TESSA CLAIBORNE

TESSA CLAIBORNE

A

Novel

by Smcallis
This is a work of fiction. No similarities between any person living or dead is intended, and any such similarity is purely coincidental. All characters © 2007 by Smcallis.

Chapter 7

FIRE RUN

FIRE IS THE ABSOLUTE BASEST and most primordial fear of all humankind; representing the apogee of human invention, fire’s invaluable capacity to warm, cook, ward off danger, is without parallel in the annals of human existence. What fire can create, fire alone possesses the unrivaled capacity to destroy. Its reputation for misery, destruction and death is limitless. No single metaphysical force in the history of human existence rivals fire for its remorseless ability to do work, and wrought destruction. Everyone intrinsically understands and fears fire. Fire alone in its infinite capacity; represent the single most catastrophic of all human calamities.

June, the summer of 1878, a Saturday, was just one more day, a day like any other, a little hotter than most, a little more humid. By mid afternoon, I expect every one was flagging a bit, watching the clock, anxious for the shift to end.

It was six days since Sunday, six days since I had laid on the cot a long side my Henry. Six days since I told Henry "I loved him." In those days, that was how I measured time then. Each waking moment only served me to draw me closer to Sunday, the day I could see my Henry. I still had two pence in my pocket, two pence saved from the extra shifts I worked. I squeezed the coins tight in my pocket as I worked the no. 64 Cartwright. I imagined Henry and me walking hand-in-hand on a glorious June Sunday afternoon in Wilmington square. I resolved this Sunday to treat Henry to ice cream. Six days, tomorrow was Sunday! How could I have possibly imagined that with in a space of a few hours my concept of time was to compress from days to instants to half-breaths . . .

A single cigarette―Cigarettes were still considered quite a novelty in late nineteenth century London. The blame, if you could call it that, lay mostly with the Ottoman Turks and the Crimean war. Cigarettes made their way rapidly from the Caliphs to the more fashionable sects of London society and eventually filtered their way down to the lower classes that included the workers at the London Mercantile and Shirtwaist factory. In 1878, most people still smoked either pipes or cigars, but Cigarettes, it seemed were catching on fast.

On a clear warm Saturday morning, a single cigarette, a single cigarette, tossed carelessly into a dustbin of cotton scraps. That was what it took. Looking back, it doesn’t seem possible that an innocuous thing as a cigarette is capable of causing such calamity, catastrophic death and tragedy. It is safe to say that my life was forever changed first by a shilling, and then by a cigarette.

This was the very same week that Mr. Squeers ordered the factory doors locked. He ordered the downstairs exits chained as well. The only other exit, the iron fire escape was long since blocked with stacks of bailed cotton scraps. In 1878, any notion of fire safety was dismissed as frivolous useless liberal prattle.

The only real effective exit on that particular Saturday from the Asch building was the same way we came in, the steam powered Otis lift. That could only effectively handle thirty workers every six minutes. We dutifully queued up every morning in lots of thirty, as sheep led to the slaughter and rode the lift to our assigned floors. The fire that morning, took less than six minutes to spread from a single smoldering cigarette tossed carelessly in a dustbin to an inferno. As luck would have it I was assigned the no. 64 Cartwright. Actually, the no. 64 and I had made peace; it had calmed down a lot in the last year since it sucked up poor Lilly and spat her out as so much ground hamburger. The no. 64 had become a dependable mill.

I worked the no. 64 Cartwright, hummed to myself and counted the hours until I could be with my Henry. I wasn’t the first one to smell smoke. The fire actually started two floors below us. The first real sign of trouble was when someone threw the action break. This brought production to a screeching halt. The overhead drive shafts stopped, everything stopped. The sudden cessation of noise was absolutely deafening. Everyone stopped and looked at everyone else. No one knew what to think.

It was then in the sudden cacophony of silence that someone yelled, "FIRE!" A second later, the screams started.

I looked to Sally; already choking smoke had begun to work its way up through the floorboards of the one hundred-year-old mill. There was no plan, no plan for escape. Some of the girls ran towards the exits, these were blocked, chained shut. Already I could feel the heat, the inferno raged on the floor beneath me, it radiated hot, and scorched my bear feet.

In those final moments, I saw Mrs. Mixer, take charge; her flowing white hair swirled amidst the smoke and confusion. Mrs. Mixer, she rounded up some two dozen girls and drove them to the lift-way gate. I watched in horror as the lift engulfed them, staggered downward a few feet and stalled. Far below, in the powerhouse, the great Kech-Gonnerman steam engine ground to a halt. The lift, it jerked, sagged, and never moved again. The elevator shaft became a black bottomless pit.

I thought of my Henry. I thought of the call box, the key and amazing modern telegraph. I knew even then that the brass bell in the Wilmington Firehouse had sounded, that Domino, was barking his commands. Hokey, Pokey and Smokey were falling in to line to be harnessed. That coal, great shovels of coal even now were being stoked into the boiler. That any second, the Wilmington Square Fire Company no. 99 was tearing out of the firehouse. Henry, my Henry, was coming to save us.

What I didn’t know, what I couldn’t possibly have known was about the wise and fiscally conservative city selectmen of their budget cuts and inadequate allocations of funds. Of all these things, of Ladder co. 35., about the previous town council meetings, about the warnings of fire in the new high-rise buildings, about the denial of funding for new fire safety apparatus. How the ladders of Fire co. 35 only reached up to the sixth floor. There were 149 women and girls, trapped, 11 floors up in the Asch building.

I screamed for Sally to follow, I never knew for sure if she heard me or not. I lost sight of her in the confusion and swirl of smoke. I never got close to her again. I made my way to the dustbin, Mr. Crowley’s dustbin. To the one window on the entire floor, I was sure I could open. The sudden rush of fresh air gave me enough strength that I ventured back, to look for Sally. A wall of flames blocked my path Sally was gone.

While I had every faith in my Henry and Domino to come to my rescue, I also knew if I was going to live even for the next ten minutes, it was up to me to affect my own rescue. I climbed out onto the ledge and grasp the safety of the drainpipe.

It was there from this vantage point, I saw the extent of the calamity. Great gouts of black smoke and flame seemed to pour from every orifice of the building. The fire roared as if it were an entity unto itself, dispatched as if riders from the apocalypse from the very bowels of hell sent to obliterate and eradicate every crime and injustice ever committed by Wallace Squeers and his management of Pierce, Fenner and Smith. If all this resulted in the deaths of a few proletarians, the fire in its cleansing fury seemed justified.

I watched in horror as flames licked the sides of the Asch building. The over-loaded fire escape, teeming with desperate screaming humanity, sagged, buckled, then gave way in a thunderous roar, sending scores of victims crashing to the pavement below. It was on this day, clinging there, from my precarious perch high on the side of the Asch building that I learned a new sound, a sound more horrible than any description can picture.

“Thud-dead, thud-dead, thud-dead, thud-dead . . .“

I looked up after the first two “thud-deads.” This shocked me. I saw scores of girls, young women at the windows. The flames from the floors below were beating their faces, I knew them all. As I clung to the drainpipe, I watched one girl fall. Waving her arms, trying to keep her body upright until the very instant she struck the pavement, she was trying to balance herself. Then came the thud-dead, then a silent unmoving pile of clothing and twisted, broken limbs.

As I looked up, I saw what amounted to a love affair in the midst of all the horror. A man helped a girl to the windowsill, he held her out, deliberately away from the building, and let her drop . . . He held out a second girl the same way and let her drop. Then he held out a third girl . . . They were as unresisting as if he were helping them onto a streetcar instead of into eternity.

Then came the flames. The man, he brought another girl to the window. Those of us who were looking saw her put her arms around him and kiss him; it was Sally. Sally and Mr. Crowley, it all suddenly made so much sense, the special privileges, the extra food. Sally was shagging Mr. Crowely. He held her out into space and dropped her. Quick as a flash he was on the windowsill himself. Mr. Cowley, his coat fluttered upward the air; the force of the updraft filled his trouser legs. I could see he wore tan shoes and hose. His hat remained on his head.

He was a real man. Mr. Crowley, he had done his best.

By this time, the intense heat of the fire had softened the steel lag bolts that secured the drainpipe to the side of the building. The whole structure was in danger of crashing to the ground, with me included. I gripped the pipe fiercely with my hands and bare feet, still I did not move. I looked up.

The day's horror was not yet finished.

* * *

I GRASP THE DOWNSPOUT, THAT RAN ALONG THE SPINE OF THE ASCH BUILDING. My naked toes gripped the four-inch copper pipe, then slipped and finally found an anchor. With nothing between me, this life, and whatever life awaited me but the thinnest of all possible footholds. A slender four-inch copper downspout. Everything, all my senses moved in slow motion. I watched, I knew I should move, shimmy down, or do something. Instead, I clutched the side of the building, transfixed in horror at the spectacle unfolding all around me.

There I was, one-hundred-and-forty feet above the pitiless cobblestone pavement, the heat from the updraft was so intense, I became painfully aware, I wasn't wearing any knickers. The actually absurdity of the situation never dawned on me. Here I was, dangling ten-stories up, calamity and death swirled around me and the only thing I was worried about was that the people below me could see my fanny . . . My predicament was far worse than than any loss of modesty, far worse than I ever could have imagined.

The heat from the fire was so fantastic it poured from the interior of the building into the bricks and penetrated the copper fittings of the downspout. The intense heat blistered my bear feet and threatened to knock me from my perch. Still I did not move, it never occurred to me that I was inches, a mere fire-lick away from becoming myself one of hundreds of nameless-faceless "Thud-deads" to which I had already become a witness. I clung there, paralyzed, not so much out of fear, as what you might call morbid curiosity. All this to my own detriment. I was transfixed, a silent spectator to the incomprehensible scope of the cataclysmic horror that is fire.

Not everything I shall tell you today happened to me personally. The events of that terrible June day in 1878 were too big for any one single person to witness. Some of these stories I heard third hand, other were told to me later by my Henry.

* * *

THE HORSES QUIETLY swished their tails in the serene complacency of the clean stalls of the Wilmington Fire station. The horses munched their oats and bided their time as only horses can do. Henry always liked to boast to Sally and me, that Wilmington Station had the finest fire-horses in all of London. All three were Percherons, strongest and most noble of all French horses.

"Percherons were once the horses of Kings, the noble steeds of knights, Agincourt, Crécy, all that rot. There's not much work 'round here these days for a heavy Warhorse, instead we use 'em to pull heavy loads. I don't much fancy the Froggies, but they do raise great draft-horses." Henry said with a wry grin, he continued to curry the horses.

“Hokey” a white three-year-old mare, was fierce and brave. “Pokey” a dapple-grey four-year-old gelding was stalwart and dependable. “Smokey” a black stallion, with a streak of white down his nose, was the team leader, he was five-years-old, spirited as he was gentle, a powerful fire-horse afraid of nothing. Together the three horses, along with the six firefighters were the core of Pumper co. 99.

Domino, he was the Sergeant-at-arms. Always on duty, the ever gallant vigilant sentinel with never a day off. Domino lived with the horses; he guarded the horses, watched over the horses. Dalmatians, for whatever reason, fifty thousand centuries or otherwise, got along famously with horses; Dalmatians had a long illustrious tradition as “coach dogs.” In nineteenth century London, the coach dog was indispensable to the team. The dog ran in front of the horses, clearing the way, serving the exact same functions that one might ascribe to a modern day notion of a siren. Domino he knew he was important. His devotion to the team to the firehouse never flagged. That was except until the day he met me.

I should think that Domino loved his job, he loved his horses. For the first time Domino found his soul mate, his devotion to duty was tested. Domino loved his horses, but it was always a source of special pride, Domino loved me more. Domino was a good dog. I tell you this because, Dogs in an unexplainable way, do understand the notion of time. Some how, without clock or calendar, Domino knew what day it was, he knew the time of day, and he knew the day of the week. He knew that this day was Sunday, and on Sunday, that this was the day that I came to the park. Sunday, every Sunday like winter follows spring, Domino waited in for me in front of Wilmington Station. Domino waited for his friend Tessa. On this day, on this particular Saturday; Domino went about his business. The men had just cleared away breakfast dishes. Henry, not my Henry, but Henry Jr. had just sat down to challenge George to a match of draughts. It was a typical Saturday morning like any other.

That was until the great brass bell in the firehouse sounded. The brass bell, connected to a complicated series of clockworks that in turn connected to a telegraph was the absolute last word in modern fire prevention. With in a few seconds of a police constable turning a key in a special firebox, the Wilmington fire station went into action. The brass gong sounded and the Edison ticker tape chattered, information spat out on a long thin paper tape told the Fire-Captain the exact location of the fire. Domino, he knew what to do. Domino took charge he barked his orders. The horses they fell into line, ready for the teamster to harness them. The second assistant to the boiler engineer, he knew what to do. Henry, my Henry, threw the damper on boiler no. 2. As fast as he could, he began to shovel coal, the fire roared, and the steam pressure built with each shovel. It was a Five Alarm fire, a fire like no other. Henry shoveled coal. Checkers flew into the air. Sam, Bill-Bob, Clyde, and finally Henry Jr. slid down the fire pole. George the teamster already was at the ready, the team gnash and chomped at the bit. Domino barked. Henry Jr. the Fire-Captain climbed on to the front seat. George lashed the team, looked to Henry for his orders.

It was five bells, a major fire, every fire rig in all of East London was to respond.

“Asch building, corner of Greene and Wellington Place!”

The horses thundered out of Wilmington Station, Pumper co. 99 churned around the corner like some primordial entity belching smoke and flame. At absolutely the last second Henry, my Henry, caught a hold of the running gear, his coal shovel clattered to the ground and disappeared in the distance, as he was swept up his stomach left him, he vomited into the street.

"Tessa."

* * *

FOR THE FIRST TIME I felt a glimpse of hope. Far below on the street I saw my brave Domino, I saw the chugging, belching furry of Pumper no. 99 pull on line. I watched as hundreds of feet of fire hose payed out behind the fire-truck. Henry Jr., not my Henry, was in command, with his megaphone, he stood atop the rig, shouting orders. The pumper hoses were connected to the fire-plugs, the horses, Hokey, Pokey, and Smokey were led some distance from the fire.

Thirteen thousand gallons an hour, that was what Pumper no. 99 was rated, a fantastic amount of water. It amounted to a pittance. Even at full steam pressure, the steam engine could never pump enough water. Even with every fire-rig in all of East London pouring water on the flames. It was no better than pissing on a bonfire.

The days carnage was assured.