Firehorse (9781442403352)

by Wilson, Diane Lee

  In the kitchen we came near to piling one on top of the other because the back door was sticking. Father tugged on the metal knob with one hand and then the other, his temper ratcheting ever higher. Exploding in frustration, he kicked at it with his slippered foot and shouted an oath that made even James wince. With his leg braced on the frame, Father gave the knob a two-fisted yank—and the door began ripping away from its rusted hinges. “Confound it!” he swore as he wrestled with the toppling weight.

  A few blocks away I heard the clatter of the firehorses gathering into their harness. That’s what was wrong with the Governor’s Girl: She was trying to go with them. She’d known the alarm was going to ring even before it did, and she’d tried to break out of her stall.

  “What’s happening?” Grandmother called from upstairs. “Is someone hurt? Hello?” Mother rushed off, carrying the lantern with her and unmindfully plunging us into total darkness.

  “Get another light,” Father ordered as he struggled to prop the damaged door against the wall. While James began searching out match and lantern, Father kicked open the screen door and stormed into the still-black morning. I was right behind him. We rushed into the shed together.

  To my horror, the gray mare was feverishly heaving her weight from side to side like some berserk shuttle on a weaver’s loom. Even in the darkness I could see that the bar at the front of her stall was splintered almost in two.

  “What in God’s name is this animal doing here?” Father demanded. “And what’s wrong with it?”

  “She’s a firehorse,” I began, unsure of how much to tell.

  James appeared with the lantern. “From the station,” he added, somewhat breathlessly. “I’ve made arrangements with the chief to—”

  The mare lashed out with a hind leg, cracking another board.

  “Enough!” Father shouted, raising his fist. “That will be enough of that!”

  The Girl kicked again. Mother and Grandmother joined us, easing their way into the small carriage shed to stare open-mouthed at the commotion. I was stabbed through with worry.

  “Get me a halter!” Father demanded. There was none to be had, of course, so he cast around for himself. Spying the cotton rope looped on its hook, he grabbed it and took the lantern from James. He walked right up to the Girl, raised the light in her face, and shouted, “Stop that!” He slapped at her with the rope. “Stop that!” The mare lunged at him, raked her teeth across his arm, and recoiled.

  “Goddamn that animal!” Father dropped the lantern. “It bit me!”

  Flames instantly sprouted from the oil that spilled across the dirt floor, and, working as one, James snatched up the lantern while I smothered them with an overturned pail.

  Father didn’t seem to notice. “Have this horse removed from my property at once!” he said. My heart stopped beating. “I want it gone before daylight, and I don’t care if you have to raise the dead to do it!” Clasping his free hand over his injured arm, he strode out of the shed. “Mrs. Selby,” he called back, “I’ll be needing your attention.” With a weary I told you so look, Mother hurried after him. A moment later Grandmother followed.

  The Girl was still weaving from side to side, but she was doing so drunkenly now, near to collapse. I had to do something to keep her from injuring herself further. Even though I’d left the peppermints in my room, I was sure I could—

  “You’re not going near her,” James said, grabbing my arm roughly. “Not this time. She’s obviously gone mad.” He yanked me toward the door. “There’s nothing we can do, so come along.”

  The Girl came to a dead stop, and I think she looked at me. I was sure of it. She let out a long, exhaling groan and as she did, she seemed to grow fainter, gloomier, just as in my dream. I feared she was going to crumble away.

  “James …” I begged.

  “No.” He gripped my arm tighter and pushed me toward the house. Suddenly he was very much like Father. “This was all a mistake. I should never have let you talk me into bringing that horse here.” I struggled wildly, blindly: an animal being crushed by a trap. “Stop that!” James ordered. “Stop it now!” He plowed ahead, dragging me against my will. Resentment boiled inside of me.

  The moment we entered the kitchen I shook free of James and he stalked off toward Father’s study. That’s where Father was, swearing a blue streak while slamming drawers. I assumed Mother was with him. Grandmother turned from the stove to give me a mild look of understanding and sympathy, but she’d obviously chosen to stay out of the fray this time.

  Of all things to happen at that hour, an urgent knock sounded on the front door. We both looked toward the hall, but the very oddity froze us to our places. The double knock came again, right away, and more insistent. I, for one, scrambled.

  Father got there first, with James in his shadow. He flung open the door and there stood Mr. Stead, his arm poised for another knock. Thank the Lord. I wrapped my arms around myself to stop my trembling.

  “Forgive the hour,” he said to Father, doffing his hat. “I was just on my way home from seeing to a sick horse when I heard the fire alarm and … well, I saw your lamps lit and wondered … is the mare all right? Have you seen to her?” His eyes darted past James’s to search mine.

  “Oh, we’ve seen to her, all right,” Father interjected. “She nearly took my arm off.” He held up his bandaged limb for evidence. “And if you’re the veterinary, you have my permission to put that horse down this minute. She’s a danger to society.”

  In the orange glow of the hall lamps I could see that Mr. Stead’s eyes were rimmed by fatigue. Still, with that endless patience that so entranced me, he asked, “Would you like me to take a look at your arm?”

  “I’m not some damned animal,” Father cried, holding his arm well out of reach. “Just get that vicious horse off my property!” Mother rushed forward in an attempt to soothe him, but he ignored her. Looking at James, he said sternly, “I want to have a talk with you in my study, alone.” Without even excusing themselves, they disappeared into the next room and the door closed behind them.

  Mr. Stead didn’t appear to take offense. He calmly returned to the matter at hand. “How is she, Miss Selby?”

  Whether it was the gentleness in his voice or my utter helplessness or the fear that I was going to lose another horse, I was suddenly and ashamedly so choked with tears that I couldn’t answer.

  “I’d better go take a look for myself,” he said, nodding politely to Mother. “If you’ll lead the way, please, Miss Selby?”

  Mother drew herself up tall. “I don’t think it’s proper that—” she began, but Grandmother appeared in the hallway to interrupt her.

  “Let her go, dear. There’s been nothing about this morning that’s proper by any means.”

  Grabbing the lantern, I led the veterinary in a rush through the kitchen and across the courtyard. With every step I breathed a prayer of thanks that he’d arrived. The Girl would be all right now. He’d take care of her.

  But the moment we entered the shed, I found we were too late: She was down. Only her arching white belly rose like a bloated ghost from the bedding. I gasped.

  In one smooth motion Mr. Stead was under the bar and kneeling beside her, his ear pressed to her distended stomach. She flicked an ear. “I’m afraid she’s colicked,” he said, and my heart skidded to a stop again. Horses could die from colic. The frown on his face made his next words sound like an accusation. “How much has she had to eat?”

  I shook my head. “Hardly anything. A few peppermints, some spoonfuls of mash.”

  “Are you certain she’s had nothing else? We must be certain.”

  The urgency in his voice frightened me further. “I’m certain.”

  He rose, walked to the water tub, and plunged his hand into it. “Did you give her cold water, after she was heated?”

  Fighting the shaking in my knees, I answered, “No … no, it’s the same water.”

  “What about her manure?” he asked, kicking at the straw. His
movements alarmed the Girl enough that she began struggling. She lunged wildly, as if she’d been shot, but finally clambered to her unsteady feet. “Easy,” he murmured distractedly. “What about her manure?” he asked again, still searching the bedding. “What’s it looked like?”

  I’d read about the subject, but I’d never been asked to discuss it. The words wouldn’t come.

  “This is no time for delicacies,” he said sharply. “If you want to see this mare live, I need your help. Now, do you remember her passing any manure yesterday, or seeing her do so this morning?”

  I tried to recall, but… the past two days and nights were all jumbled in my mind. I shook my head; I was just as useless as I’d been in my dream. The veterinary continued kicking through the straw, easing his way around the Girl. She stood with her sides heaving, watching him guardedly.

  “If she’s impacted,” he mused, “I’ll have to—wait, here’s some.” He nudged a clump of straw with his boot, then bent over the dark pile. “See?” he said, as if it were obvious. “Fairly fresh. And moist. That’s good. Still …” He gave me a severe appraisal. “I need to perform an examination. I know you helped the other day, but this will involve more than bandages … and additional indelicacies. Will you run along back to the house and send out your brother?”

  I shook my head. “I want to help.”

  “No,” he answered curtly. “While I appreciate your determination, what I need to do isn’t going to be pleasant … for any of us.” He was already donning his apron and rolling up his sleeves, his indifferent attitude dismissing me.

  I ducked under the splintered bar and pushed up the sleeves of my robe. “I have to help her.”

  Irritation flickered across his face, but he didn’t argue further. He pointed to his satchel. “There’s a small tin of grease inside. If you’ll find it, please?”

  I fell upon the black leather bag, dug through its myriad supplies, and handed him the tin. He began slathering the grease over his muscular arms. “Do you think you can get the rope around her head?” Hearing the doubt in his voice set my jaw. I picked up the coiled rope from where Father had dropped it and approached the Girl. I looked her straight in the eye, wanting to let her know that I was trying to help her, but her eyes were black with pain. She wouldn’t know me from Adam. Or Eve. Carefully, I fit the rope over her head, settling it on the one patch of mane.

  “Ready?”

  I swallowed and nodded.

  Standing at the mare’s back end, Mr. Stead tried to nudge her tail aside with his elbow. She clamped it tight. So, grasping the white hairs with his greased fingers, he forcefully pulled the tail out of the way and pinned it with his elbow. I stared. It was bold and indecent, but I couldn’t help it. I’d never seen anything like this before. As his slathered arm began passing under her tail and disappearing inside her body, though, I looked away. I tried to think about something else, anything else—the sound of an early delivery wagon out on the street, the square of graying sky that showed through the window—anything except what was happening right beside me. A buzzing filled my head. When Mr. Stead spoke again, he was wiping his arms.

  “No impaction,” he stated. “Some wind has been released, which will bring a modicum of relief. But I’m going to mix her up a drench and bleed her just to be sure.”

  “And then she’ll be all right?”

  He sighed wearily. It suddenly occurred to me that he must hear that same hope-filled question with every sick animal he treated. That wasn’t fair; he wasn’t God.

  “I wish I knew,” he replied in a very tired and very human voice. “I think the sound of the fire alarm overexcited her this morning. I should have thought of that; I just wasn’t expecting another fire so soon. We’ll stuff some cotton in her ears before I leave. But the excitement, I believe, combined with her already compromised condition, caused the contents of her stomach to sour. Although she could have bots or enteritis, either of which could prove far more serious.”

  “How will we know which it is?”

  “We won’t.” The sharpness in his response was immediately reined back by, “At least we won’t know for certain. Medicine,” he explained in carefully measured words, “even that applied to horses, doesn’t provide black-and-white answers. We look for symptoms, we consult our books, we use our experience and God-given abilities, and—for better or worse—we treat the afflicted animal.” While he talked, he pulled various small bottles from his bag and poured differing amounts into what looked like a very large bottle of oil. After inserting a stopper, he shook it vigorously. “We’ll start with this,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “Spirit of turpentine, laudanum, and linseed oil.” He took an L-shaped metal pipe and a funnel from his satchel. Prying open the Girl’s mouth, he quickly shoved the pipe partway down her throat. While she gagged and struggled weakly, the oily concoction was poured and poured and poured through the funnel.

  Finally he set those implements aside and pulled a large white cloth from his satchel.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Her own good,” he answered emotionlessly. He tossed the cloth over the Girl’s face, by necessity covering her sticky wounds, and knotted the ends under her jowl. Returning to his satchel, he withdrew a black leather case, and from it, a sharp silver lancet.

  I think my mouth fell open. “What are you going to do?”

  “Are you in need of a blindfold as well?”

  If that was humor, I was numb to it. He cleared his throat. “I’m going to let some blood from her neck,” he explained. “That will take some of the heat from her body. It won’t be a lot, and it won’t hurt for more than a second. Are you sure you can do this?”

  I was still staring at the lancet’s deadly point.

  “Turn around, Miss Selby.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Turn around.” With his free hand, he gripped my shoulder and spun me the other way. “Now, hold her head as steady as you can.” I slid my hand up the rope, took one last look at the blindfolded mare, and closed my own eyes. Mr. Stead took a position at my back, so close that the heat of his body warmed mine. “Ready?” I wasn’t, but I nodded anyway. There were two dull thuds, like a fist hitting meat, then silence. The Girl flinched and grunted, and then, after a few moments, I heard fat, wet drops hitting the straw.

  Blood-spattered images colored my mind. I felt a little weak, as if I might faint, but I forced my legs to straighten. I breathed in, deeply, and then out. Over and over. I focused only on my breathing.

  “That will do, then.” Mr. Stead’s voice pierced the fog. I opened my eyes, swaying slightly. “Give me a moment to clean up and you can turn around.”

  The Girl’s blindfolded head drooped. Ever so slowly, she began slumping against me. She was sleeping, it seemed. I splayed my feet and pushed back, but I was no match for her weight.

  “She’s falling,” I cried.

  Mr. Stead was at my side in an instant, slapping the mare’s chest until she startled and stood straighter. He yanked the cloth from her face. “All right now, step out of the way,” he ordered me. I ducked under his arm so hastily that I slipped on the bloody straw and nearly went down myself. Anxious, I watched him balance the mare as one does a teetering tower of blocks. He stepped back. The Girl swayed on her feet. Though her glazed eyes were open, she still appeared on the verge of sleep. A silver pin, which had been twisted into the skin of her neck, glinted in the first rays of light streaming into the shed. Fresh blood oozed around the fastening. “She’ll be all right now, I think,” he said. “We’ll just let her rest a while.” He smiled that smile of his. “Rather an admirable job, Miss Selby. Not many girls in Boston could match your steady nerves, I’d wager. Thank you.”

  I smiled back, feeling as if I’d been treated as well, beginning to feel as refreshed as if I’d just awakened from a sound sleep. Until I remembered Father’s ranting. “My father won’t let us keep her here.”

  “Yes, I do remember word
s to that effect,” he said. “Maybe I should go talk to him.”

  I shook my head. “You don’t know him. Once he’s set his mind, he won’t budge.”

  “Well, I have more peppermints,” he said, patting his pocket. “And I’m not planning on wrestling him, just talking to him. Shall we give it a try?”

  TWELVE

  THE SKY SHIMMERED WITH THE COLORS OF AN OPAL WHEN we stepped out of the shed. The clip-clop and rattle of horses pulling morning delivery wagons had doubled. The air was cool and moist and promised new beginnings. Until I noticed a faint odor of smoke. Shivering, I remembered that that was what had started this morning’s rumpus: another fire.

  “Cold?” Mr. Stead laid a gentle hand on my shoulder.

  I shook my head. “Just tired.” But it was more than that. What if there were more burned horses out there that needed help? What about the burned one right here? “Are you sure we shouldn’t stay with her?” I asked.

  His smile showed he understood. “She needs her rest more than she needs us right now.”

  There was comfort in his voice, and we walked the few steps to the house without speaking further and not the least bit awkward for it. It was nice being with him. His coat smelled of hay and horses and something musky-sweet, so different from the nose-wrinkling tobacco and ink odors embedded in Father’s clothes. And he’d complimented me once more: “Admirable job,” he’d said. Vain, yes, but if I could press those words into my album, I’d pull them out again and again just to hear them.

  Apparently Providence thought I needed some humbling. As we climbed the narrow stairs of the back stoop, Mr. Stead reached past me, in gentlemanly fashion, to open the screen door. I tried edging around it and him, only to lose my footing. Flailing like a whirligig, I teetered toward a bed of withered morning glories. Pride goeth before a fall, indeed.

  He pulled me right just in time. “Steady there.”

  I mumbled an embarrassed thank-you into the collar of my robe. “I’m sure Father’s still in his study,” I said. “Please come in.” Too red-faced to explain the battered door leaning against the wall, I led the way through the kitchen. On the stove was an empty skillet crusted with cornmeal. Beside it, a kettle of hot water simmered just below a whistle. We found Grandmother and Mother huddled over cups of tea in the dining room. A round of cornbread, cut into wedges, sat on a platter.