the night. He’d return to Julia’s, saddle one of the bays and try a second time.
Provided the whole city hadn’t been razed. Grim-faced, he began to trot south through the scraggly growth along the lake shore.
He ached from head to foot. But he quickened his pace, throwing his head back and gulping the scorching air. He was enraged and humiliated by the loss of the landau. Disgusted that people would take advantage of misery and try to exploit those in peril. He always hoped for the best from his fellow countrymen, and the hope was often realized. Sometimes, though, he was grievously disappointed. Tonight was one such time.
He pumped his arms to help himself run faster. When his chest started to hurt from the exertion, his lungs constricted by the searing air, he didn’t slacken his speed. All he could think of was reaching Twentieth, saddling a mount and starting north again.
He staggered into Julia’s kitchen by the rear door and collapsed on a stool, his chest heaving. Servants rushed to gather around him. Questions dinned in his ears. Finally he understood one and gasped a reply.
“No, I—don’t think the fire will—come this way—not unless—the wind changes.” Blearily, he swung his head. “Someone throw a saddle on another horse. Three hooligans knocked me out and stole the landau.”
“Oh, Gideon!”
He heard the voice from his blind spot, swung his head slightly to the left. Bundled in the emerald bedroom robe, Julia stood in the doorway. Her blue eyes seemed full of some emotion he was too tired to recognize. He had the odd impression that she would have rushed to him except for the presence of the servants.
“I lost the landau. I’ll have to take one of the horses and try to bring the doctor back on—”
He stopped. She was shaking her head. Annoyed, he exclaimed, “Fire or not, I’m going to get him here!”
“It isn’t necessary, Gideon.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “About fifteen minutes after you left, Ericsson’s boy died.”
iii
Afterward, he was never proud of what he did then. His mind filled with a shattering rage in which he seemed to see images of Daphnis Miller and Torvald and Ericsson—and Courtleigh’s thugs—all blurred together. He swore, jumped up from the stool and lurched against the table next to it. He overturned the table.
A stack of Spode broke to bits. The servants exchanged alarmed looks. He stormed to the back door and leaned his head against his forearm. “I shouldn’t have moved him. I should have gone for a doctor right from Ericsson’s!”
Out of his sense of failure, there came a searing new sense of resolve. He would settle with the man who’d caused all this grief. He would settle with Mr. Thomas Courtleigh, who had dispatched hired men to the west side, stayed safe at home himself, and thereby proved the old, sad truths one more time: it was the Daphnis Millers of the world who always suffered, because they had none of the protection afforded by money or position or power. And Margaret wanted him to stop speaking out on behalf of the Daphnis Millers? He beat his fist against the frame of the door.
“Impossible!”
When he blurted the word that made no sense to those who heard it, not one of them scorned his odd behavior. The events of the night had left them almost as shaken and drained as he was.
Weariness sapped his anger and the last of his strength. He was barely aware of Julia reaching his side. She took his hand and led him back across the kitchen, and out. He was too exhausted to say a word.
iv
When he was himself again, he found he was sprawled on a lounge in a bedroom on the north side of the house. Julia’s bedroom? he wondered with a twinge of embarrassment. But he wasn’t so embarrassed that he moved; he was still too damn tired.
French windows opened onto a spacious balcony. Beyond Courtleigh’s rooftop he saw the panorama of the flame-filled sky. Somewhere a small clock chimed four. He made a good deal of noise
as he sat up.
Julia appeared on the balcony, which extended beyond the left-hand window. “Gideon? Ah, you’re awake—”
He rubbed his throbbing head.
“Would you like a little brandy?”
He nodded. She swirled past him, the robe belling back from bare calves. The walls and ceiling shimmered with firelight. He realized no lamps were lit because they weren’t needed.
With some effort, he got to his feet. She handed him a goblet. He sipped. Raked fingers through his cinder-filled hair. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.
“I failed, Julia. In everything I tried to do tonight—saving Ericsson—saving his boy—getting the doctor—I failed. And for a finale, I had to lose my temper in front of your help.”
“Please don’t talk that way. You did the best you could. No sane person would expect everything to come out right on a night like this.”
The disgusted growl in his throat said the excuse didn’t satisfy him. He stalked past her to the balcony. He leaned against the rail of heavy sculptured stone. She followed. He didn’t see her raise her hand near his back, then hesitate.
At last she touched him. He stiffened a little. Once he’d gotten over his surprise and self-consciousness, he relaxed. She rested her palm lightly against his shirt between his shoulder blades. It felt wonderfully soothing somehow.
She nodded toward the northern sector of the sky. “I think the courthouse has fallen. It’s hard to be absolutely sure with so much flame and smoke. Unless they can stop the advance of the fire, the whole business district will go. You can barely see the eighth story of Mr. Palmer’s new hotel—it’s going to be wiped out, too.” A small shake of her head as she took her hand away. “It certainly teaches you not to put too much reliance on the things of this world. They never last.”
He hardly heard. “I should have tried locating a doctor in Ericsson’s neighborhood—”
“Gideon, stop!” She came around to his side, standing on tiptoe. “Unless of course you enjoy the pose of the martyr.”
Her face turned up toward his. The brief anger he saw in her eyes jolted him from the mood of self-pity. Her hair blew against his cheek, driven by a puff of hot wind. Sympathetic again, she touched his chin. “There’s no need to torture yourself.”
He stood gazing down at her as the wind caught the skirt of her robe and brushed it aside. A bare thigh glimmered red. Her hand moved up his cheek, stroking. She felt the sudden excitement of physical contact and so did he. Her voice broke as she said, “You tried. No man or woman can do more than that.”
Later, looking back to that moment, he wondered whether he could have walked away and thus prevented everything that happened as a consequence. Yes—if he’d been less tired, less angry with Courtleigh, less aware of his own fallibility. In short, more of a paragon and less of a man.
Perhaps the excitement of the night contributed, too. During the war he’d heard fellow officers say that thoughts of the perils of combat stimulated their sweethearts and made them less cautious. He recalled a lonely cabin in the Virginia woodlands where he’d saved a young widow from being molested by two marauding Yanks. Quite unexpectedly, he’d spent the night in her bed, and he remembered how passionate she was in the aftermath of danger.
And perhaps he was worn out and needed simple human warmth, and she did too.
Whatever the reason, he found himself staring down at Julia Sedgwick and wanting her.
v
He put his fingers on her shoulders. She reached up with both hands, clasping her wrists around his neck. He had to bend. He did so—quickly—because her blue eyes suddenly spoke of her desire.
They were standing on the open balcony. People were still fleeing along South State. But they paid no attention to the fine houses they were passing. Gideon didn’t care one way or another. He swept his arms around Julia’s waist. Lifted her off the marble balcony so her mouth would meet his.
She murmured his name, then kissed him, her lips opening. Her tongue stole out and touched his with an ardor he’d never experienced before, not with the widow in the woodland cabin, and certainly not with Margaret. For an instant he was afraid he might not be competent enough for someone so experienced.
Then that didn’t seem to matter either. She pressed against him, the belt of the robe de chambre loosening as they kissed. The robe came open. She wore only a light chemise beneath. She was moaning as she kissed his throat, his cheek, his lips. Moaning and reaching for him.
“We’d better go inside to the bed, Julia—”
“No, no, there isn’t time—hurry, Gideon—hurry!”
Somehow she helped him free of his trousers. Somehow he left them behind as they stumbled from the red-lit balcony to the deeper shadow of her room. She clasped her legs around him and then they were magically together, she hanging back with her wrists locked around his neck while he braced against the wall.
At the end, clinging to him in exhaustion, she said, “Oh, my dearest. Oh, Gideon darling—that was shameless of me.”
“Why—why do you—say that?” He was out of breath. So was she.
“Because—we shouldn’t have. It seems that—in a very short time—I’ve grown hopelessly fond of you. But this is—one of the few times in my life when I’m—a little ashamed of getting what I wanted.”
“Don’t.” He kissed her closed eyes.
“Well”—a small, pained laugh—“you see that I wasn’t so ashamed that I stopped, or am willing to stop now. Make love to me again.”
Margaret’s face flashed into mind. He thought of the night she’d first banished him from her room. Of how he’d come home to Yorkville, hurt, and three times tried to draw her out of her unhappy mood by touching her in an affectionate, tender way. Three times she’d recoiled from him.
“Please, Gideon. On the bed this time.”
The memories faded. “Yes,” he said, and crushed his mouth against hers.
Chapter IX
Guilt
i
THEY MADE LOVE twice more that night, each time with greater ferocity and yet greater tenderness than before.
Margaret had never been excessively inhibited in the marriage bed—at least not during the first two or three years—but she’d always insisted on total darkness. Julia did not. Both times he took her by the shimmering light of the sky and watched the gasping delight sweep over her face. The last time, just at the end, someone detonated more powder far off in the blazing city. It seemed a fitting capstone to the incredible experience.
Moments later, when they separated, he was so drowsy he could barely speak. “That was—Julia, that was—”
“What?”
A chagrined chuckle. “I don’t know. Beyond words.”
She smiled. “I’m glad.” She snuggled her small, firm breasts against his naked back as he yawned, then apologized for it. In a moment his eyes shut. He began to snore.
The sound made her laugh softly. She drew back and rubbed his shoulders until she felt him relax. Then her gaze drifted to the open windows. She’d asked the servants to summon her in the event the fire crossed Twelfth Street. So far, no one had knocked.
She stared at the smoke and flame in the heavens but didn’t really see any of it. She was pondering the surprising and incredible joy of what had just happened—what she had wanted to happen since he first called, she realized. He was a person of principle and determination. A person to whom failure was unbearable, and whose ambition to change society in a positive way was as powerful as her own. He was, in short, a man—in a way poor Louis had never been.
Yes, she’d wanted him from the beginning. And she’d gone out of her way to arrange the circumstances so the want could be satisfied. She’d brought him to her bedroom when another room would have served equally well as a place for him to rest. She’d gone to his side when he stood on the balcony, touched and caressed him.
She could admit all that and be both happy they’d made love and disappointed in herself. There was a s
treak of selfishness left in her from her younger days. She had learned to suppress and channel it, but she would never completely conquer it.
What bothered her most—for his sake, really—was the fact that he was married. When the overwrought state that had brought them together had cooled, he would feel regret and guilt and pain. Above all, she didn’t want him to feel pain. His happiness and his hurts were far more important than hers, and she couldn’t recall ever having felt that way about another human being except her son. Thus Julia came to realize she was in love with Gideon.
There was a melancholy expression on her face as she lay staring at the fiery sky, sleepless and wondering what she could do to ease his inevitable guilt for which she held herself responsible.
ii
As it turned out, she could do nothing. The instant he awoke around nine o’clock, Margaret’s face intruded in his memory. This time he found it impossible to banish.
Stale, smoky air tainted the bedroom. Julia was awake and lying beneath the light coverlet she’d pulled over them. She read his expression at once, and unerringly.
“Gideon, it wasn’t your fault.”
“It most certainly was. I’m a married man. The father of children—”
“And do you still love your wife? I’d be much surprised if you said yes.”
Her directness and candor stunned him. He didn’t really know how to answer her question. The love he’d once felt for Margaret could never be wiped out as if it hadn’t existed; a residue of that love would always remain part of him. So in that sense he did love her. But not with the ardor of their first years of marriage.
Was it possible for a man to care for two women? One passionately, and one out of a sense of responsibility? He didn’t know that, either, so he evaded.