Fire: Chicago 1871 (7 page)

Nate appeared alongside her and caught her hand.
“What are you doing? We shouldn't stay here.”

Julie pulled free, startled and angry. She did not want to leave yet. She felt safer here. There were two policemen walking along the edge of the boardwalk. She could see a priest talking to a family near the rectory. The crowd seemed calmer around the church. The idea of going back to Canal Street and being pushed along by terrified strangers made her shiver, in spite of the hot wind.

Julie faced Nate, making a sudden decision. “Thank you for your help, but I'm going to stay. Maybe I'll ask one of the policemen to take me home.” She said it as calmly as she could. Just saying it made her feel better, less frightened. It was dangerous walking with Nate on the dark, crowded streets.

Nate shook his head. “Those policemen don't have time for you right now.”

Julie straightened her skirts and raised her head high. Without a word, she walked away from him. He would see. She would tell the policemen who her father was, and they would find some way to take her home.

The officers had worked their way along the Mather boardwalk, past the old-fashioned house
on the corner. Julie ran to catch up with them, the smoky air rasping at her throat. “Excuse me?”

Neither of them turned to look at her; they were absorbed in their own conversation. One was heavyset and bald. He was gesturing emphatically. “It could jump the river. How can you say it won't?”

The other policeman shook his head. “They'll keep it from coming much farther north, and it can't spread much farther eastward. It'll have to stop when it hits last night's burn. There's nothing left up there but sixteen acres of ash and dirt.”

“Excuse me, please?” Julie repeated, raising her voice.

The heavyset man turned, scowling. “What? What do you want?”

“I'm Julie Flynn. I need help getting home,” she began. She could hear the strain in her own voice. She felt like she was about to cry.

“Where do you live?”

She had expected kindness from the policeman; it was not there. “My father—”

“I asked where you live.” He was frowning at her, impatient.

“On Michigan,” Julie told him. “On the lake.”

“You'd best get back there, then,” the second policeman interjected tersely. He didn't even look at her as he spoke.

“Where are your parents?” the heavyset man demanded.

Julie shook her head, stunned by the annoyance in his voice.

“Find someone you can trust, little girl, and go home. Tell your father to get his family as far north and west as he can tonight.” The policeman said it curtly, then they both stepped around her, resuming their conversation.

Julie watched them talk to a fireman for a few seconds. Then all three of them helped the crew of the Jacob Rehm push the crowd back so the steamer could be moved closer to the church.

“See? I told you.” She turned to see Nate coming toward her. He pointed across the street. “Those lumberyards are going to burn like pitch in a bonfire, and the firemen aren't going to be able to do anything about it.”

Julie bristled. “My father says the firemen in Chicago are the finest professionals in the country.”

Nate laughed. “One of our boarders is a fireman. He
says it's the weariest force in the country. And he told me they have frayed hoses and worn-out steamers.”

Julie looked past him, fighting tears. She wanted to believe she would be safe here, close to St. Paul's. She was tired of being afraid, of running.

“The roof! The roof's on fire again!” someone shouted. There was an instant of silence, then people began to call out to the firemen rewinding the Jacob Rehm's hoses. The men whirled and ran back, aiming a stream of water as high as they could without a ladder—but it was no use this time. The flames were on the east end of the roof, burning backward against the wind.

“The mill's afire!” a woman screamed.

Julie whirled around to face the enormous stacks of thin, dry kindling. A flash of light caught her eye and she looked up. Red-hot fragments of what looked like roof shingles were sailing overhead, streaking like Chinese rockets against the night sky. The ugly truth was too obvious to ignore. Each and every one of them could start another fire.

Nate leaned close so that she could hear him above the din. “It's dangerous here, and I'm getting out. If you want to come with me, you can.”

Julie glanced at him, then looked back at the church just as the roof fell in on itself, sending a shower of sparks skyward. A woman standing just in front of them collapsed. Her husband bent over her on the boardwalk, calling her name.

“Julie?” Nate had already taken a few steps. “Are you coming?” He spoke over his shoulder.

She nodded. What else could she do?

Nate walked fast, worried about Aunt Ruth, wondering how long it had been since he'd left the boardinghouse. There was no fire to the north that he could see—she was in no danger yet—but she would be frantic if she had discovered he was gone.

The crowds were thick. He had to keep turning every few seconds to make sure Julie was following. She walked so awkwardly in her full, elaborate dress that she had trouble keeping up. He had almost left her at the church. He was glad he hadn't. He already felt guilty about letting Ryan run off.

He pushed his way through a knot of people standing in the middle of Canal Street. They were facing the lumberyard, watching the flames spread over the stacks of kindling. The steamers were fighting that fire now. St. Paul's roof was nearly
consumed, the flames a bright orange against the night sky.

“Wait for me!”

Nate stopped impatiently as Julie struggled to slip between two men who seemed not to notice that she was there at all. Their eyes were on the growing wall of flame that rose out of Bateham's Mill. Nate stood still until Julie got close to him. “Can't you keep up any better?”

“I'm trying,” she said.

“You're going to have to try harder or we might not make it.” Nate was about to go on when he saw her eyes flood with tears. He started to say something, but she silenced him with a gesture.

She wiped at her face, swallowing hard, then motioned for him to keep going. “I'll manage, thank you.”

Nate glanced back down Mather Street. The mill yard was awash in flames. “We have to get out of here.”

Julie nodded, then looked past him. Suddenly, her eyes went wide with fear. He spun around to see a team of horses bearing down on them, the pounding of their hooves dulled by the noise of the crowd. The driver was standing, one arm cocked over his head to
crack the whip. The wagon was full of what looked like rags.

Nate pulled Julie to one side. As the wagon passed them, he could see over the side rails. People lay like cord wood, wrapped in sheets or a hodgepodge of clothing. He saw blood soaking through one man's bandages. Another man, next to him, had been badly burned. His skin was blistered, blotched red and white. Nate heard Julie make a small, frightened sound and saw her look aside.

Nate guided Julie forward, slowing his pace to hers, weaving through the mass of refugees. The sky above them was a nightmare of red and black as the wind increased. Boards and shingles began to fall, gigantic misshapen cinders that landed in the street, on people's heads and shoulders, setting fire to the wooden buildings that faced Canal Street.

A carriage horse reared ahead of them, squealing in fear. Nate saw a flaming board drop from the sky, landing half across its back. For a few seconds, Nate smelled, above all the other bitter odors of the fire, the ugly stench of burning horsehair. The poor animal hunched, rippling its skin, confused by the pain, then shied as the board slid to the street.

Julie tugged at Nate's hand, pointing off to the east. Nate saw a freight car stranded on the tracks that ran close to the river. Flames were pouring out of its doors. There was a man silhouetted against the fire. He was hopping from one foot to the other, a bizarre, disjointed movement. Was he on fire? It was impossible to tell from this distance. Nate turned away.

A sudden chorus of shouts made him draw Julie to one side again. This time, a steamer chuffed past, its team weary and sweat soaked, its men not much better off. As soon as it passed, a second engine turned onto Canal from West Harrison Street. People moved sideways, shoving to clear the road. A woman carrying a crate of clucking chickens bumped into Nate. He let go of Julie's hand, and she stumbled over a blackened board.

Nate grabbed at her arm to pull her upright, and she smiled apologetically, gathering her skirts in her free hand. For the first time, Nate noticed how dirty she had gotten. Her yellow plaid bodice was smudged with soot. Her hemline was black from dragging on the plank streets. She didn't look much like the prim rich girl he had seen standing in front of Mr. Black's bookstore.

Nate looked down at his own shirt. The white cotton was streaked black and brown. His shoes were scuffed and filthy with clinging ash. Aunt Ruth was not likely to forgive him for ruining his clothes—or for sneaking out tonight again. The best he could do to make amends was to get home quickly and safely.

The crowds had come to a stop. People were pushed together so tightly that no one could move. Nate half turned and looked back down Canal Street. Frantic citizens were emerging from the flame-ridden streets to the west, carrying bags and boxes piled high with their belongings. As he watched, many of them were setting down their loads in the center of the street, then turning to run off toward home again. Were they moving their households out onto Canal Street in hopes that the fire wouldn't get this far?

Nate squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them. The eerie red-orange light that flooded the city made everything look nightmarish, strange. The hot wind was constant, spreading the flames. The fire was on both sides of Canal Street now, and not more than three blocks behind them. Still, few people were running. Few people had the strength to run. Nate
swallowed painfully. His throat was dry, and he was incredibly thirsty.

Nate tried to walk a little faster. Julie managed to keep up. He found himself staring at the planked street, thinking about the flaming cinders. How long would it be before the street itself was burning?

They came to the intersection where Canal crossed Van Buren Street, and Nate looked sidelong at the bridge. The enormous supports, shaped like halved wagon wheels, were as yet unharmed. The bridge was full of people and wagons, and the traffic was moving at a good clip in both directions. It slowed only as pedestrians encountered the crush on Canal Street and tried to manuever around the piles of household goods, clothing, and furniture.

As Nate watched, a ticking-covered mattress was set on fire by a flying cinder. The wind fanned the flames, then lifted the edge of the mattress. A strong gust turned it over once, then twice, spattering sparks across the street planks. Twisting like a live thing in the wind, the mattress was blown across the street, its fiery progress stopped only when it hit the side of an outhouse. The flames jumped from the cotton stuffing to the wood-frame building in seconds.

As they neared Madison Street, the throngs ahead of them thinned, and Nate found he could walk at an almost normal pace. It wouldn't be long before they were turning onto Randolph Street. For the first time, he wondered what he would do if Aunt Ruth wasn't awake waiting for him. He could hardly ask Julie to climb the maple tree. He took a deep breath. It was a relief just to be able to walk, not to be shoved into strangers, constantly bumping into people.

“It's better here,” Julie said, looking up at him.

Nate nodded.

A sharp, sudden shout and the sound of a cracking whip made him raise his eyes. A wagoner was standing up, shaking his fist at a group of drunken men who refused to make way.

“Clear off! I have people here who need help bad.”

The drunken men stopped to listen, and most of them moved aside. But one man held his ground, swaying on his feet. His companions drew closer, pulling at him, trying to get him to move out of the way. As the driver swore, Nate watched. The man didn't seem to know or care. Nate watched a moment longer, then turned and shot Julie a glance.

She frowned. “What's wrong with them, Nate?”

“Whiskey. And fear, probably.”

“Make way! Make way!” The driver was still shouting. The drunken man's friends finally made him move. Nate and Julie stood off to one side, then fell in behind the wagon after it had passed. Nate blinked, his eyes sore from the smoke.

He could see the wounded as the wagon moved away from them. There was an old woman with a bloodied bandage around her head. Next to her sat a boy, his arm in a makeshift sling, a purple bruise disfiguring his shoulder, exposed where his shirt was torn. He sat slumped over, his whole body moving with every jolt of the wagon. As Nate watched, the boy turned, his eyes blank, unfocused. Nate caught his breath. It was Ryan.

Just as the wagon of injured people passed, Nate stopped so suddenly that Julie bumped into him. The expression on his face frightened her. “What? What's wrong?”

Nate didn't answer. He began to run. Julie struggled to keep up, fighting her full skirts. She shot a fearful glance back toward the fire, but it was still blocks behind them. “Why are you running?” she demanded, but Nate ignored her.

She stumbled, falling a few strides behind. He didn't slow down at all; he didn't even seem to notice. It looked like he was trying to catch up with the wagon. “Ryan?” she heard him yelling. “Ryan!”

Nate followed the stream of carts and wagons
turning right onto the Madison Street Bridge. Julie sprinted to catch up. “Nate! What are you doing?”

He pointed at the wagon. The driver was standing again to lash the horses back into a gallop. “Wait for me on the other side!”

Without another word, Nate ran on, staying close behind the wagon as it passed between the low barriers that separated the lanes of vehicles. Julie tried to keep up, but couldn't. She slowed, then stopped. She stared as the crowds on the bridge swallowed first the wagon, then Nate.