Town Burning (36 page)

“I love you,” he said, and she put her face against his neck, her arms tightly wrapped around him—a bear hug—as if she were a little girl who didn’t want to be sent away.

“That won’t burn up,” she mumbled fiercely against his neck. “I love you!” Then she added with an odd little giggle, “John Cotter never burns up, he just fades away.”

“I’m through fading away,” he said. “I mean it, Janie.” He took a handful of her hair and gently pried her head up. Her eyes were coolly open, watching him, and she looked at him for a long time.

“I
mean
it,” he said.

“I’m just an old widow. What the hell does it matter?”

“Stop that!” He took her by the waist and shook her. Her head bobbed back and forth loosely and she stopped smiling. A Salvation Army woman looked in and then fled. He went over and shut the door, then pushed her into the Morris chair. “Now listen to me,” he said, bending over her, “listen to me!” She sat primly, a little girl again, her hands together under her chin as if she were praying, and looked up at him. “Listen, Janie, I’m sick of being careful; I’m sick of trying to be invisible. From now on they’re going to love me or hate me, understand? I’m
in!
God dammit! Do you understand?” She raised her eyebrows slightly, noncommittally.

“Listen!” he said desperately, “I love you! I’m through being nothing! I’m through waiting for something to happen!”

“What good would it do me if I said that?” she asked.

“You don’t have to say it now, because I’m making things happen.” He picked her up and kissed her again, then set her on her feet. He left her standing there and hurried out into the kitchen, where he grabbed a sandwich and Junior’s arm. “Come on, Junior,” he said, “we got to fight fire.”

With a look of wonder on his face, Junior followed.

They walked single-file down the old logging road toward the front lines, John leading. Howard Randolf, Billy Muldrow and the Riders were strung out behind. Every third man carried an Indian pump, the rest shovels and axes. The state police had given John a geodetic map with a heavy black line drawn across it in crayon. A series of little clearings, most of them connected to each other, were strung across the side of a hill above Switches brook, in which there was still a trickle of water. Their job was to clear a line of all brush and, if possible, wind and water supply allowing, to build a controlled backfire through the clearings. This might possibly slow the fire, but there was little hope of actually putting it out until the weather changed drastically—until it rained.

He stopped, flashing his light along the dry leaves, trying to find the cutoff Sam Stevens had marked for him on the map. It would soon be light enough—would have been then, except for the slowly moving brown smoke that kept the day back. While he searched for signs of the connecting trail among the blackberry bushes, the others waited stolidly. Billy, of all the men, might have been better qualified to find the trail, but he was content to let John make the decision about it. And so were they all.

When he decided which trail to take, they followed him, silent except for the dry crackling of the leaves and sticks under their feet. After a few yards the trail became distinct, and they made steady progress down the hill toward Switches brook. A trickle of water did still run among the stones, and John detailed one of the men to clear stones and dig a hole deep enough so that they could refill the Indian pumps there. It was Slugger Pinckney whose shoulder he patted, and Slugger began immediately to roll the heavy stones aside. No one had as yet disputed his authority, and as he wondered about it he decided that he wanted to keep it.

“Goddam!” Junior said, “I used to catch some fair keepers in Switches brook. Now look at her!”

As he walked up the hill on the other side of the brook to detail the men to their clearing jobs, he was grateful to Junior for this speech, which reinforced his authority in the only possible way. Now the Riders would certainly follow Slugger’s example, and Junior would not try to foul things up. By saying nothing, Junior would have left him in doubt. By speaking only of the fish, he had declared himself.

The little clearings were full of berry bushes and spreading circles of ground juniper, the juniper dry as tinder. In between, the surviving hay was brown. Around them, tall pine and hemlock were ominously dark, as if in complete, warmingful contrast to the bright torches they could become. The men worked feverishly, some cutting the juniper and saplings in a ragged line along the hill, others dragging the cut brush down out of the way. The shovelers used the sharpened edges of their shovels as brush scythes on the smaller stalks and branches. They worked without looking to see who worked next to them, sweat running onto their tools and into their boots, blood from thorn scratches running down with the sweat.

As more men came down the trail they were referred to John, who stopped chopping long enough to set them to work. By nine in the morning they had met with other crews on each side, and went back over the ground they had cleared, this time more carefully, until they had a firebreak twenty feet wide cleared of nearly everything that would burn. All the larger trees near the edge had been cut to fall back away from the cleared ground.

“Now we got everything all ready,” Junior said, “where in hell’s the fire?”

The men came straggling back from their final inspection of the firebreak, dragging their tools, and flopped on the ground around John.

“Two bits it don’t come at all,” Slugger said.

John examined the broken blisters on the insides of his thumbs, and pulled off a piece of skin as big as a quarter. Howard Randolf lay on his stomach, breathing deeply, as if he were either asleep or sick. Bob Paquette still kept his distance. He hadn’t spoken to John at all, but had followed all his suggestions without objection. Now John looked straight at him and said, “You men sure did a job of work.”

He expected no answer, but regretted the remark as soon as he said it—they would think of the firehouse business, and the more glamorous job they might have had. But they were too tired to react to that. The only response was a series of sighs and groans as the men tried to get comfortable on the rooty ground.

“We ought to be relieved pretty soon now,” John said.

“Just tell ’em not to step on my body,” Howard said.

Billy Muldrow rolled over and grinned, his face black and tired. “I could do with some sleep myself,” he said.

They heard a loud crack from up the hill toward the fire, then more cracklings and scrapings, then the thud of hoofs. A small buck came floating into sight on the top of a long jump. The deer came bounding down the hill toward them. To the right, several more deer crashed by. The little buck cleared the firebreak easily and landed among the men, then continued down toward the brook in long arcs, his front legs cocked daintily as he soared above the ground.

“Jesus!” Billy Frisch yelled. The hoofs had missed him by a foot. “That dumb bastard damn’ near tromped on me!” He put his fingers in the triangular hoofmarks.

“You want to be careful,” Junior said. “Them deer are dangerous.” They all laughed.

“Fire must be gitting close,” Slugger said. “I seen a red fox earlier, going out straight for Leah.”

“I seen a wildcat, two bear and a elephant!” Junior said.

“Aw, shut up.” Slugger rolled over and groaned into the ground.

Smoke, now a little darker than before, veered over the top of the hill above them. They listened for the sounds of fire, but could hear nothing. Far over to the left another deer crashed down the hill. They saw one flash of its white flag, but heard it all the way down to the brook, where a stone clinked before the deer began to climb the hill on the other side.

“Here come the fresh troops, I do believe,” Junior said.

Sam Stevens led a column of men up to the firebreak. “I’d say you used good judgment, John, not to make a backfire. Wind’s too tricky. Anyways, they got some food for you boys back to the house. That’s a good job.” Sam surveyed the cleared ground, nodding.

The Riders got up, slapped dust from their uniforms and started back with the rest of the men who had arrived before dawn. John decided to go up to the top of the hill and see where the fire was. His knees were stiff and his shoulders ached as he stood up. Howard Randolf was in the process of raising his body from the ground, and John stopped to watch.

“One!” Howard said, and pulled up one knee. “Two!” He pulled up the other one. “Don’t cry, friends, don’t pity an old man.” He finally got to his feet and stood shakily. “Where in hell are you going, Captain?” he said to John, who had crossed the firebreak toward the fire.

“I’m going to look at the fire,” John said. “From the looks of you, you’d better head for the sack.”

“Legs, old legs,” Howard said, leaning over and gripping his legs above the knees, “function!”

“I’ll see you back at the house,” John said.

“No, no! I’ve got to see it. I’ve got to see it!”

They climbed over the felled trees and started up the hill toward the smoke, climbing over old stone walls and blowdown. Howard managed to keep up, although he frequently groaned and sometimes had to lift a leg over with both hands.

“I just realized that I was married in these pants,” Howard said, leaning against a poplar sapling. The pants were heavy tweed, torn at the knees. “I bought these pants in London in 1928. Damn’ good pants.” He took a few deep breaths. “I was married in these pants, but I don’t hope to die in them.”

“Think you’ll die with your pants on?” John said.

“Pants on and fly buttoned,” Howard said. He grinned painfully, exposing his long yellow teeth.

“You sure you want to try this hill?”

“In spite of anything I may have said, I haven’t given up yet,” Howard said.

They stood below a ten-foot cliff of stone, a huge boulder set into the side of the hill. Beneath the boulder the ground was slightly damp, and faded water weeds showed that a spring had once run there. As John examined the hole beneath the stone a little green frog looked out at him, then backed inside again.

“Find a hole and crawl in,” John said.

“What? I’m not that far gone,” Howard said.

“The little frog.” John pointed into the damp hole.

“Oh! Sure, Captain. Sure. Draw your own conclusions,” Howard said, smiling. “Now let’s go see our approaching fate.”

They rested again before they reached the vantage point, a rock platform they could see above them, cutting the smoke like the prow of a ship. For the first time they could hear the distant crackling of the fire.

“One minute,” Howard said. “Give an old man a minute.” He half-fell to the pine needles and rolled over on his back. “I could sleep for a week. Right here.”

“You’d be nicely broiled.”

“That doesn’t appeal. But listen, Captain…”

“Why the ‘Captain’ business?”

“I admired—I really did—the way you took over that….” He waved a slack hand down the hill. “Indeed I did. The circumstances were difficult, but you made no mistakes. You’re a leader.”

“Like hell.”

“No, you are. When something
has
to be done, you do it.”

“Come on, let’s go.”

“Old Sam Stevens knows,” Howard said. “‘That’s a good job,’ the old patriarch said. You heard him. That old man knows. He’s got blight eyes.”

“We’d better be moving along,” John said. “The fire’s just over the hill. We may have to run back down, Howard. Do you think you ought to try it?”

“I try anything.”

Howard got up, groaning, and followed John up the last hundred yards. They climbed on hands and knees over the last ledge onto the stone promontory, into the driving stream of thin smoke.

The fire was there.

“Jesus God,” Howard said softly. They stood on the edge of a volcano, seared by the rising heat from a valley of oily flame. The coals of trees blinked behind the advancing wall that was white-orange at its base, growing into red, weaving into a dirty black shot with dull red before it rose above the trees with a whoosh, throwing large twigs, leaves and small branches straight up, burning them into nothing before they fell back to the ground. Just below, a green balsam, a perfect fifty-foot Christmas tree, turned brown all at once and in the next second burst into light, each branch, each needle afire at once. They both crouched back, arms in front of their faces.

“Captain, I suggest we retreat!” Howard yelled over the roar of the burning tree. “In fact, I suggest we run like hell!”

They turned and ran, jumping, sliding down the ledge, pushing through the wiry brush that was a fuse leading the fire up and over the hill. Howard shot by on a slide of needles, scrabbling to get hold of something, and rolled over before he came to rest on his back against a stump. He lay there hugging himself, his face grayish with pain, breathing in deliberately short gasps. “Unh, unh!” he said. “I…broke…some…thing.”

“Can you walk?” John climbed down to him and put his hand on Howard’s chest. Howard moved his arm to push John’s hand away.

“Hurts…to…breathe.”

“Move your legs.” Howard moved his legs, his bony knees showing through the torn pants. “Good,” John said. He looked up and saw wisps of fire flowing through the smoke above the ledge. “O.K., you’ve most likely broken a rib or two. Let’s go.”

“No…Don’t…have…energy…anyway.”

“Get up!”

“All done…been…fun.”

“You’d rather die than stand a little pain?” John felt anger begin to rise in him.

Howard’s eyes were pleading. “Go…on. Don’t…give a…damn.”

“I do, so get the hell up!” He reached out and pulled Howard’s arms loose. Howard opened his mouth, his tongue protruding, his lips pulled away from his long teeth, and screamed. The fire crackled and the wind pushed over the hill; a hot, eating wind that took John’s breath. He pulled Howard out from his niche beside the stump, grabbed his rigid arms and sledded him down the hill. Flame poured through the brush where they had been, and the green blackberries hissed and dropped. Howard’s arms went limp, and John had to get a new hold on him. He took one arm and bent it at the elbow, put his own arm through the crook and pulled. This worked until they reached a small depression in the ground. Howard slid into it and stayed. John couldn’t pull him out.