A Lady in the Smoke (2 page)

My forehead smacked against the opposite wall, and I fell backward, my hands clawing for purchase on something—anything—as my eyes flew open.

The carriage behind smashed into ours, and I pitched forward again, a scream searing my throat. Our carriage groaned and creaked, and, to my horror, it began to tip sideways. I clutched at the armrest on the seat, but something heavy hit me from behind, and everything went black.

I don't know how long I was unconscious. When I woke, the carriage was still. I was in a heap on the tilted floor, my forehead was throbbing, and everything, even my hand on the wooden board, was a blur. I blinked hard, and the walls came into focus. The paneling was splintered, and the side window was blown to bits, with only a jagged edge of glass remaining. The air outside was dark with roiling gray smoke. Groggily, I pushed myself to sitting and instantly felt like I was going to be sick. I took a few deep breaths and swallowed hard; then I turned to find Mama. She was slumped beside me. The bald man and his briefcase were gone, and we were alone.

Then, above incoherent screams and the sounds of doors slamming open, came audible shouts of “Fire!” and smoke was burning the back of my throat and stinging my eyes.

How close was it?

I half-slid, half-scrambled to the window and looked out.

A gust cleared the air for a moment, long enough for me to see the curve ahead. The two black engines and a tender had run wholly off the rails and up against an embankment. The half-dozen carriages behind were accordioned haphazardly across the tracks. Brilliant fire leaped from the second engine, the long orange fingers having already caught the first few carriages and reaching for the next. Black smoke billowed into the air, and as I watched, sparks flew onto the rooftop of the carriage in front of us, landed, and began to burn. I tore my eyes away, my heart thudding in my chest.

Mama lay limply on the floor between the seats, her skirts awry, her leg twisted under her, her open eyes two black holes in her face.

“Mama! Mama!” I shook her, hard, too frightened to be gentle.

She blinked. She was alive. I sobbed in relief. “Mama! The train is on fire! We have to get out!”

A splotch of red appeared on her cheek, as if it had welled up from inside her. I had a second of panic, and then I tasted the metallic tang of blood at the corner of my mouth and put a hand to my face. It came away smeared with red, and I felt a rush of relief as I realized the blood was mine, not hers.

I put my hands on Mama's shoulders, and pulled her to sitting. “Mama,
please
!”

Her expression was dazed, but I wrenched myself to my feet and attempted to lift her. She made it only as far as her knees before she reached over and groped for her reticule—the useless little jeweled bag. Its handle was stuck around a spring that had torn through the velvet of the seat, and she tugged at it feebly.

“Never mind it, Mama! Never mind it!” I threw my arm around her waist and dragged her toward the corridor. This side of the carriage was broken as well, and dark smoke and bits of ash were filling the air, so I could barely see. I cried out, expecting to find people from the other compartments—but there was no one—and no human voices near us—just the roar and snap of the fire. Everyone else had already fled. As I stepped into the corridor, my foot landed on nothing, and I tumbled backward, my palms scraping against jagged wood. Panic rose in me as I realized that parts of the carriage floor were gone, and Mama was like a dead weight on my arm—

“
Merde!
Give her to me!” came a heavily accented voice. From behind me, out of the smoke, emerged a man who reached over and seized my mother by the waist. He was tall and broad, with a face as heavily bearded as a gypsy's, and black eyes that glittered dangerously. God knows where he came from, or how he knew we were in there, but he wrapped one big arm around my mother to lift her over his shoulder, threw his other arm around me, and got us all the way to the steps at the end of the carriage. Before I could touch the railing, the man slapped my hand away from it. “No! Metal's hot!” With nothing to balance me, I stumbled down the stairs; he shoved Mama into my arms. “
Vite! Vite!
Get away from the train! Go!” He sprang off the steps and ran toward the next carriage.

Pieces of hot orange ash quivered in the smoke. I gasped, but there was nothing to breathe except the scorching air. I half-carried, half-dragged Mama along, the lick of the heat chasing us into a grassy field. Mama limped badly, but I didn't slow until we'd reached a place where the air was almost clear and dozens of people crouched on the ground.

Thank god we still had our travel cloaks on. The wind was chilling; there was no shelter nearby; the nearest trees were too far to reach on foot. Exhausted and shaking, I found a rock for us to sit against and wrapped my mother in half my cloak and all of her own. She shivered against me and dropped her face into her hands. But I watched the horrible scene before me, unable to look away.

A second fire had sprung from a carriage in the rear, and all up and down the train, people still clambered and crawled out of doors and windows, the well-bodied helping the wounded, carrying them out on their backs and on makeshift stretchers. Near the front of the train, a woman jumped from a carriage, her dress in flames, and began to run; a man chased after her, but she raced on, her mouth open in a cry I couldn't hear. Suddenly I thought of Miss Rush, riding in one of the forward carriages because I'd kept her from joining us.

Out of the wave of guilt and shame came a desperate prayer that she was all right.

And then I heard the shrieks of terrified horses, shrill and piercing, sounding so much like my black mare Athena that I had a panicked second before I remembered she was safe at home. I strained my eyes to find the animals amidst the smoke, plunging and struggling against their handlers—but there were none.

It took a moment for me to realize what was happening.

The horses were burning alive in the stock cars.

The thought of them, tortured by the sparks on their skin, pounding the doors with their hooves and screaming in terror, brought hot tears to my eyes.

I put my fists to my mouth to keep from screaming myself.

Finally, the water-trucks arrived, the workhorses balking in the traces until the drivers used their whips to drive them toward the burning wreck. Men in shirtsleeves pumped furiously while others directed hoses toward the worst of the blaze until at last the flames began to subside.

All around us people crowded, sitting in the dirt or on a few scattered rocks: old men and young, the landed gentry side by side with peasants, foreigners beside English folk, well-dressed ladies next to women in ragged shawls. The disaster made no distinctions. A low, savage cry made me look up. A man limped by, passing close enough for me to touch, holding a child to his chest as tenderly as if she were asleep and he were carrying her to bed. But her brown hair was singed short—her light blue dress was blackened and in shreds around her thin legs—and her arm—

I could no longer look or listen. With a sob, I put my head down, clasped my hands over my ears, and shut my eyes tight.

How long had it been? Two hours, maybe three. It was growing dark. A light rain had fallen briefly, and we were drenched. The burning carriages had become black smoldering ruins against the gray sky, with stubborn bits of fire showing like darts amidst the wreckage. A chilling breeze still gusted across the field. Wagons and carriages had begun to appear, rolling amongst the crowd, making their own paths to retrieve friends and relations. Wheels creaked and scraped over the uneven ground, lanterns swung in yellow arcs, and voices cried out names. But thus far no one had called out for us.

Our backs to the stone, Mama and I remained seated in the dirt. My head throbbed if I moved it, so I wrapped my arms around my knees and rested my right temple on my forearm. The cut on my head had stopped bleeding, but the left side of my face and neck was sticky with blood. Mama was unconscious, slumped against my shoulder, but she was breathing normally, so I let her be. For once I was glad for laudanum's soporific effect. It was better that she wasn't awake for this. I wished I didn't have to be, and I had never been so cold.

Then I heard a man's voice, close to my ear, and felt a warm hand on my shoulder: “Are you all right?” A pause. “Miss, I'm a surgeon. I'd like to help you, if I may.”

I needed to respond, to move, to say something. But my whole body was achingly stiff.

“Miss, can you hear me?”

I lifted my head to see a man kneeling at my side. He looked to be only a few years older than myself. His dark hair was wet from the rain, and there were flecks of mud on his face. His eyes darted to my forehead.

He bent toward me. “You've a nasty cut on your head. May I help you? And is this your mother?” His voice, kind and steady, had a trace of an accent that I couldn't place. Welsh, maybe. Or Scottish.

“Miss, can you speak?” he asked insistently.

“Yes.” It came out like a croak.

He looked relieved. “Good. Are you hurt anywhere else, besides your head?”

“No. But I'm not sure about my mother.” My throat felt raw, but I forced the words out: “She fainted.”

He reached inside his coat and drew out a stethoscope. “Don't worry. It's quite usual in railway accidents. She probably just needs to get warm and take some stimulant. There's a wagon nearby, come to remove people to a hotel at Travers. I'd like to get you both on it.”

“Travers?” I repeated. “But that's not on the railway line.”

“No. You're just a few miles north of Holmsted. But Travers is the closest town with lodging.”

His stethoscope was different than the one our old family doctor used; his had only one earpiece whereas this man's had two. Quickly, he placed one in each ear. With his right hand, he supported Mama's shoulders, and with the other he applied the round end of the stethoscope to her chest. Deftly his fingers felt for her wrist, his lips moving faintly. His expression revealed neither relief nor anxiety, though I had the impression that he was practiced at keeping his face calm. It was a handsome face, with high cheekbones, dark eyebrows, and a full mouth, though his dark hair was too long to be fashionable, and it was clear he'd once broken his nose. The shoulders of his coat were stained dark from the rain, and his trousers were smeared with mud. I wondered how long he'd been out here.

He tucked the stethoscope back inside his coat. “Have you tried to rouse her?”

I shook my head. “I think she hurt her leg. I had to drag her most of the way here.”

“You did a good thing, getting her away from the fire. The smoke can be poisonous.” He moved his hands to her ankles, felt them gently.

“Is she all right?”

“She has a bad sprain on her left ankle, but nothing's broken so far as I can tell.” He looked again at my forehead. “I'd like to take care of that cut for you, so no infection sets in.”

I reached up for my forehead, but he caught my hand at the wrist.

“Don't touch it.”

I stared, alarmed. “Is it bad?”

“Not at all,” he said. “A few stitches' worth.”

“Now?”

“Yes. It won't take long. Can you lie back?” He took a towel from his bag and folded it into a rough square. “Put your head here.”

Watching him uncertainly, I rolled slowly to the ground, resting my head on the towel. But lying flat made me sick again, worse than before, and I turned away from him, retching into the grass. Mortified, I stayed turned away, even when I'd finished.

“Take this.” Around my shoulder came his hand, proffering a damp handkerchief. “It's all right. We'll get you to Travers, and you'll be fine.”

I wiped my mouth and lay back, sweating and trembling.

“I'm going to give you something that will make this easier.” He placed some cotton in a little paper cone and dribbled some clear liquid out of a green bottle. It smelled sweet, and dangerous, like Mama's laudanum.

“What is it?” Panicking, I tried to sit up again. “What are you doing?”

“It's a spirit, called chloroform,” he said patiently. “You breathe it in, and it'll make you fall into a light sleep. As soon as I'm finished stitching—it should only take a minute or two—I'll take it away and you'll wake up. I've poured only the smallest dose.”

He held the cone, waiting, but made no move to force it upon me.

The idea of letting a stranger put me to sleep should have terrified me. But I looked into his face and saw both compassion and intelligence. And then he gave a smile, brief but reassuring. “Truly, I'm a surgeon, not some madman. If you'd prefer, you can wait 'til you arrive at the hotel. But I'm afraid there won't be a doctor to help you.” He glanced over the field, taking a measure of the suffering around him. “I expect to be here for a while.”

I nodded and lay back.

He placed the cone gently over my nose. “Now breath in and count backward from ten for me,” he said, taking my hand at the wrist.

The first breath was bitter and sweet at once, and then the smell faded. I closed my eyes obediently. “Ten, nine, eight…”

And when I woke, his hand was on my wrist, his face close, but blurred. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” I whispered and tried to sit up, but my limbs wouldn't move.

“Lie still. Your head will clear in a few minutes. Take some deep breaths.”

The air was cold and stank of oily smoke, but I could also smell the wet earth underneath me, loamy and rich. He was right. With each breath, the fog in my head lifted, my limbs regained feeling, and the world came back into focus. I watched him pack up his bag, stowing his needle in a little case and winding the unused suturing material into a tidy loop. When he finished he turned back to me and smiled. “How are you feeling now?”