“Occar,” Bruno said.
“I’m Jennie,” Jennie said.
They all sat there a minute, looking at each other. Had he and Jennie really only just laid eyes on each other tonight?
Oscar eased his arm from around Bruno and struggled to his feet, brushing the dust and ashes off his burned clothes.
His body ached, but his mind felt surprisingly clear. He knew exactly what to do.
“We need to get to the Palmer House hotel,” he said.
He said the word we very clearly.
“My mother is there,” Oscar said. “The hotel is fireproof. We’ll be safe there.”
Oscar picked up Bruno and held out his free hand to Jennie.
She took it, and gripped it tight.
And together they began their journey through Chicago’s burning streets.
They left Jennie and Bruno’s burning neighborhood behind and headed north. Oscar kept looking over his shoulder at that giant orange glow bleeding through the sky. The main fire was huge now, Oscar could see, and it was spreading fast.
And the wind was carrying sparks all over the city. Everywhere Oscar looked, he saw new fires burning.
Some fires were very small — a ribbon of flame waving from a tree, a pile of garbage glowing like a campfire.
But there were burning houses everywhere, and in places, the smoke was so thick that they had to gasp for breath.
But Oscar’s gasps also came from what was happening all around them: people sobbing and screaming, horses driven crazy by the heat and sparks, stray dogs howling in fear. Even the rats were running for their lives, rushing out from under the wooden sidewalks and getting squashed under the wheels of the wagons and buggies that plowed through the streets.
The crowds got bigger as they moved north. Many people were dragging trunks and suitcases, or struggling with heavy sacks heaved over their shoulders. Two women in nightgowns carried a mattress above their heads. On top was a very old man, curled up under a quilt.
The fires turned the night as bright as day, lighting up the terrified faces all around Oscar — the tearstained cheeks, the mouths open in horror, the wide-open eyes looking up at the sky.
But the worst part was the howling wind, which seemed to be getting stronger by the minute. Each hot gust was filled with dust and smoke, and spit out millions of embers and sparks. One burned a hole clear through the toe of Oscar’s boot. Oscar passed a woman just as her skirts erupted into flames. Luckily the man next to her had a canteen of water, and quickly drenched her.
The sparks were terrible for Oscar and Jennie, but they tortured poor Bruno.
“Hot! Hot!” he kept saying, trying to bury his face in Oscar’s neck.
Finally Jennie spotted an overturned wheelbarrow with a heap of clothes spilling out. She snatched a lady’s hat, its purple velvet smudged with dirt, the wide brim crushed.
“I don’t think anyone will miss this,” she said.
She put it on Bruno’s head, a perfect helmet to protect his curls. She kept her eyes on Oscar, swatting away embers that came too close to his face or smoldered on his clothes.
Oscar was getting the idea that there wasn’t much Jennie couldn’t take care of.
They came to a corner where a crowd of people had stopped to watch a grand brick building burn. Oscar and Jennie tried to push their way through, but they were completely hemmed in.
And then, suddenly, the clanging of bells rose above the roar of the fire.
“Fire department!” someone shouted.
People jumped out of the way as two steam pumper wagons came tearing around the corner, each pulled by two sweating horses. A hose wagon followed.
Oscar’s heart lifted a bit.
He remembered what Mr. Morrow had told them, that Chicago had the best fire department in the world. And here was their chance to prove it. Maybe they could save at least part of the city.
People in the crowd watched hopefully as about fifteen firefighters hopped off the wagons and got to work, readying the pumper and uncoiling the heavy canvas hoses. In Castle, there was no fire department or pumper engines. When a fire broke out, people had to rely on themselves and their neighbors. During the big fire, a flurry of sparks had ignited the roof of Oscar’s barn. Within minutes, thirty people had rushed to their farm, ready to help. They grabbed every bucket and jug they could find, and formed a bucket brigade.
Mama and two other women had stood at the well, filling the buckets as fast as they could. Everyone else lined up, forming a human chain that led from the well to the barn. Oscar stood on the line, passing sloshing buckets of cold water toward the fire. It was amazing how those heavy buckets flew across the chain of hands, how the splashes of water tamed the flames.
Oscar had kept going even after his arms were numb with pain.
It had taken an hour, but they’d put the fire out. The roof of the barn was burned through, but the rest of the building still stood.
Oscar would never forget how happy he felt when the last of the flames fizzled out, as if he’d helped slay a monster.
He watched now as the firefighters dragged the heavy coils over to the burning buildings, screaming at people in the crowd to stand back as the pumper engines roared and water pulsed into the hoses. Like soldiers in battle, the men aimed their hoses. Cheers rose up from the crowd as thick, powerful sprays of water blasted up at the flames.
Very quickly Oscar realized that the firefighters didn’t stand a chance. The fire was too big and too hot. The water hissed as it got close to the flames, and then boiled away into puffs of steam. With every gust of wind, the flames rose higher, twisting and dancing in the sky as though teasing the firefighters.
They’d need an ocean to put out those flames, Oscar reckoned, or a bucket brigade of a thousand people.
“Come on,” Jennie said, spotting a break in the crowd.
As they pushed their way through, Oscar turned to take a last look at the firefighters. There was no mistaking the fear on their faces.
There was no doubt: Chicago was doomed.
The three of them walked for at least an hour more, inching their way along the packed sidewalks. They were getting closer to the Palmer House, Jennie said. But new fires kept forcing them to find alternate routes.
Now they were caught in a sea of hundreds of bodies. People squeezed them on all sides, and Oscar struggled to stay on his feet.
They were passing by a warehouse when suddenly —
KABOOM!
The smell of oil filled the air, and shards of wood flew all around them.
“Run!” someone screamed.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The explosions rang out like cannon fire.
Like a herd of cattle startled by a clap of thunder, the crowd erupted into a stampede. Oscar, Jennie, and Bruno were caught right in the middle. Elbows jabbed them, boots mashed Oscar’s feet.
He watched as parents were torn away from their children. A woman fell and didn’t get up again.
“Hold on tight, Bruno!” Oscar ordered, locking his arm around the boy as he gripped Jennie’s hand so hard he was sure he would crush it.
If they were separated now, they’d never find each other again.
Luckily the street widened slightly, and they managed to burst out of the crushing crowd.
Jennie led them down a side street, and finally into a wide alley.
“State Street is just a block away from here,” Jennie said as they caught their breath. “The Palmer House will be right there.”
Halfway down the alley, they discovered a water barrel. They all ran toward it, desperate to quench their thirst and to cool their burning skin. Oscar felt like a stalk of wheat, shriveled in the boiling sun.
He hoisted the lid off and held Bruno while the boy slurped up water like a thirsty horse.
When he was finally done, Oscar and Jennie took turns, scooping up handfuls of the cool water and gulping them down. They splashed the soothing water on their faces and down scorched
necks and arms.
Oscar sighed with relief.
“You really know your way around the city,” he said to Jennie as he dabbed drops of water onto his burned forehead. “You’d make a good tracker.”
“My mother was a baker,” Jennie said, with a hint of pride. “Bruno and I used to go with her to deliver her cakes and cookies.”
“I love cookies,” Bruno whispered to Oscar, as though he was sharing a deep secret.
A picture popped into Oscar’s mind. He saw Jennie with her braids straight and glossy, Bruno nibbling on a cookie almost as big as his head. He pictured a lady with Bruno’s dark curls and Jennie’s big brown eyes, standing in the kitchen in a flowered apron.
“My mama got sick,” Bruno said softly. “She in heaven.”
Jennie glanced at Oscar and he glimpsed the fresh hurt in her eyes.
“My papa’s in heaven, too,” Oscar said, swallowing the lump in his throat.
“Our father died right after Bruno was born, in an accident,” Jennie said. “Mama died six months ago. I promised her I’d keep an eye on Bruno, no matter what.”
Oscar thought of his own promise to Papa: to watch over the farm. That promise had kept him going these past two years. But now it was broken.
Would Papa forgive him? Would Oscar forgive himself?
Jennie put her hand on Bruno’s head.
“I couldn’t let us go to the orphanage,” Jennie said.
Her voice dropped very low when she said orphanage, as if it was a curse word no one should ever say.
Oscar understood.
He’d heard horror stories about the orphanage in Minneapolis, the city closest to Castle — that it was more like a jail than a home.
Oscar looked at Jennie and Bruno, suddenly wondering what would happen to them. Their home was gone. They were all alone.
What would they do?
But no, Oscar suddenly remembered. They weren’t alone.
He picked up Bruno.
They weren’t alone because they had Oscar.
“Hey, Bruno,” he said. “I bet up in heaven, my papa and your parents are good friends.”
Bruno leaned back so he could look Oscar in the eye.
“Like us!” he exclaimed.
His soot-covered face grinned out from under the fancy lady’s hat.
Both Oscar and Jennie laughed, and for that second Oscar forgot about the smoke and the flames.
But their smiles didn’t last long.
They’d just started walking through the alley again when they heard loud voices. A group of boys swung into the alley from the street. They were walking toward them.
Jennie froze.
Then Oscar saw who they were: the boys from the train station. And there, right in front, with his rattlesnake eyes glowing through the smoke, was Otis Webber.
Otis had four other boys with him, each of them lugging a large sack. Otis was carrying a painting in a fancy gold frame. Oscar immediately understood: Otis and his gang had been looting — stealing from houses whose owners had fled the fire.
Oscar pulled Jennie closer to him and held Bruno tight.
Maybe the boys would just walk by, Oscar told himself. Maybe they were too busy with their stolen treasures to even notice them.
But Otis was the type who didn’t miss a thing.
His yellow-tinged eyes scanned the alley and then landed right on Jennie.
He stopped short, and the other boys nearly knocked into him.
“Jennie,” he said.
He sounded almost friendly.
Oscar studied him. The other boys looked around the same age, maybe fourteen or fifteen, and two were bigger than Otis. But Otis was the leader, without a doubt.
For a second, Oscar wondered if Otis wasn’t so bad. Sure, he was a crook. But maybe Otis was good to the kids in his gang. Didn’t Papa say that Earless treated the guys in his gang like brothers?
But Oscar saw that Jennie’s hands were shaking.
“Hi, Otis,” she said softly.
“Glad we found you,” he said. “We need more hands. It’s a big night for us! We won’t have to work again for a year.”
Jennie kept her eyes on the ground.
“So come on,” he said. “Leave the baby with your buddy here.”
“I not baby,” Bruno growled.
At least one person here wasn’t terrified of Otis.
Otis smiled.
“Tough kid,” he said, spitting on the ground. “We’ll take him along, too.”
“No!” Jennie said, her face suddenly fierce.
Otis raised his eyebrows.
“I quit,” she said.
“You quit?” Otis laughed, a strange high-pitched giggle that raised the hairs on Oscar’s neck. He looked around at the other boys, who laughed nervously.
But then his face went dead.
“No one quits my gang,” he said in a low voice. “You know that. That’s how it works.”
Anger rose up in Oscar as he imagined how Otis had gotten all these kids to work for him, how he picked the ones whose parents were gone, who were starving and desperate to stay out of orphanages.
How helpless Jennie must have been when her mother died! She was willing to do anything to keep herself and Bruno out of the orphanage — even work for that snake.
“Leave her alone,” Oscar said, louder than he’d meant to.
And now Otis turned his menacing stare on Oscar. For the first time, he realized he’d seen Oscar before. He smiled chillingly.
“You!” he said. “You looking for your suitcases? You think Jennie’s gonna get them back for you?”
Jennie looked at Oscar in confusion, but then her face seemed to crumble.
Otis put the painting down and lunged toward Jennie.
“No!” Oscar cried.
And before he realized what he was doing, he sprang forward and gave Otis a hard push in the chest.
The thug stumbled back, stomping on the painting.
Snap!
It broke in half.
Time seemed to stop.
The four boys behind Otis backed up, as if they were afraid Otis might explode.
And he did.
Otis reached into his jacket and pulled out a huge knife.
Jennie staggered back, and Bruno went running into her arms.
But it wasn’t Jennie whom Otis came at with the knife. It was Oscar.
Otis sprang forward and placed the blade against Oscar’s cheek.
Oscar closed his eyes, bracing himself for the slicing metal.
But it was Otis’s other hand that came swinging up.
Smack!
His rocklike fist smashed into Oscar’s nose.
Oscar fell to the ground, the flash of pain in his head burning brighter than the blazing sky.
Oscar had no idea how long he lay in the alley, dead to the world.
When the blackness started to lift from his mind, all he could feel was pain. His nose seemed crushed, his brain knocked loose.
Where was he?
All he knew was that something terrible had happened to him.
Had he been kicked by one of the horses? Had he fallen from the roof of the barn?
He smelled smoke. Was the prairie on fire again?
And where was Mama?
But then pictures flashed through his throbbing skull — glittering yellow eyes, the flash of a knife blade, a little girl with raggedy braids.
And then his eyelids shot open.
Jennie! Bruno!
He sat up and looked around, fighting back tears.
They were gone.
Otis Webber had taken both of them.
Oscar struggled to breathe.
And now it was his panic, and not the smoke, that choked his lungs.
He struggled to stand up, wobbling as he found his balance.
“Jennie!” he cried. “Bruno!” The words came out as a rasping whisper.
But he called their names again and again as he staggered down the
alley, past the water barrel, and back out into the street.
On the street were dozens of people fleeing north, pushing their carts and wheelbarrows and hauling their sacks. The sparks and embers rained down. Nobody noticed the boy with the blood-smeared face and swollen eyes, frantically searching the crowd.
Part of Oscar wanted to go back into the alley, to curl up. Maybe the wind would sweep him up and carry him back to Castle — to anywhere but here.
But even in his dazed and muddled state, he knew he would not do that. He had to get to the Palmer House, to find Mama.
And Mr. Morrow.
If anyone could find Jennie and Bruno, it was Mr. Morrow.
He remembered that Jennie said they were just one block away from the hotel.
He ran back into the alley and then cut through a side street one block.
He came out on a wide avenue.
And there it was, the Palmer House hotel.
The massive building was in flames. The roof had caved in, and piles of crumbled marble and wood lay in heaps in the street.
The fire must have been burning for hours.
Mama and Mr. Morrow couldn’t possibly still be here.
Fire gushed out of the hotel’s windows. Black smoke churned through the roof. But it wasn’t the sight of the burning Palmer House that turned Oscar’s insides to jelly.
It was what he saw when he turned and looked up the street.
It was a gigantic wave of fire. It was wider than the street, with flames towering hundreds of feet into the air.
It looked like the sun had burst open, and its fiery blood was gushing onto the city.
Oscar understood what was happening, because the same had happened during the Castle fire. Smaller fires joined together into one monstrous blaze. Oscar and Mama had heard the terrifying stories from people who had witnessed the fire up close — and barely escaped with their lives. They described a fire so big that it seemed to stretch forever across the prairie, and so high it seemed to be trying to roast the moon. It raced across the prairie, faster than a horse could gallop. One man swore that a tornado of fire appeared out of nowhere and lifted his house off the ground.
These stories haunted Oscar for months. He’d wake up at night soaked in sweat, convinced his house was burning. Walking home from school, he’d keep eyes peeled and aimed at the sky, convinced that a flaming twister was going to carry him away.
I Survived the Great Chicago Fire, 1871 Page 3