Fire: Chicago 1871 (2 page)

Julie stared out the window. The streets below were dotted with carriages—a lot of people had attended late Sunday services. In spite of the rising wind, it would be a perfect, warm, wonderful evening to be outside.

Julie heard her parents' voices get louder as they came back down the hall. She sprang away from the window and ran to her chair. By the time her mother sailed through the doorway, Julie pretended to be reading. She looked up, an expression of startled innocence on her face.

Julie's mother was wearing her blue moiré gown, the deep green train falling from her bustle to the floor in draped waves, the hemline edged with flounces. The balayeuse ruffle that protected the expensive train from dragging the floor was dyed to
complement the watery, shining blue of the gown. As always, her mother was an image of fashionable correctness.

Julie waited, knowing better than to say anything. Her mother was flushed, fanning herself. “I don't approve of this at all, young lady. But your father insists that smoke-filled air and filthy streets will somehow be good for your health. So put on your cloak and gloves and change to your woolen stockings.”

Julie bit her lip to keep from arguing about the stockings. She shot her father a grateful look as she ran out of the library and turned down the long hall. Lifting her skirts to turn the corner, Julie made a long-practiced slide on the polished wood floor, grabbing the door handle at the last moment to pull herself into her room.

Once inside, she sat on the edge of her bed and looked around. Her mother had insisted on decorating it in the new, green-stained wood, a copy of the famous Morris & Co. styles from England. The one traditional touch was Julie's quilt. It had been handed down through her mother's family for four generations. Julie hated it. Her mother was so afraid
she would stain or tear it that Julie had to fold it back every time she wanted to lie on her bed to read or rest during the day.

Leaning forward, Julie hurriedly rolled off her cotton stockings and put on her thick woolen ones. The wool itched against her skin, and she knew it would only get worse as the evening went on—but it was a small price to pay. She stepped back into her shoes, wriggling her toes as she fastened the buttons. Her cloak and gloves were pressed and ready on the cloak tree beside her door.

Back in the hallway, Julie walked more slowly, her head held high, her posture ladylike. She could hear her mother in the library, her tone less shrill now, and her father's reassuring murmur. Julie hesitated in the hall, listening.

“We don't have to depend on the volunteers anymore, Margaret,” her father was saying. “These men are salaried professionals. They're trained as firemen. Chicago is a much safer city now that we have them.”

Julie could tell her mother was pacing the floor. The moiré silk of her gown was stiff enough to make a
swooshing
sound when she walked. “What's taking her so long?”

Startled, Julie straightened her bodice and went through the door, a little breathless and embarrassed to have been eavesdropping on her parents. She kept her eyes demurely down, trying to avoid her mother's probing glances.

“Ready?” Julie's father put his hands on her shoulders and nudged her back out of the library, guiding her along as they turned the opposite way down the wide hall. Julie could hear her mother's gown rustling as she followed them to the top of the stairway, then stopped.

Julie and her father continued on, the thick carpet erasing the sound of their footsteps as they descended. The carved banister shone, reflecting the gas lights set high on the wall.

“Good-bye, Mother,” Julie called out, turning back just inside the front door.

Her mother was still hovering at the top of the stairs. She looked nervous, a smile tugging uneasily at the corners of her mouth. “You listen to everything your father tells you.”

Her father mumbled a response, moving toward the heavy mahogany doors, his hands still firm on Julie's shoulders. She avoided catching her mother's
eye. She knew from long experience that it might set off a torrent of parting advice. She glanced up at her father instead, hoping he would say something.

“Don't worry, Margaret,” he said to his wife. “We'll be home by nine at the latest.”

Nate put the last load of kindling in the box. Aunt Ruth liked to mix wood with the shavings and sawdust she bought from the lumberyard. It made the stove fire brighter and less smoky.

“Oh, my goodness,” she said, bustling up behind him. “I almost forgot the pies. I sometimes wonder where my mind wanders off to.” She set the pie tins on her pastry table.

Nate smiled, knowing that if he hadn't been there, she would have had the same conversation with herself. “Your mind is on twenty things at once, Aunt Ruth.”

She beamed at him, wrinkles creasing her cheeks. She was really his great-aunt, his grandmother's sister.
When his parents had died in the cholera epidemic in St. Louis, he had been placed in St. Michael's Boys' Orphan Asylum. Like every other asylum in the city, it was strained to bursting during the awful outbreak of the fever.

Nate had braved the gamut of bullies and stark, lonely nights for only a month before running away. For a year he had made his own way, working as a sidewalk sweep. When he couldn't find work he passed the days along the docks, dodging among the stacked crates and bins of cotton and fruit. He had crept into stables or storage sheds to sleep most nights, shivering and hungry.

Then, two years ago, Aunt Ruth had gotten tired of exchanging letters with St. Louis agencies that claimed her great-nephew had disappeared for good. She hired a man to find him. Nate had been afraid on the long train ride, sitting next to the mustached stranger who had pulled him kicking and screaming from beneath a garbage bin. Nate had stood in his tattered, too-small clothes at the Chicago station, terrified. But Aunt Ruth had taken him in without question.

It had been hard at first, trying to live by her rules, but it hadn't taken him long to realize how much he
had missed having a home. Nate was twelve now and big for his age, thanks to Aunt Ruth's kindness and good cooking. Most of the time, he obeyed her. And when he didn't, she was kindly even when she was upset with him.

“You got a little soot on the windowsill coming in last night,” Aunt Ruth said abruptly, no longer smiling. “Where did you go?”

Nate ducked his head. “I just wanted to see if the fire was coming close.”

Aunt Ruth was looking at him when he glanced up. “If you would spend as much time studying your books as you do studying everything else, you'd be the top scholar in your class.”

Nate pretended to rearrange the kindling, knowing he was in for a lecture. Aunt Ruth spooned pieces of sizzling fried chicken out of the skillet and into a deep bowl. “Mr. Dobbs dropped in yesterday while you were out carousing with your friends. He told me you have been absent four times in the last two weeks.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Nate knew better than to argue or to try to fib. Aunt Ruth never lectured him without ample evidence and a fully developed case.

She set the bowl down on the sideboard. “Nathan,
you are a smart boy. I could drop dead tomorrow, you know that. I am fifty-eight years old. The bank still owns this house. I have left it to you in my will, but how are you going to run it if you don't learn to cipher and write?”

“I can write.”

“Not well enough. Nor do you cipher as accurately as you should.”

Nate shook his head stubbornly. “I hate school. Mr. Dobbs's classes are boring.”

Aunt Ruth leaned forward, her palms pressed against the smooth wooden kitchen table. “You're bored because you put nothing into it. Why would you expect to get something out? Nothing in this life is free, Nathan Cooper.”

Nate met her eyes. He hated it when she was upset with him. But she didn't understand. School was hard for him. He felt out of place. Most of the other boys seemed so young, so sheltered. “I will try harder,” he said out loud.

Aunt Ruth's frown dissolved into her habitual smile. “I hope you do, Nathan. I want you to have a good life.” She handed him a potato masher and made a shooing motion with one hand. “Now get to work. I
also want to have supper on the table in ten minutes.”

Nate nodded. He poured the steaming potato water into a crock. Aunt Ruth would use it later for soup stock. He beat the potatoes into a mound of fluffy white and added a little milk and enough pepper to speckle the top. He stirred the pepper in, making sure there were no lumps at all before he spooned the potatoes into the serving dish. He could feel Aunt Ruth watching him out of the corner of her eye as she worked.

“Go ahead and carry those out. The table is already set. Ring the supper bell while you're out there, will you?”

“Is Mr. Oliver going to eat with us?”

Aunt Ruth shrugged. “His eyes were near swollen shut this morning, his wife said. And his ankle is worse. I hope he can come downstairs and join us.”

Nate went through the door into the dining room. The rich oak tabletop was covered with a thick linen cloth. The table had belonged to Aunt Ruth's mother; it was her prize possession, the only real heirloom she owned. Nate set down the potatoes, remembering the first time he had eaten supper at this table. It had seemed huge, a mile long,
surrounded with people he didn't know. Now, he loved the conversations, the political arguments among the men—even Mrs. Oliver's soft, insistent voice smoothing things out.

The dinner bell was on a high shelf above the mantel. It had been so warm this fall they had only built a few fires. They wouldn't need one this evening, either; the day had been hot.

Nate rang the bell loudly, facing the stairs. Then he opened the door into the little front parlor. It was stuffy from being closed up all day long. Sometimes after supper, the boarders would spend a few hours playing cards, drinking coffee, and talking.

Voices at the top of the stairs made Nate look up. Mr. Dwight was coming down slowly, every step heavy, deliberate. Behind him, his tall, thin form almost completely hidden, Mr. Thomas was talking to the Olivers. Mr. Oliver's face was pink, and his eyes were still swollen; he limped down the stairs leaning heavily on the banister, his wife hovering just behind him.

“Nate, my boy,” Mr. Dwight called out. “Did you bring some fresh milk up from O'Learys' this morning?”

Nate suppressed a smile. “Yes, sir, I did. Aunt Ruth has it in the icebox now.”

Mr. Dwight grinned. “It's a long walk for you, but I surely do appreciate it.”

Nate nodded and sighed, pretending to be tired. “I had to wait while they unloaded a wagon full of hay, and that milk bucket is so heavy that—”

“Oh, don't let him make you feel sorry for him, Mr. Dwight,” Aunt Ruth interrupted, coming through the kitchen door. She carried the big bowl full of fried chicken to the table. Mr. Thomas helped her set it down.

“Oh, look at that,” Mrs. Oliver cried out, touching her husband's shoulder. “Fried chicken. That's Brian's favorite, isn't it, Brian?”

Nate made his way across the dining room while Mr. Oliver made some polite answer and Aunt Ruth invited them all to sit down. The familiar scraping of chairs and conversation followed Nate into the kitchen. When he came out again, carrying the gravy boat and a bowl of tender green beans, Aunt Ruth passed him. “I'll just get the biscuits. You go ahead and sit down.”

As Nate set the food in the center of the table,
Mrs. Oliver made another of her polite exclamations. Nate took his place next to Aunt Ruth's chair at the end of the table, across from Mr. Thomas. As always, Mr. Thomas wore an impeccably neat suit and waistcoat, his conductor's watch and chain carefully polished. The other end chair was reserved for Mr. Dwight. He had been here the longest.

“Mr. Dwight?” Aunt Ruth laid the biscuit plate beside the potatoes, then sat down. “Will you say grace for us?”

Mr. Dwight cleared his throat. “Thank you, Lord, for seeing Mr. Oliver through his ordeal last night. Please bless him and all the other firemen of this great city and keep them safe. I know You are watching over those who lost their homes and loved ones in the fire. And if You could look into a little rain for us, it would be most gratefully received. We humbly ask Your blessing upon this supper and everyone at this table. Amen.”

“Amen.” Nate echoed with the others. He loaded his plate with food, trying to keep from staring at Mr. Oliver. His face was so pink, it looked scalded. His eyes were slits between puffy lids. His wife doted on him, making sure he got his favorite piece
of chicken and that he took enough gravy to cover his biscuits and potatoes.

Mr. Thomas passed the biscuit plate. “If you don't mind telling us, Mr. Oliver, what was it like out there last night?”

“If the ladies will forgive my language, it was hellish,” Mr. Oliver said without hesitation.

Nate leaned forward. He liked Mr. Oliver. Being a fireman was exciting work, and dangerous.

“We call that district the Red Flash,” Mr. Oliver went on. “It's one of the worst parts of town for fire. Think about it. The streets are all planked; every block down there is full of woodworks and coal yards. Not to mention the houses—they're all wood frame and most of them are old. And if it had jumped the river into Conley's Patch—”

“Did you see the paper-box factory when it caught on fire?” Nate interrupted. “Sparks flew straight up.” Aunt Ruth shot him a quick look, and he pretended not to notice.

Mr. Oliver turned. “I did, Nate. It was like the Fourth of July for a few minutes. They tell me the rooftop sitters actually cheered. Fools.”

Nate looked down. He hadn't cheered, but it
had been thrilling to see the red streamers shooting upward in the dark sky.

“I will never understand why people love to watch the fires,” Mrs. Oliver said in her high, breathy voice. Nate avoided Aunt Ruth's eyes again, staring fixedly at Mr. Oliver. The fireman swallowed a mouthful of food, then looked up at his wife.