Fire: Chicago 1871 (12 page)

A ship, pulled by tugs, was heading upstream, past the open Madison Street Bridge. Beyond it, Nate could see the Van Buren Street Bridge, a smoking skeleton, its spans destroyed. Smoke hazed the air as the wind buffeted them, only a little cooler as
they crossed the water. On the west side, the traffic was choking the narrow bridge approach, and Nate fought an urge to force the gelding through the hordes of refugees.

“Nate!”

Startled, Nate twisted in the saddle at the sound of the familiar voice. He scanned the crowd, his eyes passing over a hundred pale, ash-streaked faces.

“Nate!”

This time Nate recognized Ryan's voice and managed to spot him. He was walking on the pedestrian's boardwalk on the far side of the bridge. He raised one hand, waving.

“That boy—” Julie began, tugging Nate's sleeve.

“That's Ryan,” Nate interrupted happily. “He's all right!”

Glancing at Ryan every few seconds, Nate guided the gelding uphill, waiting for a chance to angle across the street. Ryan smiled and waved every time their eyes met. When the traffic thinned out a little, Nate held the gelding in to keep from leaving Ryan behind. They were almost a block past the bridge before Nate managed to work his way to the side of the street, closing the distance between them.

Nate slid off the gelding and helped Julie down. “I saw you,” he told Ryan. “I saw you in one of those wagons and I thought you were hurt bad.” He stopped as he looked into Ryan's dull, exhausted eyes.

“I was,” Ryan said slowly. “For a while, I wasn't sure what my own name was. But I'm pretty sure my arm is just sprained.” Ryan wriggled his fingers, then lifted his arm, wincing. “See? I can move everything.”

Julie made a little sound, and Nate turned to see her staring at Ryan's ugly bruises. He introduced her to Ryan, then patted the horse's neck.

“Julie and I can walk awhile. You ride the gelding. I'll lead him,” he added quickly, seeing the look of uncertainty on Ryan's face.

Nate helped Ryan into the saddle, and they set off again. Julie walked quietly with her head down. She took a drink from the canteen and offered it to Nate. He shook his head and passed it up to Ryan. Ryan drank noisily, spilling water down his filthy shirtfront. Nate pushed the cork back into the canteen and handed it to Julie once more. He glanced upward. The sky was hazy with smoke, but the light of dawn was shining through.

“My father is going to kill me,” Ryan said softly.

Nate shook his head. “No, he won't. Aunt Ruth might kill me, though.”

Nate heard Julie take in a long breath. For the rest of the way up the rise to Canal Street, she kept glancing westward. Nate followed her gaze. She was probably thinking about her parents. He hoped they were all right.

As they got closer, Nate could see that the block the boardinghouse was on had been untouched by the fire. The trees had not escaped the heat, though. They were scorched, wilting.

“Your aunt Ruth's place looks all right,” Ryan said. “And I don't see any burn farther on. My family might just be all right, too.”

Nate grinned at him. “It looks that way.” He felt his heart lighten in his chest. But where was Aunt Ruth? It was hard to believe that she and all the boarders were inside, no one even watching the progress of the fire.

“Where is everyone?” Julie wondered, speaking his thought. Nate shrugged, leading the gelding up the drive. In the early morning sunlight, the poplars cast their shadows across the road. Nate glanced up at the second-story windows. He saw Mr. Dwight's
broad, friendly face. As the heavyset man turned from the window, Nate heard him shout.

“Go tell her you're safe,” Ryan said, wincing with pain as he dismounted. “I'm going to head on home.”

“No,” Nate said. “Wait for me. You shouldn't walk.”

Ryan shook his head. “My legs are fine. They're about the only part of me that doesn't hurt. I'll be by to see you when my pa lets me out of the doghouse.”

Nate nodded and watched Ryan cross the street. Then he handed Julie the reins and started toward the porch. Before he was halfway up the steps Aunt Ruth flung open the front door.

“Are you all right, Nathan?”

He nodded, but before he could say anything, she gripped his shoulders, peering into his face, her eyes flooded with tears. She hugged him quickly, then held him at arm's length. “When I saw that you weren't in your bed, I was so frightened. Then I got angry. I've been worried sick, Nathan Cooper.”

Mr. Oliver pushed open the door and limped out onto the porch. His eyes were still badly swollen. “Your aunt paced the hallway all night long.”

“I'm sorry,” Nate said, staring down at his ash-grayed shoes. He rubbed one against his trouser leg,
then switched feet to try to clean the other one.

“Never mind your shoes, Nathan,” Aunt Ruth said. “I want your promise that you'll never go out that window again.”

Nate looked up. “I promise,” he said.

Aunt Ruth was looking past him. “And who is this?”

Nate watched Julie smooth her ruined skirt. “I'm Julie Flynn. Nate saved my life.”

Nate glanced at his aunt. She was beaming. “My Nate is a brave one. Maybe too brave. Where are your folks, child?”

Julie smiled. “At my uncle Jack's place. Miles west of here.”

Aunt Ruth nodded. “As soon as you have rested up, we can help you find them. You must be hungry. There are biscuits and gravy left from breakfast and a chocolate cake from last night's supper.”

Nate's stomach clenched, and he realized how hungry he was.

Julie's eyes had gone wide. “Chocolate cake?”

Mr. Oliver made a shooing motion with his hands. “Go on in. I'm just going to stand out here a little while and see what's what.”

Nate nodded. Mr. Oliver met his eyes. “We could have used your help. There was a storm of cinders those first few hours.”

When Nate didn't answer, Mr. Oliver clapped him gently on the shoulder. “Sounds like that girl needed help, too. I'm just glad you're safe, son.”

Nate stood still, letting it seep in. Ryan was all right. Julie would be fine once she was back with her parents. He looked up at the porch. He could see Aunt Ruth waiting just inside the front door. Nate grinned. He had made it home.

Gavin Reilly stood on the boat deck of the Titanic, his eyes closed tightly. He gripped the handrail and counted to ten. Then he opened his eyes again. He had to get over this. He
had
to get used to looking out over the open water. After a few dizzying seconds, he turned landward, gulping huge breaths of the cool air. He stared at the coastline and the green hills above Queenstown, Ireland. This was ridiculous. He had been swimming since he was a baby He had never been afraid of water in his life.

“Are you all right?”

Gavin looked up to see a girl with light brown hair, and a scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She looked concerned. Her accent, broadly American, sounded brash and rude.

“Are you sick?”

Gavin shook his head. There was no way to explain what was wrong with him. He didn't really
understand it himself. “I'm fine,” he said, staring back at the shoreline.

The town's docks were all too small for the
Titanic,
so the enormous liner had been anchored two miles offshore. Passengers, goods, and mailbags were being brought out to her. Gavin watched the tenders and bumboats scuttling back and forth. The
Ireland
was not a small boat, but it looked like a toy beside the
Titanic.
The
America
stood off a little distance, waiting its turn to unload.

Gavin watched a bumboat come alongside. Most of them were loaded with Irish goods. The first-class nabobs and their finely dressed wives would have their chance to buy Irish linen and lace, even if they couldn't go ashore.

Gavin glanced sideways. The girl was still standing nearby, but she was looking out to sea now, her hair blowing in the wind. Gavin wanted more than anything to turn and face the open water, but he knew he couldn't. He moved a little ways away from the girl, hoping she wouldn't follow.

Gavin leaned against the metal railing. The familiar green curve of the south Irish coast was less than two
miles away over the water. He stared at Queenstown with its narrow streets and closely packed buildings. He sighed.

The hills behind the town were so green, they reminded him of his home outside Belfast. He could imagine his brothers and sisters tending the potato patch in the high pasture. Sean's voice would be ringing out over little Katie's giggles. Gavin could almost see her, freckled and pink-faced. Liam would be arguing with Mary, The little ones would be with Mother at home, lined up on her cot for noontime nap. Gavin felt the now-familiar physical ache that always accompanied thoughts of his family. He might never see them again.

“Are you ill?” the girl asked.

Gavin glanced at her and shook his head, then pointedly turned his back. He forced himself to look out to sea. The cold gray water stretched all the way to the horizon. He wasn't sure why it bothered him so much. Everyone agreed the
Titanic
was unsinkable. That very morning they had run a full dress rehearsal emergency; alarms sounding, they had closed all the watertight doors.

Gavin had been so determined to get a position on the
Titanic
that he had traveled to Southampton, lied about his age, and stood in line with several hundred others to be interviewed. Conor's letters from New York had set him dreaming of a different life. Like all older brothers, Conor wanted him to have opportunities, too. Their mother had lit a candle for Conor the day he had sailed for America. Now she would light two every Sunday. The idea of the candles made Gavin feel a sharp stab of homesickness.

“I didn't mean to intrude,” the girl said apologetically. He glanced at her, about to apologize for his own rudeness, but she had already turned away.

He watched her walk past the gigantic funnel that jutted up at an angle from the deck. The other three were real and spouted black smoke when the
Titanic
was underway. This one was fake, nothing more than a huge air vent. Still, like the others, it was anchored with thick steel cables. Gavin saw the girl start down the steep stairs toward the third-class promenade.

“Hey, Gavin! You'd better get back down to the galley.” Lionel's voice startled him. The tall, blond-haired
boy dropped onto one of the wooden benches along the handrail. “Mr. Hughes will see you slacking, and they'll be booting you off. That would shame your roommates, you know.”

Gavin grinned. “I would hate to do that.”

“Well, Harry and I would be shamed at any rate. I'm not sure Wallace has it in him.”

They both laughed. “I've only been up here a few minutes,” Gavin said. “I needed fresh air.”

Lionel shrugged. “Are you seasick? At anchor? It's going to be like sailing a whole city across the Atlantic, Gavin. She barely rolls at all.”

Gavin shot one more glance at the open water and felt his stomach tighten. “I'd better get started washing the new potatoes. First class is going to have them boiled
parmentier.”

“Work hard and you can end up a first-class steward like me.” Lionel stood up straight, clowning, squaring his shoulders in exaggerated pride. “I have to go down to the dining room to deliver a message.”

“I'll go down with you,” Gavin said, getting to his feet.

Together they headed toward the second-class entrance. Gavin reached out to open the door. Side by
side they started down the long stairway. Their steps were timed to a rhythmic patter that kept them moving downward at almost a running pace. Lionel had taught Gavin how to run the stairs like this and he shot him a grin of approval. “You're getting good.”

Gavin grinned back, feeling better.

As they descended past the windows of the Palm Court, he saw the first-class passengers seated in the elaborately decorated garden room. There were a few men onboard who were so wealthy, their clothing had probably cost more than it took to feed Gavin's family for a whole year. He had seen one woman wearing a necklace of diamonds so big, they shot glitters across the room.

On the B-deck landing, Gavin could smell the heavy scent of tobacco coming from the second-class smoking room. Lionel lifted one hand to cover his nose and mouth. Gavin nodded. First-class was the worst—expensive cigars had a pungent odor that clung to the very walls.

As they went deeper into the ship, Gavin felt his nervousness subside a little. Down here, the
Titanic
was much like a grand hotel. It was easier to forget
the deep gray water that would soon separate him from his family and from the farm where he had lived his whole life.

“What time are you off Saturday night?” Lionel asked.

Gavin grabbed the handrail as they rounded the landing on C-deck. “After cleanup. Around ten.”