When We Caught Fire

by Anna Godbersen

Anders came in behind her. She turned, and met his gaze. How she wished it were a few days ago and that she had told him how she felt instead of summoning him on behalf of Emmeline. She wished they had come here, tonight, for a simple dinner with her mother and father. But that seemed too much to explain, and anyway, from the way he watched her, she knew he already understood. She went to the pitcher, poured its contents into the basin, and lifted the basin over her head.

  As the water trickled from her hairline over her forehead—washing the soot from her face, the tension from the muscles of her shoulders, the flurry of agitation within her rib cage, and her many, many mistakes—Anders stepped in close so he, too, could be cleansed. The tips of their noses touched, and she felt his chest rise and fall under the cold bath. She realized her thirst, and opened her mouth to the water, and he opened his mouth, too. When the basin was empty, she tossed it to the bed, and he pulled her against him.

  For a few moments, with her body pressed to his body, they were in some before-time where there was no danger and only sweet possibilities.

  “We shouldn’t stay,” she said, withdrawing from the kiss.

  “I know.” He exhaled, and put his lips chastely against her ear. “Don’t worry, we’ll find them.”

  As they came onto the street, she saw Magda Dorrans, pushing a wheelbarrow piled high with all manner of bedding and kitchen things.

  “Mrs. Dorrans!” she called out, but the old lady kept on in her slow, stooped way. “Mrs. Dorrans, wait!”

  As she approached, old Magda paused and looked up at her. A dusting of ash darkened her nose and cheeks, and she was already out of breath. “Fiona, there you are, you lovely girl. We’ve missed you,” she said cheerily, as if they were meeting at a baptism on a sunny spring afternoon.

  “Have you seen my family?” Fiona blurted. “Are they all right?”

  “Oh yes. When they heard how bad the fire was, they went on to the lake straightaway. Lots of folks are there, waiting by the shore till it blows over.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes, all of them.”

  “Jack, too?”

  “All of you Byrnes.”

  Fiona closed her eyes and for the first time in hours she felt the tightness in her chest soften. She nodded, as though to reassure herself it was true, that she could relax a little now. “Why didn’t you go with them?”

  Old Magda tilted her head toward the cart.

  “You should leave that, Mrs. Dorrans,” Anders said, but she shook him away.

  An explosion rang out to the north and west of where they stood, and their attention snapped in that direction. Lights flickered, and they heard a scream carried on the wind from far away. Meanwhile, Mrs. Dorrans had moved on.

  “It’s all I have,” she was muttering. “All I have.”

  They watched her as she proceeded down the alley, toward the wide street, pushing her wheelbarrow. From where they stood, the chaos on the thoroughfare was clearly visible. Four-poster beds were being handed down from second-story windows and the shouting was general. She had not thought ahead of reaching her family home—but now, seeing how widespread the unrest was, she thought perhaps the train might be delayed, perhaps they might make it just in time and be able to leave tonight after all.

  “Who’s that?” Anders asked.

  Fiona followed his gaze. A white landau pulled by a pair of blindered horses had broken through the crowd on Wells and was coming toward them. This was not a class of carriage one often saw in their part of town. It was only then that Fiona noticed that the horse she and Anders had ridden out of the stables was gone—whether it had been spooked or stolen, she’d never know. The man sitting on the coachman’s perch was also wearing white, although the brimmed hat tipped over his eyes was black.

  “That’s Frederick Tree,” Fiona said. “Emmeline’s . . .”

  “Oh.” Anders’s jawbone tensed.

  Freddy made a sharp, loud noise from the back of his throat, halting the pair of horses. He rose to his feet and lifted a shotgun from the seat, pointing the barrel at Fiona. She stepped back, bracing herself. “You’re the maid,” he said.

  She nodded stupidly.

  “And you’re young Anders?” Freddy’s mouth curled up at the corner. “The boxer.”

  Anders stepped forward and lengthened his neck. “Who are you?” His voice was steady, but his hands had formed into tight balls.

  Freddy didn’t answer, he just took a rope from his pocket and tossed it to Fiona. She didn’t want to catch it, but it hit her in the chest and she grabbed for it instinctively.

  “Tie his hands,” Freddy said. When she hesitated, he fixed the gun’s aim more precisely on her. Inside she felt like a pot of water that had reached a high boil, the bubbles snapping violently at the surface. Anders offered her his wrists and she did as Freddy wanted. Once Anders’s hands were bound, Freddy jumped to the ground. With a wave of the gun’s shaft, he indicated where he wanted them to go. “Get in.”

  “Why?” Anders demanded.

  Freddy marched toward him and jabbed Anders’s chest with the mouth of the gun. “Would you like to ask me why again?” Fiona had seen men handle guns before, and she could see that Freddy was not particularly adept, but this was no reassurance. He was angry enough not to care what he did, and whatever it was would be messy and imprecise. Freddy kept the gun nudged between Anders’s shoulder blades as he walked him to the landau. “Not you,” Freddy said, when Fiona moved to follow Anders into the backseat. “You drive,” he commanded, and she smelled the whiskey on his breath. “Take me to the shop.”

  She stared in confusion. “The shop?”

  “The shop!” Freddy screamed, and his face got all twisted up like he might cry. “The place where you sold my wife’s stolen jewels.”

  “But they weren’t—”

  “Take me there or god help me, you will find out what this gun can do to your friend’s face.” Freddy had control of himself again, but she could see the anguish in his dark and shining eyes. “I already have plenty of reason to wish him harm.”

  Fiona could no longer see Anders’s expression, but she felt Freddy’s eyes trained on her, waiting to be sure she climbed onto the coachman’s seat. She didn’t know how she’d be able to maneuver the large carriage through the alley’s outlet, but fear was strangling her voice.

  When they reached the crossing, Freddy leaned out and barked, “Out of the way,” in a loud, curt manner that expected to be obeyed. And they did obey. The neighborhood denizens who had streamed from their homes and onto the streets kept up their shouting and shoving, but they moved aside so the grand vehicle could make its way north on Wells.

  At the next intersection, she saw that a corner had been occupied by a group of men openly drinking whiskey from bottles they must have pilfered from an abandoned saloon. Two policemen stood watching in their navy uniforms with the hats like upside-down bells, yet still this gang heckled the passing families and bellowed at the smoke billowing overhead, daring the sky to rain fire upon them. A girl of about twelve went rushing by carrying a drawer full of frilly things, and one of these men stepped forward and kicked it from below, so that pastel silks went flying through the air. The poor thing knelt on the ground trying to pick them up, but a live ember was blown down from a nearby roof, landed on her skirt, and the fabric caught. When she realized she was on fire, she screamed, abandoned the drawer and its contents, and disappeared among the hordes. Not only the rogues on the corner, but the two policeman, roared at her misery.

  At the crossing, the pair of horses hesitated. Amid the sea of rough carts, their fine carriage rose like the moon. It soon caught the attention of the corner boys, and when Fiona saw the policeman looking at her she gestured wildly. He spoke a word to his partner and ambled in her direction, smirking and thrusting his thumbs through his belt buckles. Her hands gripped the reins so hard that the leather marked her palms, and she was afraid he would address her, and that she wouldn’t be able to speak. But she hop
ed that as soon as he glanced in the cab, he’d see that they had been kidnapped by Freddy and were being held at gunpoint.

  “Evening, Officer,” she heard Freddy say. “It’s quite a fire tonight.”

  The officer whistled in agreement. Fiona closed her eyes and prayed for him to notice the gun, to notice the rope around Anders’s wrists. “Out of control on the West Side. Damn fire jumped the river, blew up the gasworks. The firemen can’t do nothing around here—too many shoddy buildings, too much wood. Don’t worry, though. When it reaches the big stone buildings downtown it will be stopped for sure.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Freddy said curtly.

  The policeman comprehended his tone. “How can I help you, sir?”

  “I am Frederick Tree, of the North Side Trees. My father is Judge Orwell Tree. I introduce myself so that you know I am a gentleman and would not deceive you.”

  “Course not.”

  “These scoundrels have absconded with my property, and I must make haste to retrieve it before the fire destroys everything.”

  The officer pushed up the little brim of his hat, and glanced at Fiona. She tried to think of a way to signal to him that they were in trouble, that they weren’t thieves. But all the parts of her face were immobile with fear, and she could only manage to stare back blankly.

  “Yes, yes, go on, Mr. Tree,” the policeman said, and turned his broad back to them.

  The little window onto the cab opened, and Fiona’s head was wrenched backward. With a firm grip on her braid, Freddy said: “Go. Go on, straight north, and do not try me again.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes with the pain. She longed for one glance from Anders, but was afraid of what Freddy would do if she looked back.

  So she urged the horses on into the chaos.

  Twenty-Nine

  Do not pry into your husband’s private life, lest your modesty be scorched.

  —Cressida Marr, Advice for the Young Bride, Ostrich Press Publishers, 1870

  The courthouse bells had been ringing so frequently that she became deaf to their clang. The gas had gone out, and Emmeline, alone in the darkness, was forced to rummage for candles to see anything at all.

  Freddy was out somewhere in the sprawling city, one of back alleys and towering buildings, of speculators and strivers, looking for Fiona and Anders. She had babbled on to him about Fiona and Anders, the long history of their friendship, as well as the convoluted series of events of the past few days. Because of her, he knew a lot about them. Who was chasing them, and where they might hide.

  Emmeline’s heart was still bruised by what she had seen in the barn. During the hours since, she had several times told herself that they deserved whatever they got. But, after a little time, she knew she could not bear it if any harm befell them.

  At last there was no more wondering whether they deserved her help, and only the need to do something. So she hurled herself at the locked door full force. But it did not even register her weight. She ran into the lady’s dressing room, and pushed open the window, but the ground was four stories down, and there was not even a vine to grab hold of. The very idea of a fall stole her breath. She rushed back into the main room of the master suite, to the windows that faced Michigan Avenue, but these, too, opened onto a sheer drop. Half tripping over her cumbersome skirt, she hustled back to the far side of the suite, into Freddy’s dressing room, where shoes of polished leather were lined up by the dozen. Shiny, black jackets hung along the wall, beside every variety of collar. Desperate for an outlet, she pounded the walls with her hands, throwing folded trousers through the air. But this too was a dead end.

  A full-length mirror occupied the far wall, and she caught a glimpse of her wretchedness. Her hair had gone lopsided, falling loose on one side but still pinned up on the other. Several of the bows that decorated the lower sweep of her skirt now hung by threads. Her cheeks were flush from rushing back and forth. The girl she saw in the reflection was nothing like the elegant society lady she had tried so hard to be. How she hated what she had become! She grabbed the mirror’s gilt frame, and rested her forehead on the cool glass.

  To her surprise, the mirror sprang back.

  Her blood was alive with fresh hope. Behind the mirror was a narrow stairway that led into a secret library. The walls were lined with books, a skylight and chairs upholstered in cowhide. Over the small fireplace hung a painting that was almost as tall as Emmeline herself, depicting a girl about her age wearing a fur coat and nothing else, her eyelashes dark and drooping. An angry blush crept over Emmeline’s face, but she resolved not to be deterred. Her friends were in trouble, and if she could find a way out, then she might be able, somehow, to help them.

  She pushed the bookshelf ladder into the center of the room and climbed up to the skylight. Balancing nimbly on the top step, she thrust the window open, and found herself teetering in the night. The strong wind picked up her voluminous skirt and it filled like a sail, so that Emmeline was almost knocked over, and had to crouch down to keep from being blown away. What she saw made her stomach weak. To the west the sky was a sickly orange glare billowing with black smoke. Countless buildings were engulfed in flame, and the glowing embers swirled in the gale. It was as though the city that she had known her entire life were just a little toy diorama at the bottom of a vast and blazing hearth.

  With care, she brought herself and the enormous dress onto the sloped tar roof. She crawled toward the edge, but found that there was no way down from there. Her hope was mostly gone, but she crawled to the other side anyway, and saw that there was no exterior stair on that side, either.

  As she was lowering herself back down, she saw something that chilled her heart. The courthouse, which Father’s associates had always braggingly called “fireproof,” had succumbed to the northward sweep of the conflagration. Its high windows belched smoke, and the cupola, which stood above all the surrounding buildings, was alight with flames. While she stared, trying to comprehend the destruction of a building that, to her, had seemed as permanent as the sun, the cupola disintegrated entirely, erupting into a torrent of sparks and flying debris, and the great iron bell which had rung consistently through the night fell. The sound was terrible, a thud so heavy that it shook the surrounding buildings. Even at her safe distance, Emmeline felt the crash rattle her teeth. She closed her eyes, went down the ladder, down the secret staircase, into the prison of her marriage bedroom.

  Five hours after the fire began, the great courthouse bell crashed to the ground, and its awful thud was heard for miles. Water Street was crowded with people moving determinedly east and north, but they stopped and gazed downtown when they heard it. By then, Georgie had made it to the North Side—the river was busy with boat traffic and there was much commotion over whether the Rush Street Bridge should remain open to allow their passage, or stay closed so that the fleeing hordes could cross on foot. There was great confusion about where to shelter, with some heading to the lakeside strip they called the Sands and some to the cemetery at Lincoln Park, but Georgie kept on up Rush Street, clutching the envelope with the twenty-dollar note Emmeline had given her that morning.

  The city was in chaos. She had seen men put torches to carts packed high with lumber; she had seen women, bulky with the three evening gowns they wore, one on top of the other, step over the bodies of dogs in the street as though they didn’t care at all; lost children screaming for their mothers; and men with legs broken by falls from roofs or high windows, crawling on their elbows to get away. She had seen a ghostly tower of blue flame rising from a spilled barrel of whiskey, while the whiskey drunks toasted in celebration of the fire and all the bounty it had given them. She passed so many oil paintings, harps, settees, and other discarded finery that she lost interest in such objects.

  The lawns of the fine mansions that had lately been the sites of picnics and evening soirees were now the destinations of refugees from the better neighborhoods of the West and South Side. Their pianos and hutches and dining tables
were strapped atop wagons, and the residents came onto their porches and ushered those who had traveled through the flaming city inside, to wash up and rest, saying they were all safe now.

  With a set and determined jaw, Georgie returned to the Carter residence, where the wedding trappings were still evident, relics of a now lost time. She found Ochs Carter at the back of the house with his man Malcolm, and told him in a rush what she had seen on Terrace Row: the slap, the taking of the key, Emmeline locked within, and Frederick Tree, who had so abused her, raging in the town, trying to find her engagement ring. It was not Georgie’s way to do for others—she had learned early on what that got you. But after her affair with the future duke had been discovered, his mother struck her face and ordered her locked in the basement, then transported in a trunk to the wharf. The last she saw of England was the inside of that box, and it had held her like a coffin. The terror of that experience still woke her in the night. She had never seen home again, and only been released into steerage, where for weeks she sat among colicky babies and moldy clothes. If she survived, she promised herself, she would one way or another acquire enough that no one would ever cage her again. And she could not stand the idea that a Frederick Tree had locked a young woman in a tower, that he had humiliated her, and might get away with it.

  Georgie wanted to know that he would be punished, and embellished some, telling Mr. Carter of the beating Frederick Tree had given his daughter. She knew that she had done a good job describing the horror of the episode when she saw how enraged Mr. Carter was. When he asked where she thought Mr. Tree was headed, she showed him the envelope, the one Emmeline had absentmindedly given her with a little money to keep her quiet about all her odd behavior.

  “Gorley’s,” he said, and cursed. Then he assured her that Emmeline was in the safest part of town, for the wind was blowing from the south and west and the fire would not go her way. With a pat on the head, he returned the twenty-dollar note to the envelope, and told her she was a valued member of the Carter household. And Georgie, satisfied that she had done Emmeline a good turn, went out into the North Side blocks. The mansions stood solid and proud, and the oak trees kept their sentry along the properties’ borders. One would not think, from the look of things, that any harm could come to these elegant houses. But when she glanced up at the sky—she had been awake a long time now, and thought the stars might give her some sense of the hour—there was nothing to see. The fire’s smoke covered everything, even here, and Georgie hoped Mr. Carter was right, that Emmeline would be safe in her tower.