Firehorse (9781442403352) (28 page)

Oblivious to my resolve, Father rode off to another battle. He'd recently pulled his attention from Boston's firefighting abilities, or lack thereof, and had thrown it into supporting the reelection of President Grant. Shoving aside public accusations of a dishonest administration, he wrote that he'd rather see a corrupt U.S. Grant in office than that “lily-livered socialist lunatic” Mr. Horace Greeley, editor of the
New York Tribune
, who was
running against him. Or, even worse, that Mrs. Victoria Claflin Woodhull, a woman of questionable morals who'd formed her own party to declare herself a presidential candidate. What was this world coming to? he asked his readers. Better to stick with the tried and true, even though imperfect, than go galloping off into uncharted territory.

As October unfolded, I grew more and more anxious that my acceptance letter had not arrived. Had it been lost? Had it fallen under the dean's desk? Should I pen another one, or would that appear too insistent? I reread the chapters on anatomy, guessing they'd be of prime importance, and drew diagrams from memory and quizzed myself over and over. Why didn't that letter arrive?

The cool days and foggy nights seemed to dampen the city's fires at least, which gave James and the other men—and the firehorses—a much-needed rest. At the first signs of fever, Duke and Black Jack, the horses that pulled the ladder, had been sent to a stable outside the city to recover, if possible. The owner there promised to exchange two well-trained harness horses who'd already survived the plague of distemper, though they'd not yet arrived. Ned, the chief's buggy horse, and Brownie, who pulled the hose wagon, were all right so far, James told me, and the gray gelding they called Freckles seemed to have nothing more than a cold and was back on his feet. Engine Company Number Eight could probably deliver their steamer if absolutely necessary, he said, but for the present they were keeping their fingers crossed and were grateful for the quiet.

Best of all, the Girl continued to escape the plague. I regretted now having taken her out—what was I thinking?—and scolded myself for putting her in such danger. For several weeks after James's announcement I'd approached the carriage shed with a thumping heart, certain I'd find her down in her stall. But each morning she nickered a welcome and pricked her ears happily. I ran my fingers along them anyway, searching for fever, though none flared up. Her overall health continued to improve, in fact. She put on weight and her dappled coat grew in almost completely. The fire's scars left leathery patches near her withers and across one cheek, and it appeared that her mane might never grow back, but no one could look at her and say she wasn't a beautiful mare.

Her improvement made her continued confinement doubly cruel. Every time I cleaned her stall she sprayed me with restless, snorting gusts. She tossed her head madly and even bucked in place. With her black eyes she begged me to trot her up the street again.
Please
. But I couldn't do it; I couldn't risk losing her to that invisible predator that was devouring so many others.

I wanted to tell her that she was one of the lucky ones. And if it weren't too awful for anyone's eyes, including hers, I would have shown her the wagons piled with stiff-legged carcasses that rumbled up and down the streets by day and squealed through my anxious dreams by night.

Mr. Stead was forced to view those carcasses and those fragile, wheezing creatures on their way to becoming carcasses. He told me that, with the spreading contagion, he was examining
sixty, seventy, or even eighty horses a day, many just hours away from death. He'd begun stopping by again whenever he could, not bothering to knock on our front door but coming straight around to the carriage shed because he knew he'd find me there.

It pained me to see him wrestle through such exhaustion. At each visit his eyes were more rimmed with red. His jaw hung slack and his skin took on a pasty hue. I didn't know when or if he slept, though one morning when he appeared in the doorway, a growth of brown hair fuzzed his chin. I brought him a cup of hot tea from the house and imagined it a tonic as he drank. I knew that if he'd been an overworked horse I'd have returned him to condition by grating some ginger into a quart of warm, spiced ale and by wrapping him in warm blankets and by bedding him thickly in clean straw. But as he was human, all I could do, really, was listen to his weary complaints.

“There are just too many sick horses,” he moaned, pressing the small of his back into the door frame. “I can't help them all, though Lord knows I'm trying. And so many of the ones that have died were such nice horses, Rachel, such nice horses. That's the added shame.” He finished the tea and cradled the empty cup in his hands, warming them. Staring into it, his voice quieter, he said, “Yesterday I went to see a little girl's pony, one she's had all her young life, and”—he cleared his throat—“she'd made her bed in the straw right at his side. I could barely examine the little fellow the way she had her arms clasped round his
neck. And today … today I learned that he's died.” His broad shoulders stooped with defeat.

All I could do was listen and pray. Each evening, as soon as the Girl was safely tucked in, I got down on my knees and begged God to send the plague away; I begged him to stop horses from dying. And I begged him, if it was his will, to please let the veterinary college accept me. I didn't know if he listened to me anymore or if he cared, but surely he had to take notice of my cause. He'd created horses before Man.

Each evening Father dumped his newspapers and magazines on the hall entry table and I pounced on them to see if there was a letter from the Boston College of Veterinary Medicine and Surgery. Weeks crawled by with no response, and I nearly succumbed to nervous prostration until one evening a slim envelope with my name on it did fall from the mess of publications. My hands trembled as I picked it up. Inside that envelope lay my fate, and I wanted to rip it open at that very instant; at the same time I hesitated because of what that fate might be.

“Rachel,” Mother called from the kitchen, “will you set the table, please? Dinner is almost ready.”

“I'll be right there,” I answered. Taking a deep breath, I slid my finger beneath the flap and removed one sheet of heavy paper the color of spring honey and unfolded it. After the salutation, inked in bold penmanship, I read a single curt sentence:
It is not advisable in our collective opinion to offer educational courses in the field of veterinary medicine to women, as we find they are not suited to such rigorous studies
.

Somewhere a door slammed.

I expected I might cry. Or at least grow teary. But neither happened. I just stood there, numb, not even able to think of what I should do next. Because there was no “next.” Father had, indeed, won.

“Rachel?”

“I'm coming.” Stuffing the letter back in its envelope, I shoved it into my pocket.

Dinner had no taste for me. Conversation held little interest. James, I think, told about a new leather hose the station had received, and Father looked up from his newspaper long enough to question him about it. He went on to say something about Brownie and Ned having runny noses. “Mr. Stead has treated them,” he told me, to which I only nodded. Two more empty stalls at the station. I knew their fate well enough.

Father informed us of some events relating to the upcoming election. He seemed fairly certain that President Grant would be reelected, at least if men voted with their minds. And he read from his column: “‘It is patently unnatural for a woman to want to do a man's work, and we suggest that a medical professional perform a complete and thorough mental examination upon Mrs. Woodhull. And one on Mr. Woodhull, too, for having the poor sense to marry her.'”

I knew some of his comments were directed at me and I burned with humiliation, especially with that letter in my pocket trumpeting his victory.

“Will you have some more beans, Mr. Selby?” was Mother's
only response. Grandmother, who might have raised her sword to him, had stayed in her room.

Afterward, Mother and I bumped about wordlessly in the kitchen. Not until we started washing dishes did she ask, “Is anything wrong?”

I didn't want to tell her about the letter. Not yet. And so I took my time putting on my apron and digging out a clean dish-towel and finally sidestepped her question by asking, “Why are the newspapers saying such awful things about Mrs. Woodhull?”

“I'm afraid that's the price you pay for thinking or acting differently.”

“Did people ever call you names?”

She smiled grimly. “No, playing church services at fourteen wasn't quite as threatening as a woman running for president. Although one older lady in our congregation, Mrs. Wendelsdorf, did do me the ‘favor,' as she said, of reminding me that ‘pride goeth before destruction and an haughty spirit before a fall.'” She handed me a wet plate.

“Oh.” I wiped it dry and set it on the table. Glancing over, I noticed the fine wrinkles radiating from her lips and the crease across her forehead. I saw, as if for the first time, the ever-weary wistfulness in her eyes. “I'm sorry.”

That got me a quizzical look. “There's nothing to be sorry about. Mrs. Wendelsdorf could believe whatever she wanted. I knew there was no ‘haughty spirit' behind my piano playing. It was something for which I had a talent and something that I enjoyed. That's all.”

Nodding absently, I finished drying the dishes and the glasses and then carried them to the sideboard. “If you don't need me for anything else, may I go to my room?”

“I've borrowed a book of Robert Collyer's sermons from the library. I thought I'd read from them while you put in some time on your sampler. It's been weeks since you've threaded a needle.” She must have heard my inward groan because as she wiped her hands, she cautioned, “Never mind your Father's words, dear. The battle isn't over yet.”

That's what she thought.

I couldn't help it; I felt the tears coming, and she saw them, and before I could say anything at all she excused me with, “All right, tomorrow night, then. Will you please look in on your grandmother on your way up, ask her if she feels like eating anything?”

“Yes.”

Sand seemed to fill my shoes as I climbed the stairs. Or maybe it was the iron weight in my pocket. The butterflies taunted me from behind their glass prisons:
Hah! Thought you could escape, did you f
Even my confounded corset, which I'd had to start wearing again now that my fingers were healed, gripped me with an unusual ferocity.
Hold straight now. No bending or reaching or running. Stay in one place
.

Grandmother heard me coming. “Rachel, is that you?” she called from her darkened room. “Could you light the lamp, please? My hands are shaking like a jelly and I don't trust them to do it.”

“Of course.” I felt around her bedside table for the matches. Striking one, I removed the glass chimney and carefully held the flame to the wick. I always lit lamps carefully now. Carefully and cautiously: Those were the watchwords for my future. Using both hands, I replaced the chimney.

The yellow light illuminated her blinking face. With her spectacles missing and her mussed gray hair fanning across her pillow, she could have been a stranger. “Can you reach my spectacles?” she asked, stretching a trembling hand toward the table. I picked them up and gently fitted them across her face, tucking each wire arm behind a fleshy, misshapen ear. “There, that's better,” she said, blinking some more. “Now I can see … why, my gracious, Rachel, what's wrong?”

Not only had Grandmother always been able to read my emotions, she had always addressed them directly. But I just wasn't ready to tell her about my disappointment. So it surprised me when the words jumped out unbidden: “They won't accept me.”

“Won't accept you?” she said. “Who won't?”

“The veterinary college that I wrote to.” I pulled the letter from my pocket and held it up. “They said women aren't suited to their ‘rigorous studies.'”

The news seemed to hit her almost as hard as it had me. She snorted once and adjusted her position and then became pensive. “It's our fault, your mother's and mine. We shouldn't have raised your hopes that night in the kitchen. ‘Dreams born beside the hearth die too easily on the streets.' That's what
my
mother used to say.” Her trembling fingers twisted the rolled edge of her quilt. She heaved a sigh that ended in a rattly cough. “You'll need their help,” she said at last.

“Whose help?”

“The men. Your father, Mr. Stead, maybe James. Your mother and I were supposed to put on our thinking caps for you, weren't we? I don't believe we came up with much.” Her eyes surveyed the small room. “That night seems like a long time ago. Seems like Wesleydale was a long time ago.”

No use thinking about that. “Mother wants to know if you're hungry,” I said. “Can I bring you anything to eat? We had boiled fish and cabbage.”

She moved her head ever so slightly. “No, dear. I'm not very hungry tonight. But thank you.”

“All right. I'm going up to my room. Call me if you need me.”

I gave the carriage shed a last check through the hall windows, then climbed the attic stairs. The first thing I did when I got to my bedroom was unfasten that horrid corset and kick it under the bed. I crumpled the letter and threw it after. Then I lit my own lamp, opened the horse care manual, and tried to lose myself in a sea of healing words. Below me, Grandmother began reciting her Scriptures in a shaky voice that was still loud enough for the neighbors to hear. “They shall go out from one fire,” she intoned, “and another fire shall devour them.” I shivered.

TWENTY-SIX