The Last Honest Seamstress (9 page)

"Billy, come with me." Con paused a minute on the pier outside the office to gaze up into the city. His face was set. People were pouring down to the waterfront. It wouldn't be long before the smoke and the sheer volume of people would make the streets impassable. Fayth was up there somewhere. Alone? Without help? He mindlessly punched one fisted hand into the other. How was a lone woman going to save herself? Or anything of value from her shop?
 

"Billy, I want you to find me a horse and wagon."

The boy turned to him with eyes wide with fear and confusion. "What do you need a horse for?"

"I've got an errand in the city."

"We're going into the city?" The look on Billy's face said he thought Con was crazy, but the boy was smart enough not to voice his opinion. "There's no way I'm going to be able to find a horse and cart that's free, Captain. Looks to me like every one in the city's being used. Half of 'em at least are heading toward us."

Con surveyed the sight in front of him. The boy was right, but he wasn't deterred. He couldn't leave Fayth alone to fate in the hell fury of flames terrorizing the city.
 

"We're going to get us a horse and cart if we have to steal them. Come on." Con turned on his heel in time to see Tetch headed up the pier with the cash box under his arm. Con felt in his pockets. He hoped he had enough cash to get what he wanted.
 

"Tetch!" he yelled. "Tell Sweeney to sail if the pier's threatened, whether I'm back or not. Captain's orders."

Fayth soaked an old blanket, and struggled to hang it. Wet, it was heavy and awkward to handle. Frustrated, she tossed it down and tried hanging out a dry one, pouring water over it with a pitcher, hoping that it would wick down.
 

A volley of gunfire sounded. She screamed and pulled back from the window, certain the crowd of desperate people had gone mad and violence had erupted.
 

Someone yelled from the street that the ammunition store had gone up. It was just possible to hear him over the continuing gunfire. Fayth dropped the blanket she held. It was no use. She didn't care about the building.
 

She gathered her most treasured possessions together, threw some of her clothes in a suitcase, and carted them downstairs, dragging an empty suitcase with her to the sewing room. Her fingers trembled as she began undressing the dress forms that held her precious half-finished gowns, throwing them into the suitcase as she went.

Con bribed the owner of an empty cart with all the cash he had in his pocket. "I'll bring her back to the wharf. I promise."

"Don't bother. Give it to the next guy who needs it. I stole it myself." The man jammed the money into his jeans and disappeared into the crowd.

Billy scrambled up into the passenger seat next to Con as he clucked to the horse. "I hope you're not planning on hauling much, Captain. If you are, you wasted your money. This old nag hardly looks like she can pull us."

"She'll do. See how calm she is in all this commotion? She'll keep her head and get us through, that's the main thing." Con slapped the reins. They pulled out into the thickening throng, headed for the smoke and flames up the hill.

Bedlam reigned in the dust-covered streets outside as merchants dragged their goods into the middle of the uneven madness. The fire burned less than a block away. The smoke sat in the air thick and heavy. It was as if night had fallen. Those lucky enough to own carts and horses were loading their goods to carry them up the steep grade to the top of the hill over Seattle, out of danger.
 

Fayth looked wildly around her shop. She scooped Olive up and put her in her basket, setting it carefully by the door. "Stay," she commanded. "I've got to save our machine. I'll be right back."

She flung open the doors that blocked off the sewing room and the doors from the shop to the street to clear her path. In a flash of inspiration she spied a bucket of water she'd drawn, grabbed it and doused all the fabric and partially finished garments she could reach, then ran to her machine.
 

It had taken two strong men to move it in. She couldn't lift it alone. She tugged at it with all her might. The machine didn't budge.
 

Oh, to be a big, well-muscled man!
 

She ran around to the back of it and braced her shoulder against it, trying to use the strength of her legs to move the thing. The machine slid bare inches across the floor.

"The block's on fire, Captain! We'll never make it before it all goes up! She'd be crazy not to have left already," Billy said.

"We'll find that out soon enough. We aren't turning back 'til we're sure."

The horse came to a stop, unable to find its way around the debris in the street through the dense smoke. Con handed the reins to Billy and jumped down. "I'm going to guide her, you drive."

The shop was filling with smoke. Fayth's eyes and throat stung. Her lungs filled with the biting air. She couldn't stop coughing. The heat of the advancing fire heralded the flames' arrival. Perspiration trickled down her back and beaded on her forehead. The heat of the June day offered no relief. She looked up and out the door to see flames engulf the buildings across the street. She pushed until the backs of her legs ached with exertion. She tried another position and pushed again, head down in determination. The roar of the flames across the street was like the incessant battle cry of a great hoary beast. She shuddered. Wylie and Willis came scrambling down off the roof yelling.

"Get out, Miss Sheridan! Save yourself. The roof's caught fire!"

Fayth knew she had only minutes before the entire building would be consumed. She'd heard that fear gave people unnatural strength, but no such energy came to her, only wild panic.

Raging desperation overtook her. If she made it to the street where would she go? Would the machine stand up to the blast furnace fury of the fire?
 

The roof cackled overhead as the second story was overtaken. She was going to die in the licentious, laughing fire. She gave one final vehement push with quivering forearms. Suddenly the machine moved across the uneven floor and slid toward the doorway.
 

She looked up through the smoke to see the silhouette of a man at the other end of her machine. She'd neither seen, nor heard him approach, but she thanked God for him now. She ducked her head down and resumed pushing, praying he wouldn't desert her before they reached the street. At the boardwalk the machine came to an abrupt halt as the man stopped.

"Please! It must go to the middle of the street!" She hardly recognized her own high-pitched, hoarse, pleading voice. Sparking embers fell around her, lighting on her skirt, burning tiny holes. She swatted at them as if they were bloodthirsty mosquitoes. She heard the roar of the fire overhead and glanced up to see flames dance across the roof over her apartment. Across the street a building imploded and collapsed, devastated by flame. "Please!"

"But, darling, I have a cart." The voice was calm, strong, and unequivocally unafraid.

"Captain O'Neill!" Fayth wondered if he heard the rapture in her voice.

He spoke the truth. The thick smoke made it nearly impossible to see more than a few feet away, but she saw the outline of a cart, and a horse whose reins were held by a tall, slight figure, perhaps a boy.
 

The Captain shouted to the boy who immediately jumped down and helped load the machine. She remembered Olive and the things she'd brought from upstairs—the picture of Mother and Father, the photo of Drew, her jewelry and clothes. She turned on her heel and headed back for them. But the Captain was quick. He grabbed her arm before she could enter the building again.

"You can't go back in there!"

"Olive's in the basket just inside the door, please!"

She caught the Captain's arm as he stepped back toward the doorway. "And my pictures! Please, they're all I have left to remember my family."

"Where?"

"The box next to the window by the door."

"What else?" He shouted over the thundering rage of fire that consumed the block.

"The suitcases next to it."

She released him. He lunged into the doorway, stepping out seconds later with Olive. He gave her the cat, then handed Fayth to the boy with instructions to help her into the wagon, and make sure she stayed put. Then he disappeared into the black, smoke-laden recess of her shop. Time ticked by audibly as they waited for the Captain's return. Fayth heard every hammer of her heart, grew more nervous with each beat, fearing that she had sent a man to his death for a few trinkets. She stroked Olive mindlessly.

Suddenly he reappeared through the dense smoke carrying several bolts of cloth; her photo box was tucked under one arm, her suitcases under the other. The boy wasted no time helping him load the bolts of fabric. With surprising gentleness, he set the photo box in her lap and the suitcases at her feet. Before he could mount the wagon, the second-story window exploded above them, showering them with tiny shards of glass and glowing embers. The Captain shoved her down, batting at her and patting her down. She struggled without understanding.

"Stop struggling, you're on fire." His voice was commanding, sure and authoritative. She obeyed without thinking. He turned, took a few steps to the first-floor window and pulled the wet blanket from it, smothering the fire before she could be certain what part of her had been burning. The heat from the summer day and the fire around them was so intense that every inch of her skin stung. In the panic, she let go of Olive who scrambled to the edge of the wagon. The Captain unwrapped her in time for her to see the boy lunge for the cat.

"No! Don't touch her!" She screamed too late.

Olive, already terrified by the fire, and always skittish where men were concerned, bolted over the wagon edge and disappeared into the smoky street.

"Olive!" Fayth tried to scramble out of the wagon after the cat. The Captain's hard grip restrained her.

"We couldn't possibly find her in this melee. We can't risk our lives going after her. Get back in the wagon."
 

She complied, too stunned by Olive's defection to fight him. The Captain covered her and the boy with the wet blanket, swung up into the wagon and clucked at the horse.

The wagon shuddered, shook, and swayed as it careened around corners, people, and obstructions. When Fayth got up the nerve to peek out, she could barely make out the buildings that lined the street. The smoke was a fog so dense the only images bright enough to penetrate were the leaping, twisting contortion of flames on either side of them.

The Captain drove the horse on, his profile hard and fearless silhouetted against the glare of flames. She couldn't tear her gaze away from him. Only in the steely set of his face was there any comfort. He stood between her and the terror that surrounded them.

Explosions shook the streets from every side as firefighters demolished buildings, trying to create an ever southward-moving fire line. Volleys of shots rang out as another ammunition store caught fire.

In the heat of the lashing fire, Fayth was cold to the core. Her teeth chattered, her hands trembled even as she gripped the wagon side. The cart tipped like a sailboat yawing in a stiff breeze as they ran over an unknown obstruction. Fayth screamed as the boy fell into her. They were in hell. Doomed to crash and be sent flying, broken and beaten, into the streets to be consumed by the unholy wrath of the raging inferno.

The wagon righted. They jounced through the thick smoke over the uneven streets of Seattle.
 

The boy smiled at her fear and reassured her, "They don't call the Captain
the Con
for nothing. He's found his way through fog and storms worse than this."

 
She didn't understand his cryptic message, but his words brought her back to her senses. She recognized the intersection they were crossing. They had just turned left on Yesler from Commercial.

She lifted the blanket and tugged on the Captain's sleeve. When he looked at her, his hazel eyes burned like the fire they reflected. "We're going the wrong way!" she shouted, pointing at the same time. "We're heading west. We must go east, up the hill behind us."

The boy pulled her back down before the Captain could speak, looking at her as if she were crazy. His expression told her that no one questioned the Captain. "We aren't going up the hill. Yesler's a forty percent grade. No one's going to make it up that hill with a loaded cart. And we sure aren't going to make it with the old nag we got."

Panic blocked her reasoning; she didn't understand. "Then where are we going? We'll be burned up."

The boy must have thought her stupid. It took a second for him to answer. "To the wharf, of course. If we can make it. Washington was almost blocked when we came through. Looks like the Captain is going around the block, hoping to avoid the crowd. He gave orders to hold the ship for us, but not if the wharf caught fire."

Oh God Almighty
, she thought. It was less a prayer than a desperate appeal. Please don't let us die. Please let the wharf be intact. In her next thought, she realized the Captain had come purposefully for her. Astounding. She pulled back beneath the blanket, suddenly trusting him to deliver her to safety.
Why did he come for me?