Quickly I leaped back inside our room, banging the door shut behind me. Charles was standing in his dressing gown, uncinched so that it hung loosely, his belly, in his nightshirt, protruding; he was still in his bare feet.
“Put your shoes on!” I told him, as I sprinted to do the same thing. “Gather up anything of value—take my steps, and I’ll get my jewel case!” I ran to find the case, but a maid had put it high on top of a bureau, so I could not reach it. Cursing her stupidity, I grabbed the steps out of Charles’s hand and dragged them to the bureau; standing up on my very toes, I was able to reach the case.
“Now!” I jumped off the steps and thrust them back to Charles. “We can’t go out in the hall—we’ll be trampled to death! We’ll either have to wait for people to clear it, or—or—”
“Or what? Get burned to death?” Charles cried. His face was an alarming red; his breathing was labored, and he was shaking from head to toe. He did not look at all well, but I couldn’t allow myself to worry about that; first, I had to get us out of this room.
Something was rattling; it sounded like dice being shaken in a cup. I looked down, and it was the jewel case; my hand was trembling so, all my jewelry was bouncing around inside. Later, I realized how ridiculous it was to worry about that case; I had forgotten that everything in it was imitation now.
My entire body was shaking, with fear and energy, both; my heart was racing but only to stir my blood, stir my mind, so that I might come up with a way out. That I would was never in doubt; I knew I could not rely on Charles, and I did not want to die here, consumed by flame and smoke. So it was up to me.
“We can—we can tie bedsheets together!” I looked around, realizing we should probably dampen them first, in case the flames reached our room, but there was no water in the pitcher. “Quick, take the sheets off the bed!”
Charles and I both ran to the bed and began to remove the sheets; it was difficult for us, as they were so heavy and the mattress so huge, the top of it just about level with our eyes; even the pillowcases were cumbersome in our arms, as we could not quite reach all the way about them. In the end, I held on to each pillow while Charles tugged at the cases, both of us falling flat on our bottoms in the effort.
Meanwhile, the commotion outside our door grew even more deafening; the temperature began to rise, and as the early-morning light began to fill our room, we could see that the air was beginning to turn hazy. The smell of smoke stung the inside of my nostrils.
Oh, where was Mr. Bleeker? Why had he not burst into the room to save us, as he always did? But maybe he needed to be saved, for a change; what if they were sleeping, incredibly, through all this? I dropped the sheet I was holding and ran to the door once more—but the hallway was now thick with smoke, with even more people covering their eyes, choking, running, and still crying that one word—“Fire!”
I shut the door, knowing I couldn’t open it again unless we had no choice but to try to make our way out through that teeming, terrifying hallway. But I couldn’t let any more smoke inside our room; while Charles was trying to knot the sheets together, I shoved two of my dresses beneath the doorway to try to keep the smoke out. The Bleekers couldn’t save us, and I couldn’t save them; we were all on our own, now. I could only pray that we would see one another, safe and sound, when all was over.
“Vinnie, it’s so hard—my hands are too small!” Charles protested, massaging his wrist. I ran to help him; it was difficult, knotting those heavy hotel sheets together; I didn’t know how we’d get them secure enough to hold our weight.
“Here, tug on this,” I told him, grabbing one end of two knotted sheets and handing him the other. “Tug hard!”
He did, I did—and the sheets slid apart. We stared at each other; Charles sat down upon the floor, as if he simply had no more will, and began to cry.
“Vinnie, we can’t do this! Where’s Bleeker? We can’t save ourselves! We’re too little!”
“Don’t say that!” I longed to shake him; I detested his weakness at that moment, for I was too close to giving in to my own.
Kicking at the sheets, I ran to the window, but of course it was too high, the sash far above my head. I needed to stand upon something solid in order to open it, and my steps were too wobbly. “Help me,” I yelled at Charles, as I spied a heavy chair next to the bed; we managed to inch it—oh, so excruciatingly slowly!—across the plush carpet, until it was in front of the window. Climbing upon it, throwing all dignity to the wind—my nightgown was now twisted about my waist, exposing my legs—I tried to unhinge the lock on the sash; it was big, slippery in my sweating palms, and at first I didn’t think I could move it. But finally it did loosen, and I tugged on it until it released; leaning my shoulder against the sash, I pushed with all my might, praying that it might move. It did, enough so that I could then jump down and put my hands in the opening of the window; Charles joined me, and we were able to push it up enough so that we could lean out.
The scene before us was unreal. The street was full of people, some running, some crying—some lying broken and still. Oh, how wonderful it had seemed yesterday, to be on the very top floor of the hotel! But now it simply meant that we were a very long way from the ground. Smoke rolled out of windows on either side of us, and below, terrifying fingers of flame indicated that the fire must have started on one of the lower floors. I felt the heat rising all around me, as if from the very depths of hell. Horses were neighing, people were sobbing and shouting, bells were clanging—fire bells, from fire wagons; there were many already in the street below, and others coming; you could hear the clatter of horses’ hooves, the squeal of careening wagons, echoing between the buildings several streets over.
The hotel was surrounded on all sides by other buildings, but it was also surrounded on all sides by wires. All those new electric wires cities were installing these days—they were like a lethal spiderweb just outside the hotel windows, close enough that a normal-size person could touch them in places. Even as I registered their presence, I saw someone jump from a window on our floor, hit a wire with a sizzling sound, and bounce up and then down to another wire before finally falling to the street below.
I turned away, sickened; there was nowhere to look any longer, no escape to try—all was hopeless. Sliding to the floor, I buried my face in my hands because I couldn’t bear to look at Charles. For the first time in my life, I was all out of ideas. Charles slid down next to me and, like a loyal, trusting puppy, laid his head on my lap. Automatically, I began to smooth his brow.
My heart, which had been racing so fast, fueling my fear and desperation, began to slow down, and I was painfully aware of it, wondering how much longer it would continue to beat, wondering what would come first—the smoke, or the flames. Oh! A great cry almost tore my heart open right then; I did not want to die! Not in this way—smoke was beginning to snake in beneath the closed door, despite my wadded-up dresses. But we could not jump—not six floors! That was too high for even a normal-size person; for us, it would be like jumping from an even greater height.
Had Minnie known, just before her heart stopped beating, that it was her last breath? Oh, Minnie! Had she forgiven me? Had she even blamed me, in the first place? Before she died—and she must have known that she was dying; she must have known she could not keep losing so much blood—had she been angry? I was angry now—I was furious! To think that I would die here in this way—why, if there had been someone nearby whom I felt was responsible, I would have yelled, I would have screamed, I would have accused and blamed.
But Minnie hadn’t done that, and so, as I strained to see her dear face one more time—but the smoke was so thick it was obscuring my memories as well as my vision—I had to believe that she wasn’t angry with me, that she didn’t blame me. If only I could forgive myself—
And then my eyes flew open wider as I peered through the smoke, trying to see one last image; my heart, with one final, mighty burst of energy, opened up and flooded my sinking spirits with one last thought
. It was of a face; it was of an apology. It was of an acknowledgment that there was one person I would miss—and one person that I hoped would miss me. But that could happen only if I forgave us both.
Charles was coughing, his head still buried in my lap. So was I—my chest was already aching from the effort, although I hadn’t realized it. My throat was burning, as were my eyes; perspiration was running down my neck, between my breasts, my thighs.
But I had strength enough left to whisper, “I’m sorry, I was wrong, I forgive us both, I forgive you—” His name was upon my lips; that name I had withheld, for no reason. For every reason.
I was just about to utter it, wondering if it would be the last word I ever spoke, when I heard a voice cut through my fading consciousness.
“Hello?” it said, in a brogue almost as thick as the smoke filling the room. The wall behind my back shuddered, and an enormous thud was heard in the window above my head. “And would there be anyone in here now?”
I leaped up, knocking Charles to the floor; there, in the window, was the tip of a ladder, and a round, beautiful, blessed Irish face, covered in grime and wearing a fireman’s hat, staring at me.
“Oh! Thank Providence!” I burst into tears; I couldn’t believe that he was real. I climbed upon the chair just so I could touch his face; without a word, he grabbed my arm and started to haul me over the windowsill.
“Wait! I can’t—” I gazed down at the ladder; there was no way I could traverse it, for the rungs were far too widely spaced. “I can’t climb down! And my husband is here!”
“Your husband?” The fireman blinked, just as Charles scrambled up on the chair next to me. The three of us stared at one another for an almost comical moment, considering the circumstances. “Ach—you’re wee! Both of you!”
“Yes, and we can’t climb down the ladder ourselves!”
“Then I’ll just have to take you down, then, one at a time. Who’s first?”
Charles and I looked at each other; I don’t know what he was thinking, but all I could wonder was what if something happened—the ladder collapsed, or the flames broke through, before the man could climb back up? Having just absolved myself of Minnie’s death, I could not bear to think of either of us having to live with that burden.
“No, can’t you—please, take us both?”
“How much do ye weigh?” The man was so calm, standing upon a ladder hundreds of feet above the ground with electrical wires humming not five feet behind him, flames licking below him, people screaming and hanging out of windows on either side.
“Not much—maybe eighty pounds, total?” I tried not to look at my portly husband.
“All right, climb aboard!” The fireman was cheerful about it, as if he was offering us a ride upon his favorite horse. As we hesitated, not sure what to do, he simply reached with one hand and grabbed me about the waist; I was hauled out the window and instructed to climb on his back, which I did, pressing myself tightly against him, trying to make myself even smaller so as not to touch those hissing electrical wires. He yanked Charles out the window by the back of his nightshirt and tucked him under one arm, like a ham. Then he started to climb down, but I called out, “Oh, wait—my steps!”
“Your what?”
“My steps—please, my father made them!”
“Sorry, Miss—no time!” And we began to inch our way down the ladder.
I couldn’t look, but I couldn’t shut my eyes, either; I wanted to be aware of every moment. I wanted to be able to convince myself I had really survived. So I concentrated on the fireman’s back; his heavy coat; the sweat running, in neat little rivers, down the back of his red neck; his matted brown hair curling out from under his black fireman’s helmet.
Yet I couldn’t shut out all the rest—the bodies that fell on either side of us, landing with the sickening thump of a ripe melon being thrown to the ground; the people hanging out of windows, waving, screaming, holding towels and handkerchiefs up to their faces to block out the smoke, which was boiling out of every window now, thick and black, bits of paper and fabric swirling within it. The air began to cool as we continued down the ladder; I had the oddest thought that Charles must be feeling quite a draft, as the entire lower half of his body was sticking out, uncovered, for all the world to see.
Finally, we reached the ground; the fireman tossed Charles, unceremoniously, to the street and knelt down so that I could slide off his back, muttering, “Eighty pounds, my arse.” He then grabbed the ladder and moved it over to the next row of windows, and began to climb back up.
“Charles, Charles!” I bent down, shaking him; I was overcome with joy, with relief—I could have danced a jig, right then and there. “We’re safe!”
But to my surprise, my husband was crying. Lying on his side in the street, while people stepped over us, shouting for us to get out of the way, he hid his face in his arms. His shoulders were shaking; he was sobbing more wretchedly than he had at any time during the ordeal.
“What? What’s wrong? We’re saved!”
“Oh, Vinnie! To have to be lowered down that way, that awful, mortifying way! Like a—like a sack of something—just hauled out like that! It’s so humiliating—I couldn’t do a thing for myself, I couldn’t save you or me, it’s so awful!”
I stared at him, unable to believe what I was hearing. I suppose my heart should have softened toward him, for he was a man, after all. And men did have their pride.
But we were alive! I was so grateful for that, I couldn’t understand his shame.
I rose; all around us were people sobbing, yelling, running about. There were broken bodies, arms and legs at unnatural angles, littering the street; even as I registered this, another fell just ten feet away from us.
“We need to move away from here,” I told Charles, gripping his arm. “Come, let’s find a place to stay, and we’ll look for the Bleekers.”
Sniffing, rubbing his eyes, Charles rose and allowed me to guide him through the carnage, across the street to a bakery that had opened its doors to the survivors. Someone was handing out blankets, and one fell across my shoulders, as if by magic. The warm, homey smell of fresh bread and pastry was an odd counterpoint to the horrible stench—of burning flesh as well as burning wood—outside.
Already there was a coroner’s wagon on the scene; stretchers were being removed from it, filled with bodies covered with sheets, and then placed back inside. Hospital wagons were also being loaded with the wounded, and every few minutes the driver would slap the reins as a wagon sped off, full of broken, burned occupants. Mothers were searching for children, crying out their names; children were screaming for parents. Everywhere there were people walking, looking, seeking.
But also, people were simply sitting, on curbs, in the street, still in their nightclothes which were now torn and streaked with ash and dirt; some were dripping wet, as if they’d doused themselves with water to protect against the flames. All were staring at the scene before them, eyes glazed over, as if they simply could not process the carnage, as if they simply could not understand how they had escaped it.
“You stay here. I’ll go out and see if I can help, and find the Bleekers,” I told Charles, who dutifully nodded and sat down upon an upturned bucket. Someone had placed a blanket around his shoulders, too, but he was shaking, his face still that awful red, his breathing labored. But I couldn’t stay inside with him, waiting to be told what to do next; I needed to move, to fill my lungs with air, to remind myself that truly, I was alive.
So I moved among my fellow survivors as the hotel continued to burn; occasionally, there would be a fresh cry as pieces of it came crashing down. But soon there was no one left inside to scream; the flames continued to crackle, the bells to clang, but from within the flames there was only deathly silence.
“Please, let me help.” I tugged on the skirt of a woman in a white dress, a blue cape around her shoulders; she carried a basket of blankets and a bucket of clean water with a ladle, and was moving among the survivors,
giving them drinks and warmth.
“That would be a blessing.” She smiled down at me, not betraying any surprise at my size, and handed me an armful of blankets. The heat from the fire was still blazing hot but only if you were facing it; otherwise, the January air was relentlessly cold. As the sun continued to rise, people’s wet garments began to sparkle as if fine diamonds had fallen upon them—but after a closer look, I saw that they were ice crystals. Shuddering in sympathy, I was grateful for the blanket across my shoulders, the warm shoes upon my feet—for many survivors were barefoot.
“Do you know where—is there a place where the wounded are being taken? Where we might be able to meet up with our friends, to see if they survived?”
“I believe there’s a man writing down the names of the survivors—over there.” She pointed to a man carrying a pad of paper and a pencil, near the largest fire wagon. “You can check with him and give him your name.”
“Thank you.” I headed that way, handing out blankets; a few people recognized me and smiled weakly, calling out, “Mrs. Tom Thumb! What are you doing here?”
“My husband and I were staying in the hotel,” I replied. “We were rescued by a fireman.” I scanned the crowd in all directions, searching for the Bleekers—surely Mr. Bleeker, so tall, with his distinctive long gray beard and sad face, would stand out? Surely they escaped, just as we had?
And then I heard my name again—“Vinnie!” But it was a moan; about twenty feet away, I saw Mr. Bleeker kneeling over a broken body in a nightgown.
“Mr. Bleeker!” Picking my way across what now resembled a battlefield, I fell to my knees beside him; he was holding his wife’s hand, shaking his head as tears rolled down his face.
Julia Bleeker was still alive; her eyes were closed, and her breathing was shallow. But her face was pale, her nightgown was plastered to her body in bloody patches, and her leg was turned out from the hip at an unnatural angle.
The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb Page 35