Firehorse (9781442403352) (27 page)

The two horses stood as still as stone, with their heads slightly bowed. It occurred to me that the reverend's words could just as easily mark the passing of the brave firehorses. Only this morning James told me that Chester and Major John, who had risen to their feet to pull the steam engine one last time, were dead. The third horse, the gray gelding who had replaced the Girl, was down in his stall.

“It's as quiet as midnight inside the station,” he'd said. And the men, not normally of a religious bent, were muttering uneasy prayers that no more fires start before they could get some healthy horses brought in and properly trained.

I cast an eye over the street running beside the cemetery. The fire station was not alone in its silence. With so many horses absent from the streets, a funereal pall had settled over the entire city. I'd heard it rumored that four thousand horses had died already. My stomach ached every time I heard someone talk about it; but it was all anyone could talk about, because the horses' services affected everyone's lives. Without healthy horses to pull the wagons, stores couldn't get their merchandise, and goods were piling up at the wharves and railway stations, and clogging warehouses and alleyways. Without healthy horses, homes couldn't get their regular deliveries of milk and ice and coal.

Yesterday, a man with a weasel's face came hollering his way down our street, prodding a team of oxen ahead of him. Oxen! He had coal for sale, but at triple the usual price. Mother told him she'd go without a fire in the stove before she'd kneel to such blatant extortion, and Grandmother had shouted after him that he was a miserable sinner on his way to meet the devil. He'd only let out a brassy, gap-toothed laugh and called back that he'd made enough money off this horse sickness to buy out the devil himself.

Having stood so long in the cemetery, I began to shiver. Grandmother squeezed my arm. Almost overnight, the air had turned frosty. A gust of wind riffled the drying leaves, making them rustle and quaver, turning them inside out so that they flickered orange and yellow.
Just like flames
, I thought, and shivered again. When would the next fire start? I wondered. More important, who would fight it?

For the next seven days Father had the excuse of resuscitating his newspaper to miss our evening meals, but on the following Monday he arrived home early. He was bursting with pride that the
Argus
hadn't missed a single edition all week—even with the fire—and allowed himself a small beer to celebrate. While Mother rummaged through the cellar, he stood at the top of the stairs and explained to her again how he'd rented office space in a neighboring building and made arrangements to borrow the presses of another newspaper, a morning one. Then, as Mother and I carried the small plates and saucers of pickled and preserved foods to the table—foods that didn't require ice—
Father took his place at its head, still talking. James rushed in through the back door just before we sat down, stirring the air with the intoxicating aromas of harness oil and fresh straw. He made a face at our meager spread: pickled beans and asparagus, applesauce, hard-boiled eggs, and bread. Mother added a bowl of dusty dates to the table. Grandmother remained in her room with another sick headache.

“We've struck a spark tonight,” Father stated happily as soon as we finished saying grace and before the first plate was passed. He leaned back, beaming.

“How is that?” Mother responded politely. She was trying hard not to look at the half-empty glass of beer in front of him and therefore drawing all the more attention to it.

“This horse sickness, this distemper. It's wider spread than anyone thinks, which makes for a wonderful column. Listen to what I have to say in this evening's edition.” With a great show of snapping the paper to attention, Father began reading select passages from his column.

“‘Further illustrating the fact that this city is teetering on the brink of a fiery disaster, this newspaper has uncovered a terrible secret. That secret relates to the sickness invading Boston's working horse population. The presence of this disease will come as no surprise to those of you with blisters on your feet, as the dearth of horsecars has made walking the new fashion.'”

Grandmother surprised us by lumbering wordlessly into the room as he read. She looked mothy white and tired. Muttering something akin to an apology, she pulled out her chair with
a reckless scrape and plopped into it. Father looked momentarily irritated, but once he had our attention again, recovered.

“Now,” he told us, “here's the meat of the article. By the way, Mrs. Selby, that's something we could use a little more of here.”

“There's no meat for the icebox because there's no ice for the icebox,” Mother explained. “We're having to make do.”

“Yes, well,” he grumbled, “that's going to have to change. Now,” he snapped the paper again and read on, “‘What the general populace may be surprised to learn is that this horse disease has crept into the city's own fire stations, and while we don't wish to alarm you unnecessarily …'”

Grandmother snorted.

“‘… we feel it only right to inform you that most, if not all, of Boston's firehorses are currently lying dead or dying in their stalls.'”

My stomach flipped. I laid my fork across my plate.

“It goes on here,” he said, “with some facts and figures that my men assembled. Seems this sickness goes from Boston all the way to New York and back. And,” he scanned further, “they're estimating that as many as thirty thousand animals will be afflicted before we're through with this business.”

Nausea scratched a finger up my throat.

“Let's see … here it is: ‘Our valued readers are urgently warned that the horses may not be the only victims of this disease. While its stealth cannot take human lives directly, one careless spark—and one alarm gone unanswered—will certainly
result in the loss of property, of valuables and—quite likely—of human life itself.

‘“As we have stated before, the city of Boston is ill-prepared to defend itself against any major fire. Our situation has only become more dire now that the firehorses are dead. And so, dear readers, the stage is set. We, like you, await the play with bated breath and hope the third act isn't a fiery finale.'”

He looked over his newspaper, grinning smugly. “How do you like that? That will have them talking, I tell you.”

Them, maybe, but not us. No one said a word.

“Come now. James, what do you think?” He held his knife in midair.

“I think Captain Gilmore will have my head on a platter,” James replied. “He didn't want anyone to know about the sick firehorses, and he'll think I told you.”

“Nonsense.” Father dismissed James's concern with a brandish of his knife. “The health of the firehorses is a topic for public knowledge. It must be. We depend on them too much not to be made aware of their illness. Besides, it was Captain Gilmore's own veterinary, Mr. Stead, who informed me.”

Though he'd done so innocently.

“And as long as we're on
that
topic … Mrs. Selby, are you aware that your daughter has been accompanying this Mr. Stead all over the city?” He didn't so much as glance in my direction while he spoke. I watched his eyelids flutter behind his spectacles like trapped butterflies. “I have it on good authority that he's taken her inside liveries, and you know the sorts of
scoundrels one finds there. It's not seemly by any means, and it's liable to harm my reputation, so from now on please confine her to this house unless she's in your company.”

That jolted me into speech. “You can't do that!”

He calmly transferred some asparagus to his plate, ignoring me completely. “Pass the salt, please,” he said to James. “Honestly, Mrs. Selby, you have to put some meat on this table. Do you hear me? A man can't sustain himself on these weeds.”

Mother folded her napkin and laid it on the table. She pushed back her chair and stood. “Do you hear
yourself
, Mr. Selby?”

“What? What is this? Sit down.”

“I am not a dog, Mr. Selby, to be ordered to speak or stay quiet at your command. Nor is your daughter. Her mind is every bit as capable as yours, and you must stop dismissing her as if she didn't exist.”

Mother was surprising me again, surprising us all. With Grandmother murmuring a mutinous “Amen,” Father looked as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water in his face. His mouth opened and closed, but for an instant, no words came out.

He leaned toward James, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly. “They've all taken leave of their senses,” he whispered in a loud, conspiratorial voice that was meant to be heard. “Yes, the Selby women have gone mad. Berserk. They've—”

Grandmother lunged to her feet, jostling the table.
“I'm
not a Selby,” she proclaimed, “but I've spent enough time with
this family to understand who has their senses and who wouldn't recognize good sense if it bit him in the leg. If you'd ask your daughter why she's accompanying the veterinary, you'd learn it's because she wants to
become
a veterinary.”

“Ridiculous!” Father thundered. “She's a girl. Girls don't become veterinaries.”

“Why not?” I demanded, rising to my feet as well. I braced my calves against the chair to keep from shaking.

Behind his spectacles, his eyes narrowed. On the table, his fingers closed into a fist. “Well, for one thing,” he said, “you can't even light a lamp without trying to burn down my house.”

“Mr. Selby, that's-”

“Good Lord, I don't-”

My chair flew backward, hitting the floor with a horrific clatter and silencing both Mother and Grandmother. “That's not fair and you know it!”

“But it's true, isn't it? It's a
fact”
How could anyone look at his own daughter with such cold disfavor?

My fingers clenched into fists. But rash emotion wasn't going to help anything. Father was like a vicious horse, a thoroughly stubborn one, and you had to hold your temper with them. You had to hold your temper and you had to hold your ground, too, or they'd trample you. I sucked in a deep breath. “I
can
light a lamp,” I said evenly, “and I have, countless times—you know that. And I can wash and iron and put up peaches and weave mats for the table.” I took another deep, calming breath. “I can
also write letters—good letters. In fact, I've written a letter to the Boston College of Veterinary Medicine and Surgery inquiring about enrollment. I'm certain they've received it by now.”

“Well, if they're idiots enough to accept you,” he retorted, “you'll not be attending at any rate. Educating a girl is a waste of my hard-earned money. I might as well educate that horse of yours.”

He was striking at me but I wasn't backing down. “Then I'll find the money elsewhere. I'm going to be a veterinary, Father.” There. Finally I'd said it to him. Mother and Grandmother had paved the way, but I'd finally stood up to Father.

“Not while you're living under my roof, you aren't.”

I swallowed. “Then I'll live elsewhere.”

“Fine!” Whisking his napkin from his lap, Father tossed it on the table. “I don't have to suffer this insolence,” he shouted. “I'll go where I'm welcome—somewhere where they serve men decent food.” Scowling like a madman, he bolted from his chair, stormed through the parlor, and left the house with a thunderous bang of the front door.

James slid a bemused look across our faces, ending at mine. “I think the stall in the carriage shed will sleep two.”

“Oh, James,” Mother said as she dropped into her seat. “Your sister can keep her own bed. Mr. Selby just needs time to grow accustomed to the idea.”

“How much time do you have?” he teased. “Rachel's not getting any younger.”

She squared her thin shoulders. “Well, the Bible tells us
there's a time to keep silence and a time to speak. And whether Mr. Selby likes it or not, I believe it was time to speak.” Her words were brave enough, but her fingers smoothed the linen with white-knuckled intensity.

“It certainly was,” Grandmother agreed, having already lowered herself into her chair. “And since it also tells us there's a time to plant and a time to pluck up what was planted, I believe I'll have some more of these weeds.” She stabbed a pair of the pickled asparagus spears, and we all resumed eating in an uncomfortable silence.

TWENTY-FIVE

T
HE BATTLE LINES HAD BEEN DRAWN WITHIN OUR HOUSE
and I, for one, fully expected Father to have my trunk carried out to the street the very next day. But to my utter surprise and some suspicion, Father didn't even mention our argument or my supposed quarantine. He just went on ignoring me as he had since we'd moved to Boston. Then it occurred to me that he considered himself victorious. He'd forbidden me to become a veterinary and, well, I hadn't become one, had I? That rankled me no end, and I longed for the day when I could wave that acceptance letter under his nose.