by Pam Crooks
“Here you are, Gina.” Julia, the Premier Shirtwaist Company bookkeeper, handed her an envelope that contained her wages for the week. She thrust a battered clipboard toward her. “Initial next to your name, please.”
Gina abandoned her frivolous thoughts and quickly checked the amount before she signed for the money. Today, one of the sample makers at Premier had taken sick. Gina spent the day in her place, tracing patterns of the new shirtwaists the salesmen would sell to department store buyers. It was an honor to be chosen for the job. Only the most talented of seamstresses were allowed to work on them—everyone knew the importance of having a fresh design for the company’s product line. Even better, she was paid a higher wage because of it.
Luckily, the money was all there. Gina didn’t trust her boss, Abraham Silverstein. He often cheated his employees, and it’d be just like him to pretend he didn’t notice what Gina had done all day.
“Here’s your mother’s, too,” Julia said, riffling through her stack of envelopes. She looked rushed; the end of the workday was only minutes away, and she had many employees to pay yet. “You’ll give it to her, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course.” Gina jotted her initials next to both their names, and the bookkeeper hurried away.
The extra bonus in her wages lifted Gina’s spirits. Maybe she would treat Mama to some of the gelati served by the Italian delicatessen across the street. It was early yet; they’d have time to indulge before their walk home.
She searched the massive workroom for her mother’s table, her gaze skimming over several hundred women’s faces before she found Mama sitting next to Serafina, her best friend in the factory. Serafina was from Sicily, too, and would love to join them for a refreshing dish of the gelati.
“We’re short two dozen cuffs, Gina.” Abraham Silverstein approached her, his stocky legs moving quickly past the long tables crowded with dozens of machines each, his belly stretching the buttons on his expensive silk shirt. He looked angry, as if the oversight was her fault. “The order must go out tonight. See that they’re cut and sewn. I’ll have the foreman bring the unfinished waists to your table.”
Her spirits plummeted. “But it is almost time to go home. Less than twenty minutes.”
“You’ll work fast then, won’t you?”
He was off again, barking orders in his gruff voice and leaving Gina no choice but to obey. She didn’t dare argue with the factory owner, not when he could easily fire her for it. Worse, she’d already been paid for the day. Her time spent on the cuffs would be lost.
Her mood soured, and she hurried to her mother’s table. Mama smiled, moved her foot off the Singer’s pedal and tiredly pushed a curl off her forehead. “It will not be long now, eh, bambina? Our day will be finished.”
“I must sew two dozen cuffs first,” Gina said irritably, handing her mother the pay envelopes. “I cannot leave yet.”
“What?” Mama stared, aghast. “Who says this?”
“Mr. Silverstein.” Gina glared at him over her shoulder. “The big ox.”
He was scolding another of his employees, a long-haired young man who had only begun work this week, an unskilled worker who started his training at Premier as a thread cutter, snipping stray threads from massive piles of waists. Gina didn’t know his name, but it seemed his work for the day hadn’t been satisfactory.
“We will help you, then,” Mama said, tucking their pay envelopes securely into her purse.
“Sì, sì,” Serafina said. “Go, Gina. Have Sebastian cut the cuffs. With the three of us, it will not take so long.”
“Grazie, Serafina.” In her haste, Gina slipped into her native tongue. Sebastian was her friend. He’d see that she had the cuffs quickly.
He worked on the floor below them. As a cutter, he was highly respected and paid far more than the rest of the factory workers. It was his job to cut thousands of pieces of fabric in the most efficient manner possible. His skill with the razor-sharp blades never failed to amaze Gina.
Grateful now for that skill, she rushed down the narrow stairwell leading to the eighth floor. She didn’t want to wait for the elevator. Every minute counted. She found him standing with the rest of the cutters and their assistants, their work done for the day as they waited out the clock to go home.
Seeing her, his expression registered surprise. Handsome with the dark skin of his Italian heritage, his hair thick and black as jet, he was only a few years older and loyal as a puppy. Mama was quite taken with him. She’d told Gina many times what a fine husband he’d make.
“Bella Gina. What are you doing down here?”
She ignored his flirting and reached for the pattern pieces she’d need. Like they were upstairs, the patterns—thin paper edged in steel—hung on lines over the cutting tables. “Quickly, Sebastian. I need two dozen cuffs. Will you help me?”
“Yes, sure, but two dozen? Now?”
She huffed a breath, exasperated all over again at the timing of Mr. Silverstein’s order. “Yes. Can you believe it? It is so late!”
Sebastian was already laying the patterns onto the yards of fine cotton stretched out before him, his big hands handling the delicate paper with ease. “Someone cannot count, eh?”
“I think not,” Gina said, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “Oh, thank you for doing this, Sebastian.”
He winked. “For you, mi amore, anything.”
“Now, I make you late tonight, too.” Feeling guilty for it, she glanced at the other cutters. Most of them weren’t married. It was Saturday night. They would all go out and drink too much beer together.
“Relax, Gina. You do me a favor.” Sebastian had lowered his voice so it wouldn’t carry. “Nikolai wants me to go to a meeting tonight after we leave the factory. Now I have a good reason not to go.”
“Who is he?”
“Nikolai Sokolov. One of my assistants. The big one with the moustache.”
She eyed the man covertly. Yes, she had seen him many times. An arrogant-looking Russian with broad shoulders and harsh features. He always stared at her whenever she walked by.
“What kind of meeting?” she asked, her attention more on the cutting blades than Sebastian’s conversation.
“An anarchist meeting.”
Gina cared little about the ravings of the men who despised the values that made America such a powerful country. The cuffs were more important. “How much longer?”
“What? You want me to make a mistake and waste the precious fabric?” Sebastian chided gently. His blade glided through the cotton. He tossed leftover pieces into a bin heaped with scraps and tissue paper and repositioned the knife for one last cut. “Then it takes me twice as long, and Mr. Silverstein is not happy. Trust me, mi amore. You will have your cuffs, and they will be perfect.”
“I know, Sebastian.” She tried to smile away her impatience. “That is why I come to you for help.”
She clasped her hands tightly, drew in a long breath, stared up at the high ceiling. Sebastian was right. She couldn’t rush him. A few minutes wouldn’t make much difference. Not really. The delicatessen would still have their sweets, no matter what time she left the factory tonight.
“Later, I go for gelati with Mama and Serafina,” she said. “Would you like to come, too? My treat. This I can do for you since—”
But Sebastian wasn’t listening. His attention had shifted to his fellow workers and their assistants. They listened raptly to a sullen, angry-looking youth Gina recognized as the new thread cutter Mr. Silverstein had been scolding earlier. How the young man managed to slip downstairs before the final bell, she didn’t know.
“What is it, Nikolai?” Sebastian demanded, straightening from the cutting table.
“My brother, Alex,” the Russian said. “Silverstein has just fired him.”
“That so?”
“He has also cheated Alex of the wages he earned this week. He says my brother’s workmanship is poor and that he is not entitled to be fully paid for his time.”
&n
bsp; Sebastian’s mouth tightened. “Too bad.”
The Russian grunted. He reached inside his coat pocket and withdrew his cigarettes and match, his hard gaze on his sibling. “Yes. Too bad.”
He lit the tobacco, one cigarette for himself, one for his brother. They began speaking in the guttural language of their country. Alex paced back and forth, his agitation obvious. Barred from the language they couldn’t understand, the other cutters lost interest and meandered to the coat rack.
Gina watched the brothers in disapproval. It was strictly forbidden to smoke in the factory. Signs were posted everywhere. How could they be so careless?
But then, Sebastian didn’t seem to mind, his concentration once more on cutting the cuffs. She suspected he, too, had stolen a few puffs off his cigarette when Mr. Silverstein wasn’t looking.
The factory’s closing bell rang, and the shrill sound startled Gina from her thoughts. The electric motor which powered scores of sewing machines shut off. Wooden chairs scraped against the floor as workers left their tables and headed for the coat racks. Nikolai and Alex Sokolov took one long drag off their cigarettes and tossed the butts into the scrap bins.
Sebastian smiled and handed Gina the cuffs, all two dozen of them. Before she could thank him, flames erupted from the bin behind her with a sudden, explosive whoosh.
Chapter Four
Creed threw back another swallow of whiskey. He cursed himself for being all kinds of a fool.
How could he think Mary Catherine would wait for him? How could he be so blind? So stupid?
And the Old Man. Stole her right out from under his pathetic nose. Never in a hundred years, a million, would Creed have thought it possible.
Pa and Mary Catherine. Husband and wife.
He slouched lower in his chair and closed his eyes. The self-pity rolled through him in bitter waves.
But of all that had gone wrong the entire day, learning Ma had died was the worst. If only he could’ve told her goodbye…
He opened his eyes again and focused on the bottle of Old Taylor whiskey sitting in front of him. The words on the label blurred into Mary Catherine’s penmanship. The notes she’d written, the promises she’d made, the love she’d professed.
Creed removed her last letter from his shirt pocket. Three years he’d carried the thing with him, day in and day out, close to his heart.
Not anymore.
He lit a match and touched the flame to a tattered corner. Within seconds, his memories, his hopes and dreams, disintegrated into a sorry-looking pile of ashes.
He finished off the whiskey in his glass, but didn’t pour himself another. He had to think. Make some decisions. Get his life back in order.
Going back to the ranch was out of the question. He could find a job somewhere, he supposed. California was a big state. He could learn a trade. Make a decent living.
But, hell, he was a soldier. He’d never been anything else. Never wanted to be, either.
You’ve fought brilliantly on foreign soil…a mercenary…a reputation most soldiers only dream of…your success has been awe-inspiring….
Graham Dooling’s words dropped into Creed’s memory, and his mind cleared. There was nothing for him here in America. Not anymore. His place was in fighting for his country in lands beyond the continent.
It was what he did best.
Creed stood up, tossed a few coins on the table and pushed his hat onto his head. Anticipation hummed through him. His good friend, Jeb Carson, was working at the War Department now. Creed would wire him and request the most dangerous assignment the government could give him.
Now that he thought about it, he was itching for a good fight. The thrill that came from laying his life on the line. Making his own rules. Pitting his guts and brains against a ruthless enemy—and winning against them all.
What did he have to lose?
The bartender gave him directions to the nearest Western Union Telegraph office. He strode outside, paused on the boardwalk, and scanned the busy Los Angeles business district, vastly different from the impoverished countries he’d lived in the past six years. He’d been in one hell of a hurry to come home. Now, he couldn’t wait to leave again.
Collette’s Fine Ladies Wear was across the street. Had it been just this morning he’d been in the store, eager for a gift for Mary Catherine?
He frowned and shoved aside the memory, his thoughts distracted by the scent of smoke in the air. Might be the Italian delicatessen on the corner burned something in their kitchen. But a crowd was gathering in front of a tall building on the opposite corner, a factory of some sort, and it was then he saw the flames shooting from an upper story window.
The door to Collette’s dress shop opened, and Graham Dooling ran out, his sister right behind him. Clearly, they’d just spied the fire, too, and rushed to the street to help.
“Graham!” Creed barked. “Do you know if anyone is inside?”
Any surprise Dooling might have felt at seeing Creed again was lost in the seriousness of the situation.
“I suspect the Premier Shirtwaist employees, sir. They work every Saturday.”
“Sometimes Sundays, too,” Collette added worriedly. “It’s their busy season. The hours they keep are horrendous.”
“How many?”
Collette stared at the flames. “Oh, God. Hundreds.”
“Hundreds?” Creed gaped at her, his alarm increasing tenfold. “Of people?”
She trembled. “Yes.”
Creed broke into a sprint toward the factory. None of those employees had come out yet.
Why?
“You got a fire department around here?” he snapped over his shoulder. “Call ’em, damn it!”
“Yes, yes. Of course.” She hurried to the nearest alarm box and pulled it.
Graham ran beside him, his attention riveted on the flames high above them. “I’m glad you’re here, sir. If anyone can help these people, you can.”
Creed counted nine rows of windows. The fire was burning on the eighth floor. Only a matter of time before the ninth began burning, too.
Ladders would never reach.
A sick feeling washed over him. How could he get all those Premier Shirtwaist Company employees out in time?
How could anyone?
Gina stared in horror at the fast-spreading flames. It’d taken only seconds for the scraps of airy cotton and tissue paper in the bin to explode into a firebomb. Didn’t Nikolai and Alex realize how careless they’d been? How stupid? She whirled toward the group of cutters, but the brothers were gone.
“Get the fire pails!” Sebastian yelled, running toward the ledge where the bright red containers were kept, always full of water. “Hurry!”
Gina dropped the cuffs and joined the men splashing at the flames, but their efforts were no match for the hungry fire. Already, it leapt from cutting table to cutting table. Beside each one, a bin heaped with hundreds of pounds of scraps like Sebastian’s fed the bomb until it raged out of control.
“We need more water!” Gina cried.
“Coming! Coming!” Leon, who operated the freight elevator every morning and night, bolted into an alcove to fill pails from the water trough kept there. In his haste, he left the elevator’s doors open. Air blew up from the shaft, and the fire raged higher.
Flames licked at one of the pattern pieces strung over Sebastian’s table, then another and another, until the whole line of them dropped. Gina’s arm came up, protecting her face and hair from flying embers. Piles of shirtwaists in various stages of construction burst into fiery balls. Bolts of cloth and rolls of tissue paper, too—everything!—burst into flame.
Smoke billowed and swirled in a raging cloud, and Gina coughed, her eyes stinging.
“We must get out of here!” Sebastian yelled and grabbed her hand. “Hurry! The elevator!”
Suddenly, one of the windows shattered. Two. Three more. The flames roared through the openings—demonic, angry flames that rocketed from the eighth floor up toward the ninth
in a rampage—
The ninth floor! Holy Madonna. Mama!
Gina yanked her hand from Sebastian’s. “I cannot leave yet! My mother!”
“No, Gina! You cannot go up there. We have to get out. Now!”
Mama wouldn’t know how terrible the fire was, or how fast it was spreading, until it was too late. Sebastian reached for Gina again, but she bolted toward the stairwell, finding her way by sheer instinct. She couldn’t see him anymore, or hear him. The smoke was too thick, too blinding. But the stairs were next to the elevator. She had only to get to them to find her mother.
Screams from terrified workers met her in the narrow stairwell, barely the breadth of a strong man’s shoulders, yet the workers stumbled down two and three abreast. Gina flattened herself against the wall and forced her way up against the downward rush, her body pummeled, pushed, kicked. She prayed she wouldn’t lose her footing and be knocked down in the exodus.
At last, she made it to the ninth floor. The windows here, too, had been shattered, and the openings sucked flames in from the outside. The monstrous fire ignited stacks of packing crates and bales of finished waists. Burning pieces of tissue blew and floated along the floor, in the air, up to the ceiling. Panicked seamstresses jumped from tabletop to tabletop, over rows of sewing machines and piles of cotton, looking for a way to escape.
The inferno raged. And raged.
“Mama!” Gina screamed, her gaze searching countless panicked faces. Her mother had to be here. She wouldn’t have left without Gina. “Mama!”
Suddenly, miraculously, there she was, sobbing, reaching. Gina, sobbing, too, fell into her arms.
“Thank God I found you.” Gina shuddered in violent relief and forced herself to think. She took firm hold of Mama’s hand, pulled her toward a door only Mr. Silverstein ever used, the one leading to his office and another set of elevators.