Into the Firestorm (12 page)

I
NTO THE
F
IRESTORM

After what seemed like hours of wrong turns, Nick began to recognize his neighborhood. He was almost to Jackson Street.

He couldn’t see any fire, but all at once the smoke was thicker. He had to cover his eyes to keep live embers from hitting them.

Nick raced the rest of the way. He turned the corner, and there was Jackson Street.

“It’s still here! Mr. Pat’s store hasn’t burned down,” he cried.

Nick could barely make out figures running here and there through the smoke. He heard a voice yell, “The fire’s hitting from the north. Pacific Street is going! There’s only the alley of Gold Street separating Jackson Street from the flames now.”

I’m in time, just in time,
Nick realized. Ed Lind’s plan had worked for a while. The neighborhood had made it through Wednesday and Thursday. But now the fire was doubling back, attacking from a new direction.

Nick coughed. Smoke blew everywhere. If Shakespeare had come back to Mr. Pat’s store, he’d have to act fast. The building might not last much longer.

“Who’s there? Stop.”

The smoke was so thick, Nick heard the man before he saw him.

A tall young soldier was blocking his way. The soldier raised his rifle. “I got orders to shoot looters.”

Nick swallowed hard. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ed Lind’s whiskey warehouse across the street. Nick didn’t know how many barrels of whiskey were still left inside, but if the fire reached them, the whole block would be engulfed in seconds.

He was afraid the soldier would grab him, pin him down. There wasn’t time to explain.

Nick turned on his heel and sprang away toward the doorway of Mr. Pat’s office.

Crack!
It might have been a shot, or maybe it was just the sound of flames lapping at wooden beams. Nick didn’t stop.

He half ran, half fell down the few steps to the little basement room. He could feel the sweat rolling in large droplets down his back and running down his forehead.

“Shakespeare! Where are you? Come here! Please, boy.” His throat felt seared from the smoke and the flying ash.

Nick stumbled across the room to the sofa. He ran his hands along the old cushions, still calling for Shake. But he wasn’t there.

One wall was smoking now, and the crackling sounds grew louder. Nick heard muffled shouts from the street. The soldier would be waiting. Or he might even come looking for him.

“Shakespeare, Shake. Are you here?”

No answer. Nick coughed. It was hard to see. He should go. And then he heard something.

“Shakespeare! Where are you, boy? It’s me, Nick.”

The whine came again.

Nick knelt down to search behind the sofa. He reached out, and his hand touched soft fur.

“Shake, you’re here!” Nick pulled with one hand. “We were so worried. But you can’t wait for Mr. Pat here, boy.”

The big dog lifted his head but made no effort to move. He seemed sluggish.
The smoke,
Nick thought.

He managed to grab the dog’s collar. “All right, I got you. Let’s get out of this smoke.”

Nick pulled. “Come on, boy.”

But Shakespeare bent his head and dug his toes into the floor.

I’ve got to keep calm,
Nick told himself.
I don’t want to make him any more scared than he is. There’s not much time.

“Come on, boy,” Nick coaxed again. Ten seconds, twenty. Shake wouldn’t come on his own.

“All right. If that’s what we have to do. It’s lucky for you I’m strong from hauling all those bags of cotton, Shake,” he murmured softly, trying to keep his voice calm.

Reaching under Shake, he heaved and pulled him out from behind the sofa. Nick coughed hard. He didn’t want to carry the heavy dog. But he had no choice.

“Let’s go!”

With a deep breath, Nick bent down and lifted the trembling animal. He lurched back under Shake’s weight and almost toppled to the floor. Shakespeare made noises deep in his throat. He struggled to get free.

“Hold on, keep still, boy. It’s all right,” Nick gasped.

They made their way slowly toward the stairway. The heat pressed down on Nick. Time seemed to stand still.

Sometimes, on the hottest afternoons in the cotton fields, time had seemed to slow down just like this. The pain, the heat, the sun, the same motion of picking again and again. It had numbed him until there was nothing left. He was only a machine—unfeeling, uncaring, just doing a job. The real part of him shut off. Shut off.

Maybe that’s why he’d never been able to cry when Pa left, or even on that last day with Gran. Instead, all the grief had pressed him down, as if he were buried under a heavy bale of cotton.

Nick coughed. The smoke and the dim light made it hard to see. How many steps were there? Nick tried to remember. Five? Six?

He’d been stupid. He hadn’t understood how sick Gran really was. Maybe if he’d paid attention, he could have found help sooner, forced Mr. Hank to call a doctor. Something. It had been his fault.

And it would be his fault now, too, if he lost Shakespeare. He had to get out now, no matter what. Even if it meant the soldier waiting on the street arrested him—or worse.

One step, two steps. Then a third.

Suddenly, just as Nick caught a glimpse of the swirling smoke outside, he tripped again. He stumbled and put out one hand to keep from falling down.

Shakespeare whined, pushing against him, struggling in fear, trying hard to get free, to hide in the dark, safe place he knew.

“I won’t let go of you!” Nick felt like his lungs, or maybe his heart, would burst. Nick held the big dog like an unwieldy baby. He panted and coughed again.

Don’t let go, don’t let go.

Nick reached the street. He stood for a second, breathing heavily, his throat sore.

Then he sank to the ground holding tight to the big golden dog. He could feel tears streaming down his cheeks, but he didn’t know when he’d begun to cry.

Nick buried his face in Shakespeare’s fur. Shake was safe. But still it felt like he’d failed at so much else. He’d lost Mr. Pat’s treasures and maybe Mr. Pat. He’d lost Pa.

Most of all, he’d lost Gran. His chest hurt so bad with the thought of her. He wanted the sound of her soft, familiar voice. He felt the sobs cut through him, shaking him from the inside out.

And then Nick looked up, straight into the barrel of a gun.

A G
OOD
D
OG

A voice shouted, “You, kid.”

“Wait!” Nick raised one hand in the air, keeping hold of Shake’s collar with the other. He wasn’t taking any chances.

“I can shoot you for this,” the soldier growled. “Why’d you go back in there when I yelled at you to stop?”

Nick didn’t let go of Shake. “I had to. My…dog was in there.”

“A dog? You went back in there for a dog?”

“He’s a good dog, sir. A very good dog,” Nick cried hoarsely. He wanted to rub the sweat and tears and soot from his face, but he didn’t dare let go.

“He certainly is a good dog,” said another voice, though Nick couldn’t see who it was in the smoke.

Shakespeare broke free of Nick’s arm with a force that sent Nick flat on his back, his cap sprawling.

“I’d appreciate it if you would kindly stop pointing that distasteful weapon at my apprentice here, soldier,” the voice continued, struggling to talk from behind a barking, leaping bundle of fur. “Don’t you have better things to do than to threaten young heroes, especially in the midst of a raging fire?”

“Mr. Pat!” Nick gulped, and the tears started again.

The soldier stepped back as Mr. Pat rushed over and pulled Nick to his feet. “No time for that now. I’ve just arrived. I thought all was lost. But you’re safe, thank God.”

“But…your store…your treasures,” croaked Nick in a whisper.

“Sorry, sir. Didn’t know he belonged to you,” the soldier said, his rifle lowered now. “The boy defied my orders.”

“Pat! Come on,” someone yelled. Nick saw Ed Lind and some soldiers stampeding toward them.

“The wind’s turned suddenly. We think we might have one last chance to save Jackson Street,” Ed yelled. “We don’t have water. But I’ve got a wine pump from the wine merchant on Washington Street. We’re going to tap into a manhole and use sewage to fight the fire.”

“Sewage?” asked Mr. Pat, turning up his nose.

“Yes, sewage! We’re going to make a bucket brigade of sewage.”

Nick scrambled to his feet and wiped his face with a corner of his shirt. “I’ll help, too.”

The bucket brigade was in full force, but at first Nick felt sure it was too late. Flames had begun eating through the buildings on the north side of Jackson Street. Mr. Pat’s building was brick, but most everything inside it—floor, ceilings, and furnishings—was made of wood. The store couldn’t last long.

But the soldiers, firemen, Ed Lind, and his bucket warriors didn’t let up. Before long Nick’s hands were blistered and red.

“Sorry about that, kid,” said the soldier who passed him the bucket. He was the same one who’d taken him for a looter.

“He really is a good dog,” Nick repeated. Shakespeare was jumping to and fro near Pat’s feet now, barking at the flames, the soldiers, and the smelly buckets.

“I’m glad to see you, too, boy,” Pat Patterson told his dog with a laugh. “But if you don’t stop barking, I’m going to dump a bucket of sewage on your head.”

The smell, Nick thought, was awful. He’d never been so dirty and grimy before, even in the fields. He’d never heard of fighting a fire with sewage before. It hit the flames and the smoldering woodwork with a suffocating steam.

Shakespeare began to howl.

Mr. Pat threw back his head. “By God, this is awful stuff, Ed. You’re a lunatic.”

“I might be a lunatic, Pat. But I’m a smart one. Look, we’re slowing the fire down. It’s not going to get past those buildings after all.”

They were making a last stand. The buildings on the corners had collapsed, including Annie’s rooming house. But with the wet sewage to protect the buildings and wind blowing the fire back into itself, the flames on Jackson Street slowly began to die down.

“We’re doing it. Don’t let up. Keep it from coming closer!” Ed Lind urged the bucket brigade workers on.

Nick fought to keep up, passing one bucket after another along the line. His palms hurt from holding the heavy buckets, but he didn’t care. He was helping to save Jackson Street.

“Look over there. I can’t see any red flickers anymore, just puffs of smoke,” Nick called out to Mr. Pat.

“I think you’re right, my boy. We may save our home yet.”

An hour later, they had doused the last flickering tongue of fire. Puffs of smoke still rose from the cinders. But the smoke had already begun to clear.

Ed Lind led the cheer, tossing his bucket into the air. “Hurrah! We’ve stopped it! Jackson Street is saved.”

The men cheered and clapped one another on the back. They laughed at their slimy, filthy clothes.

“What a motley crew this is,” Ed Lind crowed, smiling through the soot that covered his face. “Just look at us—firemen, policemen, soldiers, clerks, and whiskey barrel rollers. Good job, all!”

“And here’s a reporter, too,” Mr. Pat said, pointing to a man standing nearby. “I say, James, my friend, I’ve got a story for your paper. This orphan boy here has been in my employ for only a few days, but he risked his life—and this soldier’s gunfire—to rescue my dog. Write it up for your readers and show them that the spirit of San Francisco isn’t dead yet, though the entire city is lost.”

The reporter took out his notebook and began to scribble. “Just the sort of story folks want to read—‘Boy Hero Risks All to Save Dog.’”

Not a hero,
Nick thought.
Just an ordinary San Francisco kid.