Fire: Chicago 1871 (4 page)

“You going to school tomorrow?” Ryan asked without turning.

“I'd better. Aunt Ruth is about at wit's end.”

“She's nice.”

Nate smiled. “And the best cook in this part of Chicago, too.”

“Her chocolate cake is just about the best thing that ever happened to me,” Ryan agreed.

The wind shifted, and Nate noticed a muted clanging. “Hey,” he said, turning. “You hear that?”

A moment later, Nate could see a fire engine coming up Clinton, the horses at full gallop, its bell sounding the alarm. As the team turned onto a side street—either Polk or Mather, he was pretty sure—he caught a glimpse of the steamer with its shining upright boiler.

Ryan faced him. “There must be a fire somewhere down there. Let's go look. I bet we could get there before the rest of the crowd—”

“It's probably just some coals from last night's fire. They'll have it out before we even get there.”

“Not in this wind they won't.”

Nate frowned. “I can't stay out too long.”

Ryan walked sideways, peering into Nate's face. “It's hard for me to get out like this, Nate. I'm going to catch holy heck for it, so I'm at least going to do something exciting.” When Nate didn't answer, Ryan frowned and turned away. Abruptly, he took off running down the boardwalk, his shoes pounding a hollow rhythm on the planks.

The wind scoured the boardwalk, swirling dust and bits of paper. Nate was sure Ryan would stop and wait for him. But he didn't.

“Ryan!” Nate shouted. Ryan didn't even pause. Angry, Nate started after him. It was stupid to get separated, especially at night. Whenever there were fires, there were people who crossed the bridges, coming out of Conley's Patch and looking for an opportunity to loot burning stores and homes.

Nate saw Ryan skidding as he turned the corner
onto Polk Street. Nate sprinted, trying to keep him in sight. At the corner of Canal Street, Ryan turned right, jumping off the boardwalk onto the street planks, then back up on the other side. He was still running hard. A few blocks down, a heavy wagon rumbled around the corner from De Koven Street, the driver whipping the team.

“Ryan!” Nate yelled. But if Ryan heard him, he didn't react. He kept going, slowing enough to look down Taylor Street as he crossed the intersection.

“This way, Nate!” he called, waving one hand over his head. Then he spun and ran up Taylor. As Nate followed, he could hear shouting.

After a moment, one word separated itself from the barrage of voices: “Fire!”

◊ ◊ ◊

Julie closed the door, then stood just inside it, watching Mr. Black light his pipe. He glanced up at her, then down at the lucifer match he held tightly between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes squeezed nearly shut, he puffed at the pipe. Then he blew several smoke rings into the air. “You know your way around, Julie. Just make yourself comfortable. You may look at any book you like.”

At that moment, Julie heard a wagon clattering past outside, the horses galloping hard. She looked out the front windows, but caught only a blur of motion. As the hoofbeats faded, she heard a man shout.

Mr. Black looked up. “That's probably a young fellow who works down at the Empire Slip unloading ships' cargo. We have all gotten used to him and his recklessness.”

Julie nodded and pulled off her gloves, then slipped out of her cloak, laying it over the back of a reading bench. Her hair was windblown, and she combed it with her fingers, feeling almost grown up. Here she was, looking at books by herself, halfway across the city from her parents' town house.

She turned in a slow circle, trying to decide where to start. The books always looked magical to her. She loved opening the heavy leather covers, the sharp scent of the crisp new pages. The gold-lettered titles shone in the light from the gas lamps.

Mr. Black settled deeper into his chair behind the cash box. He puffed at his pipe, and soon Julie heard the scratching of his pen. She walked along the shelves, scanning the spines of the books. There were
grand adventures, love stories, all of Shakespeare's plays, and the heavy, scholarly books Mr. Black collected. She glanced at him. “Excuse me?”

He looked up. “Yes?”

“Do you have Mr. Verne's new novel?”

“Over here, Julie,” Mr. Black said. He scraped back his chair and stood, crossing the shop. He reached to pull a book from the shelf. “Mr. Verne has come up with another incredible tale. This one is as fanciful as
Journey to the
Center of the Earth
.”

Julie took the book from him. He was smiling. “Thank you,” she said politely. “I can barely wait to read it. Father said he would buy it for me.”

Mr. Black nodded. “Read a bit and see if you like it first.”

Julie thanked him and started toward one of the pillowed benches along the far wall, but Mr. Black began talking and she turned to face him.

“It is no accident that Verne is a Frenchman,” Mr. Black was saying. “English authors never would have conceived these ideas. They are too bound to worldly reality, as are most Americans now. We, of course, have such a tiny, short history as a nation that we—” Mr. Black stopped abruptly.

At that instant, Julie heard the hoofbeats of galloping horses again, and a clamoring bell. She turned to face the big windows at the front of the shop. Mr. Black was a half step ahead of her. He opened the door and went out. “It's a steamer.” His voice was tight.

Julie felt her stomach clench as the fire engine clattered past. The shining boiler stood upright on its four-wheeled carriage. It chuffed out clouds of steam and cinders as the driver whipped the horses faster. Julie could just read the name painted on its side—
LITTLE GIANT.
Once it had gone by there was a faint glitter of still-glowing clinkers from its coal box scattered on the boards that covered the street.

“Is there another fire?” Julie took one hesitant step onto the boardwalk, and Mr. Black caught her arm.

“Go back inside, Julie.”

She nodded, but didn't move, struggling to see up the dimly lit street. There was an unsettling orange cast to the night sky, and she could smell smoke. Her heart pounded in her chest. “Where is it? It's close, isn't it?”

Mr. Black pulled her gently. “Please go in, Julie. I'll find out where the fire is.”

Julie stepped back into the doorway, watching
him go. Then, uneasy, she glanced up and down the boardwalk. No one else was near. She slipped back out, moving away from the door far enough to see up the street.

The fire engine was stopped at the corner next to a high-wheeled cart hung with hoses. As Julie watched, a fireman from the Little Giant pulled one hose from the fireplug and attached another. A burly man was laying out lengths of hose on the other side of the engine. She could see the brass fittings gleaming in the odd, reddish light.

Mr. Black ran to the corner. Julie saw him stop beneath the streetlamp, shouting something to the firemen, but none of them turned to answer him. They were too intent on their work.

Once the hoses were run from the fireplug on the corner to one side of the steamer engine, the men attached even longer sections of hose to the other side. Then they started their pump. With the steam-driven pump forcing the water, the stream from the hose was powerful enough to reach to the roofs of the two-story buildings where Taylor Street crossed Jefferson.

Julie heard another steamer bell clanging somewhere
close by. Shouts rang out, then she heard a woman screaming. A cow, bawling in pain, seemed to come out of nowhere, galloping down the boardwalk. Her halter was loose, and a lead rope trailed out behind her.

Julie jumped backward, letting the panicked animal go past, then stepped cautiously onto the boardwalk again. She looked toward the corner, her heart thudding against her ribs. Mr. Black was nowhere to be seen. She was alone.

The streetlamps cast their amber glow into the smoky air. Nate turned the corner onto Taylor. A block or two up the street, he saw an ominous halo of flickering light. It framed the buildings on the south side. The wind was unnaturally warm, and there was an odd, sharp scent of smoke and blistering varnish in the air.

There were firemen on the corner, scrambling to set up their pump engine, the hoses already strung from the fireplug. The stoker was pitching lumps of coal into the steam engine. Another fireman was standing off to one side, arguing with a man wearing a well-cut waistcoat and trousers. There was a hose cart, too, its spool turning slowly as the driver's assistant dragged out the hoses.

Nate slowed, trying to see Ryan. People were coming out of their houses all along Taylor Street. Nate heard a woman screaming, her voice rising above the growing din. Hoofbeats behind him made Nate turn. A wagon loaded with wooden crates started up Taylor Street, then stopped when the driver saw the fire. He whipped the horses around, nearly upsetting the wagon as he turned back.

There was a girl standing on the boardwalk. Her dress was obviously expensive, flounced and ruffled. Nate wondered for an instant what she was doing there this time of evening. There was no carriage waiting.

Turning, he caught a glimpse of Ryan, dancing from one foot to the other, shouting at one of the firemen. The man made an angry gesture that was easy to understand even at this distance. He wanted Ryan to get out of his way.

Nate swore under his breath. This was just like Ryan—running up to a fireman like a little kid. Nate watched Ryan run across the street, then hesitate as if he were trying to decide which way to go next. He suddenly veered again, running up Taylor, straight toward the ominous glow that rose from the next
block. Nate ran after him, then, with a sudden shock of recognition, realized where he was. The O'Learys' place was less than a block away on De Koven Street. Was their house on fire now?

Nate tried to keep Ryan in sight, but it was hard. People were streaming into the streets from every doorway, some of them dressed in their nightclothes, all of them trying to see where the fire was.

Nate walked as fast as he could, rising onto his tiptoes to try to see over the crowds that clogged the intersection with Jefferson Street. When he couldn't, he worked his way to the edge of the throng. Climbing up onto a porch, he spotted another steam engine setting up at the fireplug on the corner of Des Plaines Street—just one block ahead.

The firemen were running back and forth to the plug, shouting and gesturing as they hooked up the first of their hoses. One man had led the team of horses a little way off to get them away from the heat. As Nate watched, the firemen stoked their steam engine with more coal and turned on the pump. The stream of water arced upward from the hose. Three men dragged it forward, the first of them aiming the water high.

Nate watched as the firemen disappeared behind the corner of a building. The wind-whipped smoke darkened a little as the water hit the roof. Nate shook his head. The steam engines were remarkable. The firemen would probably be able to control this fire in an hour or so. Still, Ryan had been right. It was going to be quite a show.

Nate turned a slow circle, looking for Ryan. Maybe he'd gone up De Koven to see if the O'Learys' place was on fire? Unsure of what else to do, Nate started down Taylor Street again. The hoses stretched across a vacant lot, and he could see flames shooting from the roofs of two old wooden barns that stood close together.

As he walked, the heat increased until he had to stop, blinking and shielding his face with one hand. He still couldn't see the O'Leary cottage—but it looked like the McLaughlins' house was afire.

“Get out of here, kid!”

Nate spun around at the angry growl. A man in a belted rubber coat was glaring down at him. He wore the standard leather fireman's helmet, except for the lettering blazoned across its peak. Nate blinked in the smoky air, trying to read it. The letters suddenly
leaped into place when the fireman turned to face the streetlamp—
CHIEF FIRE MARSHAL.
Nate swallowed nervously. This was Marshal Williams, the man in charge of every fire department in Chicago—the man Mr. Oliver had talked about a hundred times.

“Do you live up there?”

Nate shook his head.

“Then move along. People like you make it harder for us to fight the fires.”

Nate pointed up Taylor Street. “I have a friend up there somewhere, and he—”

“I advise you to clear out, son,” Marshal Williams said. “If your friend is in trouble, we'll do our best to get him out.” He stepped around Nate and ran on toward the steamer, shouting orders at the firemen.

Nate stared. He could see flames now, sparkling in the night. The heat on his face was uncomfortable, and he wanted nothing more than to follow Marshal Williams's advice. But what if something happened to Ryan? How could he ever explain it to Ryan's parents? Or to Aunt Ruth? She would never forgive him for being a coward if Ryan needed his help.

Nate stared at the people who came toward him, fleeing the flames. Two women walked together,
their hair burned close to their scalps. They were both wearing nightclothes, walking hand in hand, their faces blank. A man behind them was carrying a box of silver plate, engraved serving trays jutting up at odd angles. He had wild eyes, as though he was about to start screaming. A woman pulling two small children in a play cart walked behind him. They were both crying, rubbing at their stinging eyes.

The wind buffeted Nate, raising a fountain of cinders. A woman near him shrieked, slapping at her apron. Nate blinked, knowing he should follow the crowd, should get away from the fire, go home. But how could he leave Ryan?

Over the noise of the crowd milling around him, Nate heard another alarm, this time to the north. Maybe the fire had spread to another block. He surveyed the scene, balling his fists in anger. Where was Ryan?

“Hey, you! Boy!”