by Ron Carter
The amputees! They left them behind. Four of them! Purcell flattened himself against the high, polished oak bannister until the mob coming down thinned, then battled to the second floor, on to the first door and threw it open. In the master bedroom four men with either one or both legs missing were struggling to rise from their beds. Two had rolled out onto the floor and were trying to crawl to the door. Instantly Purcell seized the arms of the nearest man and jerked him upward. “Stand on your good leg!” he shouted, then turned his back to the man and drew both arms over his shoulders, crossed them over his chest, and leaned forward.
“I’m taking you down,” he shouted, and turned to the other three. “I’ll be back.”
He had gone five steps back towards the top of the stairway when a man came running from behind, and Purcell stopped him.
“You carry this man down and out of this building or I’ll have you shot!” he shouted. The man blinked in the smoke, hesitated for one moment, then reached to take the disabled man on his own back, and was gone. Purcell darted back into the room for the second man. Ten minutes later he staggered out onto the frozen portico with its six great columns, and slumped to his knees into the snow. He released his hold on the crossed arms of the man on his back and the man, the fourth one, slumped to one side, unconscious, while strong hands lifted him to carry him away.
Purcell was vaguely aware that a company of British cavalry had arrived. A major he had never seen before was shouting orders and the regulars were moving in to try to restore a sense of sanity and order. Most of them were stripping off their heavy winter overcoats to wrap about the shoulders of the sick and disabled who were scattered all around the building in the snow.
Still on his knees, Purcell turned to look. The first floor of the mansion was an inferno. The floor joists in the basement had burned nearly through and the floor was sagging, threatening. The great staircase was ablaze, impassable. Flames were leaping upward to the second floor to show bright orange in the windows. The thick smoke was trapped on the third floor. The fire could be seen from the Hudson River to the East River, from Canvas Town to the slopes of Fort Washington. It lighted the three-hundred-foot high granite face of the New Jersey Palisades, west across the Hudson.
People began arriving on horseback, in buggies, wagons, carriages, or on foot, to stand in silent, wide-eyed awe at the rare spectacle, aware there was nothing anyone could do to save the landmark building. The major in command of the mounted troops moved among the arriving citizens with eight armed regulars behind him.
“Sir, I’m very sorry but we must have the use of your carriage. You will take as many of the wounded as you can to the warehouse on the wharves of Catharine Street, on the East River. These two men will escort you. When you have safely left the wounded there, you will return for more. Do you understand?”
Staring at two mounted regulars with slung muskets, the citizens understood. Carriages and wagons and buggies began leaving, loaded with wounded, with one red-coated cavalryman leading, another following, their horses’ hooves clacking down the icy cobblestone streets.
Purcell rose from his knees shivering in the cold. A regular came in from the side and draped his heavy overcoat around Purcell’s shoulders and moved on. Purcell walked slowly back towards the burning building, putting the overcoat on, buttoning it. An ache came in his left arm and he paused to work it slowly up and down as he stared.
So fast. Too fast. It started in the basement, in the alcohol. I smelled it. I wonder what happened. I wonder how many got out.
The nagging ache came again in his arm and he flexed it, worked it for a moment. The clatter of incoming horses and military wagons came from behind and he glanced back to see soldiers drive a dozen big wagons drawn by teams of heavy horses onto the estate and stop near the clusters of waiting wounded. Regulars jumped down and turned to catch bundles of blankets and pass them out to the shivering victims.
I must go to the Catharine Street warehouse. They’ll need me there.
He turned, looking for the major, when a thought struck terror in him and stopped him dead in his tracks.
Mary! The third floor!
Frantically he sprinted to his left, calling her name, searching to see her face among those still waiting, but she was not there. He stopped and forced his racing thoughts to slow.
She may have already gone to the warehouse but I can’t take the chance. And I don’t have the time to look at everyone still here.
He looked one more time at the building. Flames were coming from every window in the second floor, scorching the white outer walls, but the fire had not yet reached the third floor. Half a dozen third-story windows were broken with black smoke billowing outward, but none of them yet showed the orange glow from inside. Purcell sprinted around the building, to the rear, where a steep exterior stairway had been built from the ground to a narrow door on both the second and the third floors as an emergency escape. The fire on both the first and second floors had blackened it, but it was still in place, intact.
He raised an arm across his face against the heat and ran to the ground landing and started up. A dozen soldiers shouted at him to stop, and two tried to catch him, but he took the stairs two at a time, legs driving as he bounded higher, one arm across his face, the other grasping the banister. The second floor exterior wall was so hot it was smoking as he passed it. He reached the small landing on the third floor and grasped the doorknob and jerked. It would not turn, nor would the door budge. He put his back against the banister and kicked with all his strength, again and again, until the panel in the door splintered. He kicked it out and the smoke came billowing to blind him, choke him. He took a deep breath, stooped to pass through the hole, and once inside dropped to his stomach.
By feel he worked his way down the hall to the second door and reached up to grasp the handle. It turned and he rose to his hands and knees and threw the door wide, then crawled into the room, blind and choking in the smoke. By feel he located Mary’s bed and reached to the pillow, and she was there.
Instantly he rolled her in the comforter and laid her on the floor. Still on his hands and knees he dragged her out of the room, down the hall, and out onto the landing where he gulped great draughts of fresh night air. When he could, he stood, lifted Mary still wrapped in the comforter over his shoulder, grasped the banister to steady his wobbly legs, and started down. On the ground fifty people stared upward in the dancing firelight and raised hands to their mouths as they held their breath, watching the dark figure against the white wall, moving steadily down the narrow, steep stairway. He passed the second floor, and then he was on the ground and shouts of relief flooded as the soldiers and a dozen citizens rushed forward to grasp Mary from his shoulder. He sagged to his knees and strong hands lifted him and walked him away from the building.
His face was black and his eyes were bloodshot and watering as he spoke to the two who were carrying him.
“Is she alive? Stop. I must see if she’s still alive.”
They stopped and he ordered them to lay the comforter on the snow while he opened it. He gently slipped two fingers under her jaw and closed his eyes, praying in his heart. It was faint and irregular, but the heartbeat was there. A sob caught in his throat as he raised his face. “She’s alive! Quick. Wrap her and follow me.”
He led them to the front of the building and climbed to the driver’s seat of the nearest military wagon. He ordered the soldiers to hand her up to him and he held her on his lap, clutched to his breast as the driver took up the slack in the reins. Suddenly from behind came a great cracking groan, louder than a cannon shot, and the driver hauled back on the reins as both men turned to look back. The thick floor joists in the basement of the great Flint mansion had burned through and the entire first floor had collapsed, crashing into the basement. With all support gone from below, the second floor had followed. The exterior walls were buckling outward, and with nothing inside the building for support, the monstrous ridge-beam that supported the mass
ive roof had cracked and the roof was sagging. While they watched, a second great cracking sound came from the building as the ridge-beam splintered. The roof dipped in the center, then collapsed into the raging inferno below. A pyre of sparks shot five hundred feet into the frozen night to reflect off the few clouds overhead and light New York City for ten seconds. Everyone around the building gasped and instinctively stumbled backwards, away from the building as though it were a living thing in the final agony of its death throes. For a time no one moved, mesmerized by the spectacular, awful scene before them.
Then Purcell turned to the driver. “Move!”
The soldier slapped the reins on the rumps of the horses and shouted and they lunged into the horse collars. The wagon lurched forward, slipping, swaying on the snow and ice as it clattered on the cobblestones of the narrow street leading west towards the wharves and docks on the East River and Catharine Street. The driver hauled the running horses to a halt before the warehouse and Purcell carefully handed Mary down to the waiting arms of a soldier and jumped down to follow him inside.
In the light of one hundred lanterns, a crowded, confused mix of red-coated regulars and citizens moved about feverishly setting up cots and dropping folded blankets on them while others brought the sick and wounded to lay them down and cover them. A loud undercurrent of moans and commands and talk echoed in the cavernous building. Purcell walked to the nearest officer, a colonel.
“I’m Colonel Otis Purcell. I’m a doctor. I want this person in a bed in a private room immediately. Is there an office in this warehouse?”
The colonel stared at his blackened face and bloodshot eyes for one moment, then pointed.
Purcell walked across the crowded floor and pushed open the door into a small office. He shoved a scarred desk against the wall, waited while a soldier erected a cot, then quickly spread a blanket on it. The man carrying Mary carefully lowered her onto the cot and Purcell covered her. She lay unmoving, dark eyes closed, barely breathing, hair awry, face dirty from the smoke. A tiny stove in the corner drove the chill from the room as Purcell knelt beside the cot. Once again he felt for her heartbeat, then turned to the soldier and the man who had carried Mary.
“Could you bring cold water to drink, and hot water to wash?”
They left and returned. Purcell poured water from a canteen into a cup and gently lifted Mary to hold it to her lips. She coughed and he moved the cup back, then once again worked some into her mouth. She coughed again, and then swallowed, but her eyes did not open. He set the cup down and turned to the steaming porcelain basin on the desk to soak a cloth, and tenderly began wiping away the smoke stains on her face.
He turned grateful eyes to the soldier and the man standing nearby in the lamplight. “Thank you both. Go back out and help with the other wounded.”
They nodded and closed the door behind them as they left the room.
Half an hour later Purcell drew a battered wooden office chair up beside the cot and sat down. Mary’s face was as clean as he could get it, and he had smoothed her hair back. She was warm under the blankets, and as he looked at her he felt the tension draw to a knot in his stomach.
That’s all I can do. For now, we wait.
He had given no thought to his own appearance. He sat on the wooden chair beside her bed still wearing the heavy military overcoat that reeked with the smell of smoke. His face was black, cheeks streaked by watering, bloodshot eyes. He felt the wheeze deep in his lungs from the smoke he had inhaled, and he heard the same sound in Mary’s lungs when he held his ear to her back.
He sat quietly, driving every thought from his mind while he waited for movement or a sound from Mary, or for her to open her eyes and recognize him. Utter fatigue settled over him like a pall as he sat in the quiet of the small office. Without realizing it he once again flexed his left arm against the slight, nagging ache, and then settled against the back of the chair to wait. His eyes closed and his head tipped forward as sleep came.
He jerked awake in the middle of the night and gently touched her throat. The heartbeat was steady and stronger. He brought his ear close to her face and listened to breathing that was deep and even. The smell of hot coffee was faint in the room and he softly walked out into the warehouse where the sick and wounded were lying on cots in orderly rows with soldiers and nurses working among them. Hot coffeepots smoked on the top of several of the black iron stoves, and he walked to the nearest officer, a major.
“Sir, I’m Doctor Purcell. Could you tell me who’s in command?”
The major eyed him dubiously for long moments. “You’re a doctor?”
“Northumberland Fusileers. I was at the Flint mansion when the fire started.”
Understanding rose in the major’s eyes. “You were there?”
“I was. Who’s in charge?”
The major pointed. “General Hollins. Over there.”
“Thank you.” With his heels tapping hollow on the cement floor, Purcell walked to the General. “Sir, I’m Colonel Otis Purcell, medical doctor. I was there when the fire started.”
Hollins paused to stare for a moment. “You could use a bath and some rest, doctor. What can I do for you?”
For the first time Purcell considered his own appearance. “I apologize, sir. I haven’t had much time to consider how I look. Do you know how many of the patients made it here?”
“Eighty-one. How many did you have over there? The records were burned.”
Purcell’s shoulders slumped. “One hundred sixteen. That means thirty-five are missing. Could some of them be at private residences?”
“A few, but not many. The building burned to the ground. Any idea how it started?”
Purcell shook his head. “None. It started in the basement. We had medicinal alcohol stored down there. It exploded.”
General Hollins shook his head sadly. “A tragedy. Could it have been sabotage?”
Purcell shrugged. “I don’t know. I doubt it.” He squared his shoulders and asked, “Do you know what time it is?”
The general drew out his pocket watch. “Half past three o’clock.”
Purcell gestured to a coffeepot steaming nearby. “Could you spare some coffee?”
“Certainly. Cups are there. Help yourself.”
Purcell clutched his steaming mug of coffee with both hands and made his way back to the small office and closed the door. He sat down once again beside Mary and raised the cup to sip gratefully. He finished his coffee and set the mug on the desk, then settled back onto the chair to wait, unconsciously working his left arm and shoulder against the ache that persisted, and the numb feeling that was creeping. His eyes closed and his chin settled onto his chest.
The rap came loud at the door and Purcell started from deep sleep. He opened his eyes and stared, groping to understand where he was. Then the bright images of the fire and the smoke and the wounded fleeing in panic, and of the mansion collapsing in on itself in the black of night came rolling back, and he closed his eyes for a moment when the rap came again. He walked to the door and opened it to face General Hollins. Behind the general, morning sunlight was streaming through the few windows on the far wall of the brick warehouse.
Hollins spoke. “You have a patient in this office. Who is he?”
“Mary Flint. My assistant. She has pneumonia, and was nearly asphyxiated by the smoke last night.”
“I see. Will she survive?”
“She has a good chance. I’ll examine her again in a few minutes.”
“Good. We have hot water and soap on a bench against the back wall, and hot coffee if you’d care to avail yourself. When you finish I need to talk with you about last night.”
“Do you know the time?”
Hollins drew out his watch. “Ten minutes before eight o’clock.”
“Thank you. I’ll come find you directly.”
Hollins paused for a moment. “You survived a terrible ordeal. We heard about the four men you brought down from the second floor, and the person from the
third floor.”
Purcell swallowed. “Have you located any more of the thirty-five we couldn’t account for?”
Hollins shook his head.
Purcell raised a grimy hand to wipe at his black face. “I’ll be along shortly.”
Hollins nodded and turned on his heel as Purcell closed the door and returned to Mary’s side. He pressed two fingers against her throat and closed his eyes to concentrate, then lowered his head to listen to her breathing. Satisfied, he turned her onto her side, covered her, and walked to the door.
The water was hot, the soap strong, and Purcell stripped to the waist to wash himself. Finished, he poured hot, bitter black coffee and walked to a window to peer outside at the new day. The sky was clear and blue and the world was drenched by dazzling sunlight. Icicles that hung long and ragged from the eaves were dripping holes in the snow, and puddles of steaming water were forming on the docks and in the streets. Ships tied to the wharves undulated slowly on the incoming tide. British soldiers in their sparkling red tunics and crossed white belts, and sailors in light coats and shirtsleeves moved about on the docks with a sense of buoyancy at the rare, unexpected break in the freeze that had gripped New York for weeks.
Purcell finished his coffee down to the dregs, set the mug on the bench, and walked across the cement floor to the small office. Inside, he went to Mary’s side and once again sat to feel her pulse and listen intently, then slowly relaxed in giddy relief.
In time she will recover. I’ll get a woman to come in and bathe her and change her clothing. He blinked and straightened. She has no clothing! She has nothing—no money—nothing! Lost it all in the fire. He pondered for a moment. No matter. I’ll buy new for her.