The Last Honest Seamstress Page 7

  "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?

  Sometime later, Fayth could not decide whether an eternity had passed, or only minutes, the Captain reined to an abrupt stop at the edge of the pier. They were out of the height of the fury, but the roar of the encroaching flames pressed hard at their backs. He had jumped down and begun shouting orders before she realized they'd completed their journey. The boy scrambled out.

  Fayth rose slowly from beneath the blanket to view the scene in front of her. The wave of humanity that coursed over the wood plank wharves was astonishing. As she looked back through the smoky air, less dense at the wharf's edge, to the path they had traveled, she realized the miracle of their safe arrival.

  The streets were crammed with carts and people barely moving in the stifling traffic. All fled to the Sound, hoping to move their goods by ship into the safety of Elliott Bay. It was not lost on Fayth, or anyone else from the comments she overheard, the irony of the city burning for lack of water when it rested on such a superb, sparkling blue bay. Man's shortcomings had doomed them.

  Hands reached up over the wagon sides, removing her belongings, pulling at the cart. People fought to overtake it. She looked around in desperation, ready to swat at the greedy, clawing people that swarmed. The Captain held out his arms to her from the ground.

  "Miss Sheridan, my ship's waiting." His voice was as calm and unflappable as it was the day she proposed to him in the Chinese cafe.

  "My things—"

  "My men." He nodded toward the two toughs who worked at removing her machine. "They've got orders to load them on the Aurnia. Others need the wagon."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't realize . . ." She clutched her photo box to her chest.

  The Captain reached up and swung her by the waist to the ground. Her knees buckled as her feet touched down. He swung her into his arms—strong, broad, reassuring arms—and carried her up the
ramp.

  Over his shoulder, she watched the cart they'd left behind. A pair of hands grabbed for the horse's reins. As soon as the two sailors finished unloading her goods, a new driver mounted and drove it slowly into the crowd, back into the smoke and the burning city behind them.

  "Your horse!"

  The Captain smiled. "I rented it." He must have recognized her alarmed expression because he added, "Don't worry. They'll take care of it. It'll get back to its owner somehow."

  She was surprised that he should be so trusting. She had no such regard for people.

  Moments later, Fayth stood on the deck of the Aurnia next to her pitiful pile of belongings, a solitary, still figure amid the fury. Sailors scrambled around her securing loads. On the docks below a bucket brigade soaked the pier, trying to save it. She watched the city burn, watched the remains of her life drift away, ashes on the wind. Where would she go now?

  Con kept his ship at dock, trying desperately to save the stores of his warehouse. The Aurnia was a converted schooner still rigged with sails, a coastal vessel with a flat, open deck used mainly for hauling lumber south to California. Below was a large cargo hold he used for transporting mail and miscellaneous cargo people paid him to ship.

  Con had the single screw steam engine installed furthest aft shortly after he bought her. She had no bridge, only one long poop and a forecastle above deck. The wheelhouse and captain's quarters were aft, the crew's fore. In Con's eyes she was a beauty. By day's end, she might be all he had left.

  The Aurnia's deck was littered with indiscriminately placed goods. Fayth stood amid the mess, watching the crowd disperse and head southward with the advancing fire at their backs. Others grappled with the Captain's men as they fought to keep a path to the ship clear, and prevent stowaways. The boy from the cart appeared from the scurrying mass and made for her side.

  "Name's Billy. The Captain sent me to watch out for you." He bounced on the balls of his feet and rocked back and forth as if agitated at being banished from the action. She was eager to set him free and be left alone.

  "That's very kind, but I'd like to be by myself."

  "Sorry. Can't leave you. Not until Captain Con tells me I can."

  Fayth brushed a stream of dampness from her cheeks with the back of her hand. Her eyes stung, but didn't account for all the tears that filled them. She didn't think Billy believed it did either. He looked away from her self-consciously.

  "Where is the Captain?"

  "At the warehouse. Sent me on ahead. We're going to put out. They can't save the wharf."

  He needlessly gave voice to the obvious. The block of buildings lining the wharf was on fire. The vicious flames advanced west and south, stopped only by the gentle, lapping waves of the Sound. The wooden piers, though poised above the water, were not immune. Sailors and dockworkers continued the bucket brigade to douse the piers and warehouses at water's edge. Others beat out embers that lit on the docks. But the fire had more energy than any number of men. The breeze was still stiff. It arced flames from across the street to warehouse roofs. The dragon breath heat drove the men back, forcing them to the safety of the water. Anyone could see it was a losing battle.

  Billy barely finished speaking when the Captain boarded the ship. "Load anyone onboard who wants to sail," she heard him shout. He followed with a string of commands in sailing jargon she didn't understand, but the confidence in his tone was enough. For the first time in hours some of her apprehension slipped away.

  "Billy! To your post. We're putting out—now!"

  Released from the tedium of watching her, Billy's movements became smooth. Moments later the anchor was raised. As they pulled out into Elliott Bay, the Captain's pier burst into flame.

  Chapter 5

  They anchored in Elliott Bay to the north and west of the wharves, far from the reach of the angry flames. The Captain emerged from the wheelhouse onto the main deck and walked to where Fayth huddled against her belongings. She sat with her arms clasped around gathered knees, eyes filled with tears. The shop, her security, was gone. Olive was gone. She shuddered, couldn't force herself to imagine what fate Olive had met. Every direction her thoughts turned ended in tragedy. The smell of smoke enveloped her, clung to her clothes, tinged the very air. Seattle smoldered in the distance. When would the angry flames be appeased? How much destruction would be enough?

  Out on the water, the destructive breeze felt refreshing and cool as it kissed the deck and played with the sails overhead. To the west, the Olympic Mountains stood before the setting sun.

  "I told Billy to look after you." The Captain stood over her with a hand outstretched.

  Instinctively, she reached for it. He pulled her to her feet. With reluctance, she released the lifeline of his grip, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and looked helplessly at him. His gaze was elsewhere, focused on the shorefront. He moved to the railing. She followed him, matching his line of sight.

  The wharves were fully engulfed in flame now. His warehouse a memory. His pier a fiery bridge collapsing into the water. His stoic expression never wavered, piercing her heart. She rested her hand on his arm, feeling his pain, knowing his loss.

  "Gone." His tone was flat. He turned to her. "Material things, unlike people, are repairable, replaceable."

  "You believe that?" The breeze blew a scorched lock of hair across Fayth’s face. She made no move to brush it away.

  The Captain reached over and carefully tucked it back into place.

  "Yes, of course." But his tone held little conviction.

  Fayth realized he was stung by his losses. He had to be. Just as she was.

  "Don't you?" he asked.

  "Material things are all I have left. Had left." She paused, thinking of everything the fire had destroyed before her eyes. None of them important simply as things, but they held her past, reminded her of who she was, of people she loved.

  She thought of her parent's four-poster cherrywood bed. She had moved it from Baltimore at great expense, leaving her own much smaller bed behind, because her parents' was where she'd been born. She loved sleeping in it, remembering cuddling with her parents as a small girl. Things, at this moment, did seem important.

  "Things connect us to who we are," she said aloud. "They represent the sum of what we've worked for. They stand as trophies to our successes. It's all right to be sorry they're gone, to mourn them." Her words seemed inadequate, the comfort she tried to offer so very meager, but she had never been more sincere. She was desperate to relieve his suffering, if only minutely. Somehow, she felt it would help ease hers. A bond was forming between them, a bond she could not stop. And it frightened her. She owed this man who'd refused her, her life.

  Mercifully, he turned back to stare out across the water to the pier. "You have no people?" he asked, at last.

  "I am an only child. My parents were killed in a carriage accident last year."

  He did not offer a hollow condolence, but listened with an intense and compassionate expression.

  "I let our business flounder. I let Drew . . ."

  She clutched the deck rail. "It doesn't matter. They died and I had to sell the business. Everything good died with them. I couldn't stand the wagging tongues in Baltimore anymore, so I came to Seattle." She stopped abruptly. She'd said too much.

  He turned to look at her, studying her intently. She saw the question in his eyes, but to her relief he didn't probe about the gossip that had driven her from her hometown.

  "There's nothing stopping you from loving, from making someone else matter in your life." He spoke softly, seductively, with a passion she hadn't expected. As if it seemed important to him that she did find someone else.

  Was he talking about himself? Could he mean . . .

  She swallowed hard, confused by his tone and not wanting to hope, not when she felt so desolate again. "Isn't there? A dead heart doesn't count?"

  At the look he gave her, she felt a stirring of some wonderful, frightening, ethereal emotion. She spoke q
uickly to suppress it. "And now look at Seattle; she's dead, too."

  "Don't worry about Seattle. She won't die. People here don't give up. Like you, Miss Sheridan, they'll find the courage to survive tragedy. Seattle will rise from the ashes like the phoenix, more beautiful than before."

  Yes, Fayth had survived one tragedy, but at what cost? How had he missed seeing her for the fake she was? She was not surviving. She merely existed and she wondered whether she had the strength to continue now. Not wanting him to see her expression, she turned from him to look out over the waters.

  He muttered something.

  "Your shoulder's burned! I should have seen to it earlier." He yelled for Billy. "Fetch the medical supplies and meet me in my quarters."

  Despite her protests, the Captain led Fayth aft through the wheelhouse to the shipmaster's cabin. She barely had time to take in the surprising opulence—the deep wood paneling, marble fireplace, and fine quality furnishings—when Billy burst in with medical supplies in hand.

  The Captain took them from him. "Fetch Miss Sheridan's bags and leave them by the door."

  As Billy disappeared to obey the order, the Captain led Fayth by the arm to a wooden dining chair next to a fine, matching table. "Sit." He guided her onto the chair and set his kit on the table, pulled up his own chair behind hers, and sat facing her back. She heard him open the kit. "Pull your dress down, if you will."

  "Captain O'Neill, I thought that you had more finesse! A gentleman never tells a woman to drop her dress."

  She had been around Coral too much lately. A year ago, she would never have said such a thing. A decent woman should never intimate anything unseemly, let alone say it directly.

  The Captain didn't seem offended. In fact, he laughed. "A gentleman probably doesn't cut it off, either, but that may be the ultimate solution. You'll have to forgive me my roughness. I'm not used to treating a lady."