Song of Erin

by BJ Hoff

  The odor of smoke was much stronger now, and he knew he had to get to the pressroom without waiting any longer. With a last glance around the office, he started for the door, stopping only long enough to grab his coat off the sofa, where he’d tossed it earlier.

  He sprinted down the steps, throwing on his coat and shoving the documents from the safe in his pockets as he went. At the bottom he veered right and took off at a run down the narrow hallway that led to the pressroom. He could see small clouds of smoke floating under the door and out into the hall.

  He was almost there when a roar sounded from inside the room and the door exploded open, unleashing a roaring burst of flame and churning smoke. Jack could actually feel the heat. He stopped, stunned by the force of the treacherous blaze. His eyes were already tearing, and his chest burned from the thick fumes of the smoke.

  For a moment he could think of nothing but the new steam press—his pride above every other piece of equipment in the pressroom. Then his mind went to all the flammable materials stored inside that room, and he realized the entire building was surely doomed.

  Dense smoke and flames were pouring out the door into the hall. There was no way he could get into the room, and if he didn’t move fast, the flames would overtake the hall as well, trapping him.

  He would not allow himself to think of what the fire would take from him. One thing he was determined it would not take was his life.

  He turned then and, with the flames beginning to snake along the floor behind him, raced down the hall toward the outside door. His chest was burning as if the fire had exploded inside him, and the bitter, black taste of smoke filled his mouth. As he charged out the door and into the street, his eyes sought and found Samantha, watching Madog ply the pump. Jack leaped over a frozen pool of ice and came to stand in front of them.

  Samantha’s eyes went over him as if to make certain he was all right. There was something else there, too, but Jack had no notion of what. He couldn’t think of anything except the Vanguard’s going up in smoke, although he realized his hopes weren’t entirely dead when he caught himself listening for the sound of the fire wagon.

  Madog paused long enough to give Jack a quick glance. “Thanks be you’re all right, sir!” he said, then resumed his pumping.

  Jack wiped a hand over his forehead and, glancing at it, saw that it was black with smoke.

  “Is it bad, sir?” said Madog.

  Jack stood staring at the building. “It’s bad,” he said quietly.

  The words were no more out of his mouth than he felt Samantha tug at his arm. “Jack! Look! Up there!”

  Jack glanced at her, then turned to look where she was pointing. His blood chilled at the sight of a small face framed in the upstairs window of his office. A closer look revealed a boy, gesturing wildly. Although they couldn’t hear the child’s screams through the closed window, there was no mistaking that he was crying for help.

  Madog had dropped the pump handle and now stood staring up at the window. “Merciful Lord, ’tis Whitey!” he cried out.

  The little newsboy whose only home was under the steps at the bindery.

  “What’s he doing up there?” Jack groaned.

  Madog stood, shaking his head. “Snipe is probably in there somewheres, too. You don’t see one without the other. I’ll bet the two rascals let themselves in to get out of the snow.”

  Jack had never known the boys to come inside without permission, but perhaps the storm had made them bold.

  He tried to think, but his mind seemed frozen on the sight in his office window. He couldn’t stop the image of the way the fire had blasted through the door of the pressroom and gone rolling down the hall. By now the blaze had surely cut off the landing of the stairway.

  The boy was probably trapped.

  Samantha looked from the terrified child in the upstairs window to Jack. His face was set in a hard mask, his eyes narrowed as he scanned the Vanguard building. She could almost see his mind working, considering the options—of which there seemed to be none.

  “Could he jump, do you think?” asked Madog Wall.

  Jack hesitated, then shook his head. “Even if he managed to break the window, we’d never catch him. We’ve nothing to stop his fall.”

  Suddenly there came the sound of several explosions. Samantha screamed as windows shattered and smoke began to billow through to the outside.

  She felt Jack’s arm go around her as he started to drag her backwards. “Madog, get her away from here!” he shouted, thrusting her toward Madog Wall. “The two of you, go over to the bindery!”

  Indecision crossed the big Irishman’s face. “Please, sir, I’ll be going after the boy! You stay with Mrs. Harte!”

  “No!” Jack roared at him. “No offense, man, but I can move faster! You see to Mrs. Harte—I’m going back in!”

  Samantha reached out, grasping his arm. “Jack! No, you can’t!”

  He turned to look at her, his gaze softening for an instant before he turned back to Madog Wall. “Pour that bucket of water over me, man! Be quick!”

  Madog didn’t hesitate but picked up the bucket he had just filled and doused Jack with its contents.

  Samantha shivered at the sight of his head and topcoat drenched in the bitter cold.

  Suddenly in the distance they heard the sound of bells clanging furiously.

  “There they come, sir!” shouted Madog. “The fire wagons are coming! There’s help for the lad now!”

  Others from surrounding buildings had begun to gather as well: newsboys and factory workers who had heard the commotion. Samantha felt a quick surge of hope for the first time since they’d seen the child in the window.

  Jack stood, listening to the fire bells, then shook his head. “They’ll never get here in time! I’m going after him! Now get away from here—both of you!”

  He paused, his eyes hard on Madog Wall. “You’re a good man, Madog, and I’d trust you with my life. But right now I’m trusting you with Mrs. Harte’s life, and hers means a great deal more to me than my own. I don’t want you to leave her side, not for a minute, no matter what happens. You understand? If that fire begins to move, you take her and get her a safe distance away. I want your word on it!”

  Madog hesitated but after a second or two nodded his head in agreement. “Aye, sir. You have my word.”

  Again Samantha tried to stop Jack, but he pulled free and went tearing up the walk to the building.

  She saw him come to a halt at the entrance door, glance inside, then step back to look up at the second story. She followed the direction of his gaze and saw that the boy was no longer at the window.

  At that same instant, the window where the child had been standing only moments before suddenly exploded, shattering glass and blowing debris high into the night sky. Sparks and cinders sprayed the darkness like fireworks.

  For the first time, Samantha realized the snow had stopped.

  But not the wind.

  For a moment she and Madog Wall stood staring in horror at the burning building. Then the big Irishman swept her to his side and propelled her across the street.

  From their watching place at the side of the bindery, Samantha saw Jack disappear inside the Vanguard building.

  She cried his name softly to herself and began to pray.

  When Jack saw no trace of the newsboy in the window, he took a tentative step inside the building, then another. He might as well have stepped into a nightmare.

  Heat like that of a furnace smacked him full in the face. The stairway was engulfed in flames, the hall leading to the pressroom completely cut off by a curtain of smoke and fire. To his right, the hallway was still clear, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before the blaze spread the length of the building.

  Already the heavy dark smoke was searing his lungs and scalding his eyes. He was trying to decide which way to move when a scream sounded above him. He looked up and saw the newsboy standing at the top of the stairway. The lad’s eyes were wild with terror, his inces
sant screams nearly choked off by the smoke and roaring flames.

  “Mr. Kane! Help me, Mr. Kane!”

  Jack saw that the blaze would catch the boy up at any second and waved him away. “Get away from the stairway, boy! Move back!”

  At first the lad made no attempt to move but simply stayed where he was, screaming his head off.

  Again Jack shouted up at him. “Whitey! Get away from the steps! That way—” he flung out his arm motioning the boy to the hallway on his right. “Go to the back of the building, boy! I’ll meet you there!” A thought struck him. “Whitey—is Snipe in the building, too? Where is he?”

  The boy stared at him, then shook his head. “He—Snipe was in the pressroom.”

  Jack knew with a sinking feeling that there was no getting the other boy out, not if he was in the pressroom.

  “All right, son—you go on now! As fast as you can, you hear!”

  Relief flooded him when he saw the boy finally break and run. Taking time only to swab his handkerchief against his wet coat and cover his mouth with it, Jack leaped around the flaming wall and took off down the hallway.

  At the back of the building, he saw that although the smoke was thick and heavy, already coiling around the ceiling and windows, the old iron steps that wound up to the second floor were still clear.

  He took the steps two at a time, his boots clanging loudly on the metal. At the top, however, there was no sign of the boy.

  “Whitey!” He started off down the hall, shouting the boy’s name as he went, then came to a dead stop. Between him and the top of the main stairway, which by now was a blazing pyre, the hall that he had prayed would be clear was instead blocked by a veritable barricade of smoke and flames.

  Jack looked up and realized that the pocket of fire must have been kindled by the flames snaking along the ceiling and partway down the door frame, reaching the crates and boxes stacked high outside the archives room.

  His gaze traveled downward. To his horror he saw the prone figure of the little newsboy lying on the opposite side of the wall of fire separating them.

  Across the street at the bindery, Samantha and Madog Wall stood watching the inferno that had been the Vanguard. Samantha refused to let herself dwell on the enormity of the loss this would be to Jack. She could do nothing for now except to pray God’s protection around him and the little newsboy.

  The thought of her last few minutes with Jack in his office, the harsh words, the painful scene between them, struck her like a heavy fist, and she nearly doubled over with the memory.

  Oh, Lord, to think that only moments ago I was asking you to change him! Now, all I can think of, all I can pray for, is that you’ll save him! Lord, put a wall around him and the child—a barrier between them and the flames! Carry them through the fire, Father! Just…lift them up in your arms and carry them through the fire!

  Lord, you know how much I love him! Right or wrong, I can’t seem to help myself, even after everything that’s happened. Please, Father, in your mercy and in your love, please save Jack! Save him for me…and save him for you! Even if we can never be together, please get him safely out of that building! Please!

  She gasped aloud in relief as two fire wagons, bells clanging, finally rounded the corner and pulled to a stop in the middle of the street.

  “Thanks be,” muttered Madog. “And about time, too.”

  Their relief was short lived. At the chilling sound of glass shattering, Samantha looked up to see that the whole building now appeared to be ablaze, with smoke and flames pouring from the windows and rising from the roof.

  Beside her, Madog Wall added what might have been a fervent petition to her own earlier prayers when he said, in a choked voice, “Lord, have mercy! Only you can save them now!”

  With tears stinging her eyes, Samantha again took up her desperate plea in Jack’s behalf, now praying the promises of God for him and the child he had gone to rescue.

  Jack’s chest threatened to explode along with the windows as he dropped to his belly and began to crawl closer to the blazing pocket between him and the unconscious child.

  “Hold on, son!” he muttered to himself as he stopped, poised on all fours while he tried to gauge the best way around the fire. There looked to be a fraction more room on the outside wall, but if he went that way and the window blew, he was sure to be caught in a storm of fire and glass.

  He opted for the side nearest the wall and started in that direction, again keeping as close to the floor as possible. Even in the space of a few seconds, the flames had fanned out, coming toward him at an incredible speed. In no time the boy would be past reaching.

  He was fighting for breath now, his lungs raw and burning from swallowing too much smoke.

  He stopped at the very edge of the fire and saw there was scarely an inch of floor space that wasn’t aflame. He knew what he had to do, and he also knew that he was going to get burned, he and the boy both. But his one chance to get Whitey out of the building was to keep low and move far enough into the fire that he could make a grab for the boy and yank him back to himself, quickly enough that neither of them got caught up in the blaze.

  Head down, he paused to steel himself before inching any farther. Flames lapped out at him, and for a minute he lost his nerve. He couldn’t imagine anything much worse than death by fire. If he turned back now, he could still save himself.

  Through the veil of smoke he saw the boy flinch slightly, saw the small, fair head twist a little to the side, and knew he was still alive.

  He couldn’t just leave him. But he was more frightened than he’d ever been in his life. Still he hesitated, staring into the hellish wall of fire that separated him from the boy.

  Suddenly, without warning, it was as if somebody had crawled alongside him and whispered a warning. In that instant he knew he couldn’t do what he had to do on his knees. He would have to use his long legs for more than slugging about the city for once and jump—far and high.

  He hauled himself upright. The handkerchief he had pressed against his mouth was useless now, dry and smoky. He tossed it aside and stood staring into the fire.

  “He will cover you with his pinions, and under his wings you will find refuge…”

  Jack looked around, startled. Now where did that come from? It was Scripture, he knew that much, having heard Martha refer to it during the last days of her agony. What, then—a memory?

  He let out a long puff of breath, flexing his legs and knotting his fists. In spite of the blistering heat, he suddenly felt cold and began to shake.

  But only for an instant. He felt his shoulders clasped by strong, steadying hands as another whisper sounded. From behind him? Or in his head?

  “When you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you…”

  He turned to look. There was nothing behind him but smoke, thick and oily, nothing in front of him but a wall of fire.

  “…the flame shall not consume you…”

  Jack took in as much smoke-filled air as he dared and leaped through the fire, sweeping the boy up in his arms and hurling himself and the child into—and out of—the flames, then on down the hall to the back stairway.

  He knew. He didn’t know how, he didn’t know why, but he knew. He knew his escape had had nothing to do with him. Nothing.

  He ran, and with every step, inside his head he was chanting one word, a word that was both plea and prayer: God!

  God!

  God!

  And in his soul he knew that in losing everything…he had gained even more.

  He made it outside with the boy in his arms, then collapsed in the snow.

  39

  SECOND CHANCES

  The Cross is the hiding place of the hopeless and brokenhearted,

  The meeting place for all those who seek a second chance.

  CAVAN SHERIDAN, FROM WAYSIDE NOTES

  THE CLADDAGH, CO. GALWAY, WESTERN IRELAND,

  CHRISTMAS EVE

  Roweena uncovered th
e spiced beef, pressed in between two plates, where she had left it to set overnight. After marinating for over a week and simmering most of yesterday, Gabriel’s favorite Christmas dish now filled the entire cottage with its piquant aroma. They would enjoy it tonight, cold, along with potato cakes, which were ready to bake, and her own special barm brack, already cooling on the table. Today, as was their custom on every Christmas Eve, they had fasted, but tonight they would break the fast with the late supper she had spent most of the day preparing.

  She straightened, watching as Evie added some additional ivy and bay leaves to the mantel above the fireplace. The child was fairly dancing by now with excitement, and Roweena was grateful that Eveleen, at least, seemed determined to display a measure of the season’s cheer.

  The days leading up to Christmas had been a solemn time this year. Right up to today, there had been no real sign of merriment or festivity, except for wee Evie’s brightness and anticipation of the hours to come.

  Of all the things that might account for Gabriel’s quietness and restraint these days, Roweena hoped that worry for her was not one of them. She was recovering nicely, after all, thanks to his expert care and healing skills. By now her wound required nothing more than a small bandage and a quick examination each day. She had not regained much use of her arm as yet, but Gabriel said that was only a matter of time and proper exercise.

  It was not unusual for Gabriel to be somewhat contemplative during the season of Christmas, of course. It had always been a time of reflection for him, a time of much prayer and meditation. Each year during Christmas week, it was his custom to go off by himself for a bit each day, to be alone with the Lord and the Scriptures. Even afterward, he would often seem quiet and somewhat distracted throughout the evening.

  This year, however, his times away from the cottage had been more frequent and longer in duration, his moments of preoccupation more often than not marked by deep-creased frowns and eyes clouded with what appeared to be a faint sadness, even a kind of brooding.