Touched by Fire

by Gwyneth Atlee

  “Do you know anyone with a wagon for hire?” Hannah asked.

  Still chewing, Hank answered. “Have a friend, name of Ral, who’d probably do.”

  “I want to leave tomorrow,” Hannah said. “I have a little money. I can pay. If the boats aren’t running here, he can drive me to Marinette.”

  “Ain’t safe.” Hank shook his head. “Even if the road’s clear, you could smother with all this smoke.”

  Faye began clearing the dishes. “Don’t go. We’ll have rain soon enough. Stay here ‘til then. You’re welcome.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not safe here either. He knows where I am.”

  “Who? That man that attacked you? He’s long gone, Daniel said.” Faye placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

  “He’ll come back. Why else do you think Daniel slept here last night?”

  Faye and Hank looked at each other and smiled.

  “I’d wagered he’d sleep on Hell’s doorstep for the chance to be near you,” Faye said. “You sure you want to slip off and leave a man like that?”

  Once again, Hannah recalled the warmth of Daniel’s thick fingers intertwined with hers. She recalled the flow between them as he kissed her on the couch, the spots of light that swarmed, then coalesced, then dissolved into such pleasure.

  She was almost glad that it had gone no further. Perhaps he’d been right, after a fashion. What she felt had been too deep to consummate and then abandon.

  “I know what I have to do,” she told both the Barlows and herself.

  Excusing herself, she stepped out onto the porch to check the horizon once more before she packed. The sky had darkened early, thanks to the thick smoke. A warm wind ruffled puffs of sawdust from the street. Compared to yesterday, today felt like midsummer.

  The scent of ash left her unsettled. She couldn’t wait to breath air free of the acrid odor.

  Why hadn’t she left here days ago? Surely, she could have taken a stage, or even the railroad if she’d truly wished to leave. But Daniel had brought a steamer ticket, and at the time, it had seemed good enough. What possible difference could the date of departure mean to a woman who still had no destination?

  Discomfort tightened her chest the way it always did when she lied to herself. Had she had a different reason for delaying? She felt as if, with his first kiss in the ruined barn, Daniel Aldman had captured some vital spark within her. Somehow, he had stamped her as his own.

  Did he already know? Last night, he’d wanted her to stay here. The request had gone beyond a virile man’s attempt to take what lay beneath the thin barrier of her nightclothes. He had wanted something more substantial, something to endure.

  At the thought of putting on the nightgown again, Hannah shuddered. With the memory of the secret places he’d caressed so gently. With the memory of his lips, so fiery that even now she sucked in her breath sharply.

  Whatever had he done to her? Her face felt flushed, but she was restless. Far too restless to change clothes and bed down for the night.

  Tomorrow she would be leaving Peshtigo. Tomorrow, she might be leaving her last chance.

  The wind blew even harder, from the west, she thought.

  Could that sound be more than the wind? Hannah stepped off the porch and crossed the narrow, weedy strip that formed the boundary between the house and street. She felt a strange sensation, like a freezing of the space around her heart, as she listened to the growing voice of a distant roar.

  A cinder struck her cheek, and she brushed it away quickly. Then another burnt her hand, and suddenly, glowing ashes swarmed like stinging wasps. With a muffled cry, Hannah raced inside the house.

  “There’s fire coming! You can hear it, and the wind is blowing cinders all around.”

  Faye stopped washing dishes and Hank looked up sharply from where he sipped a glass of whiskey at the table.

  “Fact’ry boys and the loggers’ll get it, like they did the last time,” Hank assured her.

  Faye went to the front door and looked outside. The wind gave her gray hair a rough tousle. “Maybe I should throw together a few things. Give me a hand, old man.”

  “With one good arm? We’d be roasted by the time I got through. Don’t worry. Those boys’ll put it out.”

  Faye stomped toward him, furious. “You worthless old sot, you’d burn up before you’d lift a finger. You still got one arm left. If I had the other, I’d use it now t’beat your lazy carcass!”

  Hank cackled like the late, stringy-fleshed hen. Ignoring him, Faye rushed into her bedroom and began to change her dress.

  “What are you doing?” Hannah asked her from the open doorway.

  “If we’re going to have to run, I might as well save my best dress as an old one. I got a necklace I’ll want, too, and what little money I have put aside.”

  “Damn it, woman,” called Hank, who hadn’t yet moved from his chair. “There’s no need t’get breachy over a little bit more smoke.”

  “It’s not the smoke,” said Hannah. “It’s that awful wind, and worst of all that noise. Like thunder that rolls and rolls and never quits. Come hear it on the porch.”

  “Mebbe it is thunder. Ever thinka that? We’re about to finally get some rain, and you two are yammerin’ like a pair of chipmunks.” He chuffed a laugh into his whiskey.

  “We’re going to keep watch, Hank,” Faye told him as she emerged from the bedroom. “And if it looks much worse, we’re all heading for the river like Daniel Aldman told us.”

  o0o

  The kitten yowled and darted out the door the moment Daniel cracked it open. Her ears laid back, Spice ran wildly, past Aunt Lucinda’s small stable and into the alley beyond. Every hair on the kitten’s back was raised, as if some great, bristling dog snapped at her heels. Yet no beast chased the kitten, nothing but a swirl of blowing ash.

  A thin coating of the gray flakes covered the backyard. Beyond it, just as dismal, rose the dense smoke cloud, flashing eerily. Wind pushed around the soot and thickened the darkness. Above it, Daniel heard a deep voice, a bass howl he didn’t recognize.

  Amelia, like the kitten, tried to rush out past him. He grabbed her arm and swallowed back his apprehension.

  “Spice ran away! Let me go catch her!” The child’s voice rang shrill in his ears.

  He scooped her up to keep her from squirming from his grasp. Her flannel nightgown felt soft against his arms. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed, young lady?”

  She nodded, even while craning her neck to stare in the direction of the kitten’s escape. “I was sleeping, but Spice cried to get out of the room. Look, there goes another kitty.”

  A white streak bolted past. Another cat, for certain, then a third. The hair rose on Daniel’s neck and arms. What was it he had once heard about cats? That they sensed coming disaster?

  “Fireflies. . .” Amelia squealed. Always she had loved the glimmering creatures, but of course they didn’t come this time of year. Instead, a shower of glowing cinders rode the rising wind.

  Daniel felt his stomach lurch. The wind, the roar, the cinders —all combined to whet the knife’s edge of foreboding that had threatened him all day.

  “Go get dressed, Amelia.”

  “But Aunt Lucinda said to go to sleep.” Her voice was tight with tension, as if she’d guessed already what he knew.

  “Just hurry. I’ll tell Aunt Lucinda too. Now, go.” He set her down and watched her scurry toward her room. He fought off an instinctive urge to calm her, tell her everything would be all right. Let her fear a little, he decided. Haste might save their lives. He roused his aunt, who’d been reading the Bible in her nightgown.

  “Put your clothes on quickly. We need to leave.”

  She looked up sharply, but her brown eyes were serene. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

  “Please, Aunt Lucinda. Get dressed. Take the Bible if you like, but hurry. I’ll feel better if we’re close by the river.”

  She shook her head, still with the same eerie
look of peace. “Henry built this house for me. I’ll not abandon it.”

  He crossed the room in two steps and hauled her from the chair. She blinked; he had never before touched her in any but the gentlest manner.

  “You get dressed right now, or so help me, I’ll put you over my shoulder and tote you down the street. Imagine what the ladies would say when they saw that.” His voice rose above the wind outside.

  Lucinda nodded and seemed to come back to herself. “Give an old woman half a minute of privacy, if you’re in such a blamed hurry.”

  He went to check on his daughter and found her pulling on her stockings. “What’s happening, Papa? Will I still have school tomorrow?”

  “Maybe so,” he answered, but he wondered, when tomorrow came, would there be a school left standing, or even any families to send their sons or daughters?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Come, Hank,” Faye begged, her eyes damp with tears. “Come, or we’ll all burn!”

  The old man took another swig of whiskey and made a wide arc with his stubbled chin. “A fine bunch of fools we’ll be, tearin’ down the street for nothin’. The boys have put out these fires all along, I tell you.”

  “We won’t be tearin’ down the streets alone. I just saw the Johannesons running toward the river, with all their little ones in tow. Hurry, please.” Faye tugged at his whole arm. “If we can get across the bridge, we’ll be safer.”

  “Now!” demanded Hannah. She finished buttoning her coat. Then, with a sweep of her hand, she slammed Hank’s glass from his grasp. It shattered as it struck the wooden floor.

  The old man looked in the direction of the golden liquid that saturated the wood grain. Then he shrugged and grabbed the bottle instead. When Hannah tried to strike it, too, he stood and held it tightly as far away from her as possible.

  Through the window, she could hear the rising wind and that deep roar, far more ominous, now louder. Hannah turned away from Hank and grasped the bag that held her best dress and her money.

  “Hurry, Faye!” she called over her shoulder. “Leave him, if the fool won’t come.”

  The instant Hannah stepped onto the porch, the hell-wind snapped her bag out of her hand. She watched in disbelief as it tumbled down the street and out of sight. She heard a sound like the crackling of rustling leaves, then stared, horrified, at a flaming treetop that struck fifty yards down the narrow street and ignited the sawdust that filled its wagon ruts.

  She screamed, but the sound of her voice was impotent against the fury of the wind. The door blew open, striking the back of her shoulder, and she felt Faye’s hand slip into her own. Without a word or glance, the two left the yard and ran, their legs churning with sheer terror toward whatever refuge the Peshtigo River might hold.

  o0o

  A wild sea of hellfire rolled toward him, driven by a howling wind. Malcolm stared from his hotel window. He felt calm bubbling like a wellspring in his center, the same detached reserve that had saved his life in Gettysburg.

  He heard the other hotel guests exclaiming, shrieking prayers and curses, but their fear didn’t touch him. Doors slammed as some fled and others hid inside their rooms. With careful deliberateness, Malcolm slipped on his jacket and left for the lobby. The desk clerk was stuffing cash and keys into his pockets.

  “Where will you go?” Malcolm asked. He wasn’t fleeing, helter-skelter, with those other panicked guests. Nor was he about to shiver beneath his bed and wait for the fire to consume him.

  The man looked up. He was a smart-looking fellow, with his wire-framed glasses and short-trimmed thinning hair, the kind of middle-aged hotelier that lent comfort to the guests. His relative calm put Malcolm to mind of his late father.

  “Only one place to go, the river,” he told Malcolm. “Follow me.”

  The streets were jammed with people all running in the same direction. They ran bent against the howling wind. Occasionally, horses or knots cattle stampeded past, just as desperate to escape the flame. The hotelier grabbed Malcolm’s arm and pointed down an alleyway. “Head over another block, then turn left,” he shouted in Malcolm’s ear. “Have to go back for my wife.”

  Malcolm stared in the direction the man turned. Blazing leaves fell like thick snow from the sky. He’d be killed if he went back there, but from the look of him, the man already knew. Was helping Malcolm merely one last service to a hotel guest?

  Malcolm nodded and took the alleyway to the next street. Smoke billowed through the channel between the rows of buildings so thick he could barely see another soul. Still, he ran. He had no choice. He blundered into a woman and knocked her to the ground. He didn’t pause to see if she’d been hurt. He couldn’t. His carefully composed reserve, like most of Peshtigo, blazed out of control.

  For the first time ever, Malcolm Shelton ran for his life.

  o0o

  Daniel ran outside alone to see to the two horses, his own and his aunt’s. As he rounded the corner of the house, a blast of wind buffeted him, as hot as if it burst forth from a furnace. He heard both the house and his aunt’s small stable creaking with the force of it, even above the freight train roar.

  He opened Chance’s stall door first and grabbed for the gelding’s halter. The chestnut tossed his head, and his hooves danced dangerously close. Daniel hurried him outside and swatted his broad rump.

  With a squeal of terror, the horse sped off in the direction of the river. Daniel hoped the animal might save himself. In this maelstrom, no beast could be trusted with a rider, and no wagon could be safely guided through the streets.

  Another gust nearly lifted Daniel bodily. He ducked against its fury. Ash and cinders stung his face and eyes. He turned back toward the stable. To his horror, the structure leaned and then collapsed.

  Beneath the wood and slate debris, a horse’s screams rang out. Old Blessing, badly injured, from the sound.

  Daniel hesitated. He’d never willingly left an animal in agony, but even finding the aged gelding might take hours, and all that he could offer would be a knife’s edge to end his suffering.

  Blessing squealed again. His dark eyes tearing, Daniel turned away. If he didn’t get his aunt and daughter, they would suffer the same fate. Flaming leaves and branches fell like hellish meteors, igniting withered grasses, sawdust, and a fence along the street. At least the animal wouldn’t have much time to suffer.

  Daniel ran into the house. “I’ve turned the horses loose!” he shouted over the sound. No need to burden either of them with the well-loved Blessing’s fate.

  Lucinda, white-faced, clutched a quilt and a cloth bag. She stared, fish-eyed with apparent shock. Amelia reached up, and Daniel hoisted her into his arms. With his free hand, he led his aunt. She followed meekly as a child.

  The wind bellowed at them like a crazed bear. They had to run nearly doubled over or else be thrown down. Around them, others ran as well, all miserably huddled. Some screaming, most silent against the holocaust. The Millers’ house blazed like a huge bonfire, and the flames blew to ignite another neighbor’s home.

  Lucinda was lifted from her feet once. Only Daniel’s firm grip kept her from being swept away. He heard her cry out and wondered if he’d wrenched her shoulder in holding onto her. When he slowed to look at her, he saw the bag she carried had burst into flames, which licked at her skirt. He stopped and forced her to let go of it. It spun into a hedge, which then took up its fire.

  Lucinda’s skirt, too, sparked and caught. He put Amelia down. “Hold onto my leg!” he yelled. She clutched him tightly, freeing his hands to tear at the burning cloth around his aunt’s legs. He freed her of the lower portion of her dress.

  Lucinda shrieked, whether in agony from burns or in mortification he didn’t know. Ignoring her cry, he again picked up Amelia and led her further down the street. If he didn’t get them to the water quickly, they would have more to worry over than an old woman’s naked legs.

  o0o

  Flames billowed over homes and buildings, fierce and angry. Cr
owds of people filled the street, all rushing in the direction of the river. Now and then, a singular voice rose up against the gale, and a body blazed, its clothing consumed in a few instants. Once a man fell only steps ahead of Hannah. She was forced to stagger past him and move on.

  A red-haired woman burst out of a saloon and rushed at Faye and Hannah, gesturing for both to follow her. Hair streaming wildly, the young woman grabbed at Faye, and Hannah at last recognized Rosalind. But the building she wanted them to hide in already blazed in half a dozen places. Faye shook her head and reached out for her frantic daughter.

  Rosalind leapt away and raced back for the burning saloon. Faye cried out in a voice so painful, it needed no words. A cinder leapt, and Rosalind’s red locks caught. Her dress, too, exploded into flames so bright their light burned Hannah’s eyes.

  Rosalind fell, and Faye fought her way free from Hannah’s grasp. She tore off her threadbare coat with the apparent intention of beating out the fire, but it was already far too late. With a deep wail, Faye turned from her dying daughter.

  Hannah took her arm and the two resumed their course.

  Smoke choked her, and her eyes refused to stay open against the onslaught of windblown sand and sparks. Hannah tripped over a child’s body and sprawled in the street. Nearly blinded by her own tears, she rose and reached for Faye’s hand. Grasping it, she forged ahead.

  o0o

  A rock beneath the surface sawdust tore Malcolm’s knee as he crawled beneath the thickest smoke. He didn’t have the breath to even swear.

  Around him, men and women tried to run, but the poisoned atmosphere dropped them one by one. When a strong gust lifted the smoke, he saw a tiny boy wailing at an unmoving, smoldering hump. Fear shot through Malcolm as he considered moving past. No one would blame him, no one would know, if he simply left the toddler. But he could not. He was still a Shelton, wasn’t he?

  He struggled toward the boy, every inch costing him another bruise. The cinders fell so thick he could no longer see the child, but he reached forward, feeling, feeling . . .