Just pinpricks here and there; embers at least had got that far. However, the bulk of the thatch adjoining the main house had yet to flare.
After checking with a Barnaby not even his mother would have recognized, Charlie went on to find Kennett. As he rounded the north wing, he realized that the noise from the fire—the flare of flames, the constant whooshes, the cracks and crackles and the pervasive roar—had been gradually, very gradually, decreasing. They were winning, turning the tide. The fire was abating.
Kennett thought the same. “But we’ve a long ways to go yet. We have to keep the flames down, have to let them burn themselves out. Ain’t no other way.”
Charlie was squinting up at the thatch. He really didn’t like that thatch. “Is there any way we can separate the wings from the main house? Create a gap that we can defend?”
Kennett grimaced. “Would that we could, but those roof beams go right on in under the main roof. The rafters are tied together, and then there are even bigger beams connecting each floor. If I thought we could hack our way through them, I’d say we should and right quickly, but those timbers are feet thick, old and weathered and as hard as iron. You’d need explosives to break them.”
“Or fire,” Charlie murmured.
After a minute he said, “So all we can do is dampen everything down as far and as fast as we can. Once the flames subside, we’ll get ladders up against the main house and douse the thatch and rafters from that end.”
He turned as a fresh wave of men came around the house—workers from farther afield. They carried hoes, picks, axes—all manner of implements, including a few long-handled rakes.
Charlie waved them on. “Go around to the central and south wings and start pulling down what’s already burned. Start at the ends—leave the areas near the house that the other men are concentrating on. Work from the ends toward them.”
Most of the men nodded and went. One man carrying a long-handled rake hung back. Frowning, he nodded up at the thatch under the eaves of the main house. “Thought you’d want us to pull that section away first, so’s it can’t catch alight and spread to the main house.”
Charlie exchanged a glance with Kennett. He turned to the man, but it was Kennett who answered.
“Nay, lad—the weather’s been cold and that thatch is damp. Likely it’s doing us a good turn and smothering any flames trying to eat along the rafters. We’ll need to leave it until last, and even then be careful how we go about removing it.”
The man replied with an “Oh,” but Charlie barely heard him as Kennett’s words and those glowing pinpricks he’d seen—on, in, or beneath the thatch?—connected. Dread blossomed. He refocused on the man. “Were there any others with long-handled rakes? Other than those who came this way?”
The man blinked at his urgency, then nodded. “Aye.” He coughed. “Some went around the other side.” His gesture indicated the other side of the house.
Charlie swore, spun on his heel and ran.
19
Charlie flung himself around the end of the north wing. A mass of men were attacking the walls at the ends of the wings; desperate, he plowed through them—then heard the sounds he’d feared and dreaded.
A sudden gush was followed by a powerful swhoosh, and a fresh gout of flame spewed high into the air, immediately followed by cries and oaths as, dismayed, men fell back.
Charlie raced around the south wing. Skidding to a halt, he looked up. Squinting through the thickening smoke, he saw his worst fears confirmed. Men with long-handled rakes had come around the southern side of the house and, thinking as the other man had, had pulled down the thatch where the south wing abutted the main house—letting air play along rafters that, smothered and starved of air, had been smoldering.
The flames had gasped, then roared, ravenously feeding now that they had unrestricted air to burn.
Even though he’d known what to expect, Charlie stood and stared, beyond horrified. There was no way they would stop the flames now.
From where he stood halfway along the south wing and back from the burning walls, he could see what Kennett had meant about the rafters and roof beams tying into the frame of the main house.
The fire wasn’t going to stop at the stone walls—it was going to gobble along the beams, straight into the main house.
A sudden roar and cries came from the inner courtyards. One glance was enough to see that the gush of flames in the south wing had carried over to the central wing. Its roof, too, was now fully alight, flames licking greedily up to and under the main house’s eaves.
Then came a massive crack as some beam exploded—followed by a bellow, a communal cry of rage as the fire leapt across and like a ravening beast fell on the north-wing thatch.
In less than a minute, they’d gone from tentative hope to utter despair.
Charlie looked around and saw Maggs. He lurched over to the boy and grabbed his arm, pulling him close to gasp, “Go—now. Get the others and go!”
Maggs glanced into Charlie’s face, his own soot-stained with runnels down his cheeks where smoke and despair had made him cry. He hesitated, then, face falling, he nodded and ran.
Barnaby appeared at Charlie’s shoulder. “I’ve pulled all the men out of the courtyards—they’re one minute away from becoming a death trap.”
Scanning the south wing, now lit eerily from within as the fire, consuming the thatch above and so gaining even more air, ran amok, Charlie nodded. “Let’s get everyone back. We can’t do anything more, and lives are more important than buildings.”
Grim-faced, Barnaby nodded. Turning, he grabbed the first man he saw, yelling at him to go out beyond the forecourt and take all he met with him. Charlie worked his way along the south wing. He checked that someone had moved the horses well back, picketing them out in the field, then went to join Barnaby. They worked their way around the rear of the inferno, collecting everyone, checking for stragglers as they went.
Massive booms erupted from the south wing, then a part of its roof collapsed, sending up a shower of sparks, feeding the swelling roar of the flames.
The fire was a beast that had got away from them.
Charlie and Barnaby together had to drag Kennett away from the north wing. “We can’t save it!” Charlie had to yell the words in the man’s face before he finally slumped, gave up fighting, and let them lead him away.
Pulling back, Charlie paused at the front end of the north wing and looked back, squinting through the dense smoke, but he could see no one, no movement in the shadows beyond the glare of the fire; they’d got everyone away. Consoling himself with that, he turned and jogged to catch up with Barnaby and Kennett as they crossed the forecourt to the arc of people waiting and watching.
It was a milling, shifting throng; many women from the village had come up to help with the children. They were seated in little groups here and there, trying to calm and soothe away fears.
Imagining how real those fears would feel, his heart leaden, Charlie looked around for Sarah. He couldn’t immediately see her in the stunned, dispirited crowd. Moving along the edge of the forecourt, he was scanning the faces—when Sarah erupted out of the line a little way along. She stood staring, plainly horrified, at the house, then she turned and saw him. Picking up her skirts, she raced toward him. “We’re missing two babies and Quince!”
Breathless, she grabbed his arm. “I saw her bring some of them out early on—she said she didn’t need any help. But we only have four. She left them with women scattered about—everyone thought the others were with someone else. But they aren’t, and no one’s seen Quince recently—she’s definitely not here.”
Charlie looked at the house with the rising glow of the fire behind it.
“Oh, no!” Sarah clutched his arm. “Look!”
She pointed to the northernmost window of the attic. Behind the thick glass, a shadowy figure was struggling to open the sash.
“Her arm’s broken.” Katy came up beside Sarah. “She won’t be able to heave that up
.”
Joseph came stumbling up. “The attic stairs are at the south end—up against the wall of the south wing. They’ll be impassable by now.”
Charlie swung to Kennett, standing staring, stunned, beside him. Grabbing Kennett’s shoulder, he shook him. “The ladders, man—where are they?”
Kennett looked at him, abject horror in his eyes. “They were in the courtyards.” He swallowed. “They’re gone.”
Barnaby appeared. “I’ve checked—none of the others brought ladders. Two ostlers from the inn at Crowcombe are riding back down to fetch one.”
They all looked at the house—at the attics and the frantic figure struggling with the window. At the thickening smoke billowing up from behind the main roof, reaching forward to embrace the building, the hot glare of the angry flames rising behind.
“We can’t wait.” Pulling his arm from Sarah’s grip, Charlie started striding across the forecourt, then he broke into a run.
By the time he reached the porch protecting the front door, he knew what he’d have to do. Quince had seen him coming; he’d waved her to the center window of the attic, above the front door and the porch roof.
There was a lattice attached to the side of the porch; Charlie prayed it would hold his weight. Carefully, distributing his weight as evenly as he could, he started climbing. The wooden slats started to give—he flung himself upward, caught the ridge of the narrow porch roof and scrambled up.
Barnaby watched. When Charlie heaved himself up and straddled the ridge, he called, “Don’t bother trying to break those panes—they’re too small and the glass will be too thick. Can you reach to push open the sash?”
Charlie looked up, then slowly got his feet under him, balancing on the ridge. The stone wall gave him something solid to lean against. Putting his chest to it, he reached up to the window that courtesy of the symmetry of the façade was directly above the porch. He got his fingers under the edge of the sash and eased it up—it was stiff, but it rose, then Quince managed to get her good hand and arm under it and heaved it up.
She gasped as fresher air rushed into the attic. “Thank God! Wait there, I’ll get the babes.”
“No—wait.” Charlie grasped the lip of the window; scrabbling with his toes against the stone, he hauled himself up and in. He tumbled through and landed on the timber floor—and felt the heat seeping through the boards.
As he struggled back to his feet, he heard someone—Barnaby he felt sure—scramble up onto the porch roof.
Quince appeared through the murk and handed him a bundle. She frowned. “What—”
He silenced her with a gesture. “Bring the other one as quick as you can.”
The fire was in the beams below the floor; how long they would hold he had no idea.
Leaning out of the window, he passed the first little bundle, well wrapped but worryingly silent and still, down into Barnaby’s waiting hands.
He watched as, balancing precariously on the roof, Barnaby crouched and passed the bundle down to a multitude of hands eagerly reaching up.
Charlie turned and took the next bundle from Quince. “That’s the last?”
“Yes. I’ll go down—”
“Don’t. Move.” He infused the words with every ounce of command he possessed. “Just wait.”
The fire was building beneath his feet; he could hear the welling roar. The floor below was a mass of flames. There was no way out for them that way.
Quince fidgeted, but remained by his side as he lowered the last baby. The instant the bundle left his hands for Barnaby’s, Charlie straightened and stepped back.
“What…?” Quince shrieked as he swept her up in his arms.
“Your turn,” he informed her. “It’s the only way out.”
With her broken arm, she couldn’t help herself to any great degree; Quince had to let herself be manhandled out of the small window, down into Barnaby’s steadying hands, then down again, to where Kennett was waiting to grasp her hips and ease her to the ground.
The instant she was safe, Barnaby turned to Charlie, his face drawn and tense. “Get out—now!”
The last word was all but drowned by a huge crack—then a roar as flames raced across the ceiling above Charlie’s head.
He’d been aware of the fire below, but he hadn’t looked up.
The entire roof of the house exploded into flame.
Barnaby leapt off the porch roof.
Charlie grabbed the windowsill and dived out of the window headfirst. He landed like a cat on the porch roof. Before it could give way under his weight, he leapt for the ground. He landed and rolled, coughing—aware everyone else was fleeing.
Gasping for breath, his lungs seared and burning, he looked up and back; smoke-stung eyes streaming, he had to blink frantically before he could focus—and see the inferno the farm house had become.
As he lay there watching, the roof started to fall—gathering momentum, it caved in with a roar.
“Come on!” Someone was tugging frantically at his shoulder.
He turned his head, and realized it was Sarah.
“You’re too close!” she screamed. “Come on—get up! We have to get back!”
He felt as if he were in a dream; it was so difficult to get his limbs to move. With Sarah’s help he got to his feet. They’d only staggered a few paces when a huge explosion detonated behind them. Sarah glanced back and shrieked.
Instinct took over. Charlie grabbed her and hauled her to him, sheltering her with his body.
Something struck him on the back, felling them both.
It hurt.
Sarah wouldn’t stay down. She wriggled frantically; he couldn’t make out what she was saying. Then she leapt to her feet; using her cloak to protect her hands she pushed and pushed—until the weight pinning him slid to one side.
He tried to breathe and coughed so hard he felt dizzy, weak. Sarah’s hands wrapped in her cloak patted all over his shoulders and back, then she grabbed his arm again—just as Barnaby skidded in the gravel on his other side.
“Come on—get moving, Morwellan.” Barnaby seized his other arm.
Between Sarah and Barnaby and his own feeble efforts, he managed to get his feet under him, managed to let them steer him across the gravel to where row upon row of anxious faces waited, rouged by the flames.
The row parted, clearing a space for them. Barnaby let him down. Charlie sat; drawing his knees up, he laid his forehead against them and concentrated on breathing.
Sarah sat beside him. He knew it was her without looking, felt her cool hand brush his cheek. Then she tucked her hand in one of his and leaned lightly against him as the orphanage burned.
The cool air revived him. Long before the last walls collapsed and the fire started to subside, he’d recovered enough to start formulating the necessary plans to deal with the disaster.
The flying beam that had hit him and Sarah had been flung out when the attic floor collapsed onto the floor below. The width of the gravel forecourt had protected all those watching from similar dangers, but the damage many had sustained while fighting the flames was quite real.
The children had to be his—and Sarah’s—first priority.
Slowly rising, he helped her to her feet. He held her hand, looked down at her pale, soot-streaked face, and simply said, “We’ll rebuild.”
She smiled weakly, mistily up at him, blinked rapidly, then nodded. “We’ll build better—no thatch.”
His lips twisted. “Indeed. Definitely no thatch.”
“I keep telling myself that we’ve lost nothing that really matters, nothing that can’t be replaced…but the children. Most have lost every last little thing they ever possessed.”
After a moment, he said, “We can’t give them back the mementos, but perhaps we can give them new ones. New memories. Better memories.” She flashed him another, rather stronger smile. He caught her eyes. “Now—how many children are there, and what groups can we break them into? How many groups, how many children in each?”
Sarah opened her mouth to answer, hesitated, then said, “Let’s find Katy and the others—we should plan this all together.”
Charlie nodded. They started moving through the crowd, making no secret of their intent—to deal with the immediate problem and look ahead, rather than dwell on the massive loss. Although the fire still raged strongly, they ignored it—or rather made use of its warmth and light as with the staff from the orphanage, assisted by many of those who’d come to help, they started gathering the children.
Maggs and Ginny came up and waited patiently until Sarah and Charlie looked inquiringly their way.
“Can we go and fetch our things, miss?” Ginny asked.
Sarah tried to smile but her heart wouldn’t let her. “I’m so sorry, Ginny.” She put one hand on the girl’s shoulder, with her other waved at the ruin of the farm house. “I’m afraid there’ll be nothing left.”
Maggs elbowed Ginny. “That’s not what she meant. We—all of us—stacked everything we could out back, in the lee of the hill, before the fire got properly going.” He shifted, then looking at the ground, admitted, “Staff wanted us to help, but, well, some of us’ve been in fires before. We didn’t want to take any chances. So while we older ones helped, the younger ones ferried—their things as well as ours.” He jerked his chin toward the rear of the burning ruin. “So everything’s back there—we just need to fetch it. And we’re sorry about not helping more, but…”
Guilt choked him; he kept his eyes cast down.
Charlie clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “A very wise decision.” He exchanged a glance with Sarah. “I’m sure no one, least of all the orphanage staff, would begrudge you what you’ve saved, nor the time taken to save it. We all did the best we could, but this time…that wasn’t good enough.”
The Taste of Innocence Page 37