A Promise to Love (30 page)

“Hundreds. I heard that there's a Dr. Johnson on board who has been working nonstop since yesterday trying to care for the burn victims. When those who need medical attention have all been taken care of, Captain Moffat says he'll come back for us.”

Joshua did not recognize the small child who was clinging to George.

“Who is this little fellow?”

“None of us know,” George said. “Millicent saw him sitting on the shore all alone, crying and scared while the rest of us were running for our lives into the water. She grabbed him up and carried him out into the water with her. Saved the child's life. Some think he's the only survivor of some farm family that came in—but we don't know for sure where he came from.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

George looked into the child's innocent, trusting face and smiled. “I thought I might keep him—unless someone shows up who has an awful good claim.”

“Will Millicent be okay with that?”

“Millicent didn't make it,” George said flatly. “A lot of people didn't make it. One minute she was beside me, holding on to the child, and then she told me she was tired and handed him to me, and the next thing I knew, she was gone. The water was terrible rough and she was a delicate little thing.”

“I'm so sorry, George,” Joshua said.

“Can you imagine, Josh? That wife of mine could have just kept going straight on into the water, but instead, she grabbed up this little boy and brought him out to me.” Joshua saw the pride in George's eyes. “She saved his life. You know—my Millicent always was such a sweethearted woman.”

Without another word, the shopkeeper plodded off. Joshua heard him talking to the child as he walked away. “Let's see if we can find you something to eat, little fella. Don't you worry none, George is going to take care of you. George will always take real good care of you.”

And then he saw Susan. She was as bedraggled and exhausted as the rest of the survivors.

“Hello, Josh,” she said, and swayed as though she was about to fall. He caught her and seated her on a charred stump.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

“None of us have—but soon. They say there are cheese and crackers and tea in those barrels they're carrying onto the shore right now. People can be so kind.”

In addition to being weak, she was shivering. He took his macintosh off, sat down beside her, and put it around her.

“Thank you,” she said. “That's better. I need to tell you something. I saw Ingrid, Hazel, Mary, She-Wolf, and the children all go off in Hazel's fishing boat just about the time the fire hit the shore.”

He closed his eyes while he absorbed this great news. “Do you know where they are?”

“That's just it—I don't. All I know is I caught a glimpse of Ingrid rowing, trying to get away just about the time the fire came down on us. I never saw them again.”

Susan and he both knew that whole ships were sometimes swallowed up by Lake Huron, with no trace. A heavily laden rowboat had little chance. He was well acquainted with Hazel's fishing boat, but he had no idea how seaworthy it would be in rough water.

Lyman had already unearthed a blanket from one of the barrels delivered by Moffat's crew. “I'll take care of her now,” he said. He handed Joshua's raincoat back, wrapped the blanket around Susan, helped her to her feet, and walked her to where villagers were opening barrels and passing out emergency food.

“Now what?” Hans asked.

“The only thing I know to do is search for them along the shore,” Joshua said. It sounded so ineffective and weak. “Do you have a better idea?”

Hans shook his head. “No.”

“We can cover more territory if we split up. I'll go south. You go north. Let's meet back here one day from now. If neither of us has found out anything, we'll move further on. I won't rest until I've scoured every inch of this shoreline.”

Without saying another word, Hans swung into his saddle and headed north.

Feeling more alone than ever before in his life, Joshua headed south.

 29 

Before the rain came, Hazel had torn off chunks of the unsliced bread and handed them around to everyone—including a piece for She-Wolf. Even little Bertie had been able to gum some bread. There were two apples apiece for everyone. With Hazel's pocketknife, Ingrid had pared an apple until it was sauced enough for Bertie to swallow.

Had it not been for Hazel's quick thinking in grabbing the blankets and food, they would have been even more miserable than they were, although it was hard to imagine feeling any worse. If she had any idea which direction shore was, she would row toward it—with rest, the feeling had returned to her arms—but she did not want to expend the energy when there was a strong possibility that she might be rowing in circles.

After they ate, Mary and Hazel, their old bones chilled and aching, managed to lower themselves down and curl up next to where the dog and children lay. Ingrid kept one blanket for herself, then layered the other blankets over her precious passengers as they shared their body warmth the best they could.

“Can you stand it?” Ingrid asked.

“This floor is hard and miserable, but at least I'm warm,” Hazel said.

“I has to pee-pee.” Ellie sat straight up, dragging the blankets off of everyone.

“Bucket,” Hazel said, “over there. It's the main reason I brought it—that and to bail with if necessary.”

Ingrid helped Ellie relieve herself and had just gotten her tucked back beneath the covers when Trudy had to go, and then Polly.

When she thought things could not get any worse, she heard a crack of thunder, saw a streak of lightning, and the rain came. Hard, heavy rain.

Ingrid grabbed the bucket, and for more hours than she could count, bailed water faster than it could pour in. She turned into a machine, dipping and pouring, dipping and pouring, while Hazel, Mary, and the children huddled beneath the sopping wet blankets. The children were all so miserable, they were practically lying on top of She-Wolf now—and yet that amazing dog continued to allow them to draw warmth from her.

“Aren't
you
cold, dear?” Mary asked at one point when the rain had eased slightly.

“I'm fine,” Ingrid lied. She was not fine, of course—but cold she was not—not with all the exertion of keeping the dory from sinking.

“Let me help.” Ingrid felt Agnes's hand on her back. “I can bail for a while. You rest.”

The child wrapped her own blanket around Ingrid and then, kneeling on the floor in front of her, began to dip and pour, dip and pour.

Ingrid had refused to allow Hazel to spell her because the two older women were at even greater risk when it came to cold and exposure than the children, but Agnes was a tough little nut—quick at filling that pail and throwing the water overboard. Ingrid was grateful for the rest.

And then, after several hours, the rain ceased.

Agnes went back to her place beside her sisters. Ingrid, utterly exhausted, knelt beside her seat, thanking God for the respite from the rain, thanking God that they were all still alive.

She rested her head in her folded arms for a moment and must have dozed, because a sound brought her jerking upright. What had she heard? Had they gotten close enough to land to hear voices?

Then she heard it again, a distant clang. Metal on metal. She could not determine from which direction it was coming. She hurriedly grasped the oars once again. If it was a steamboat or sailing vessel, she had to be ready to get out of its path.

There it was again—clang . . . clunk. It was getting louder. Yes, it was a ship.

Hazel sat up. “Do you hear that?”

“Can you tell where it is coming from?” Ingrid had barely gotten the words out when her jaw dropped, and for a split second she could do nothing but gape.

A foghorn blared, and a great, gray shape loomed out of the smoky fog, almost on top of them.

Mary screamed.

“Stay down!” Ingrid shouted, digging the oars into the water. “Everyone—hold on!”

The ship was so huge it could cut their boat in two without ever knowing what happened.

The foghorn sounded again. She-Wolf started to rise, thought better of it, and hunkered down once again—her eyes fastened on Ingrid as though willing her to have the strength to save them.

It was close. So very close. At one point she could have touched the side of the ship with her oar. Mary and Hazel were yelling and waving, trying to get someone's—anyone's—attention, but the ship plowed on through the water, an impersonal, unfeeling gray hulk that nearly swamped the little fishing boat in its wake.

Water splashed over all of them. Agnes, by far the calmest person on the boat, once again began bailing.

Ingrid had no idea how long they had been out here. She couldn't discern if it had been hours or days. There was no sun, no moon, no stars. No way to tell time. All she knew was that it felt like they had been bobbing around on this treacherous, dark, miserable water for an eternity.

As Joshua rode south, he discovered that Forestville had also burned to the ground. He passed refugees huddling beneath whatever shelter they could find, waiting to be rescued by the brave steamship crews that were plying the shore, picking up survivors. Sometimes he was in the water, sometimes he was out of it. Sometimes he had to skirt around burnt buildings or rough landscape, but he always kept himself within sight of the shore, where somewhere, someplace—if he just kept moving—he prayed he would somehow find his family.

His practical, analytical, rational mind told him that there was no way his family could have survived out in that vast, churning lake, in nothing more than a rowboat. And then he reminded himself that he had seen stranger, more miraculous things happen during the war. That thought kept him going.

Along the shoreline, he saw domestic animals wandering aimlessly without homes or owners. He was almost upon it before he saw a familiar-looking horse, its head down drinking from the lake. At first, he could only see the shadow of it, but when he dismounted and walked closer, he saw that it was Buttons.

The formerly frisky horse did not jerk away when Joshua grabbed hold of his mane. Instead, Buttons seemed as dispirited as the gray landscape. Joshua ran his hands over the good horse, comforting it, wishing the animal could tell him what had happened to his family.

“What happened, boy?” he asked. “How did you end up here?”

The last time he had seen Buttons, the horse had been a sleek young animal with no scars or blemishes. Now, the once-glossy coat was dull and covered with a damp ash. Joshua gasped with surprise when his hands encountered something he had never felt on one of his animals before. There were welts on Buttons's back. Two of them, several inches long.

His knees grew weak at the picture these welts conjured. Ingrid, his compassionate, loving Ingrid—a woman who had treated his animals with as much kindness as she did their family—had put those scars on Buttons's back for one reason only: to save the life of his children.

He could see it so clearly. She had waited too long. There had been a last-minute desperate flight to the lake. Buttons had carried his family toward the shore—running for all he was worth. Joshua could picture Ingrid looking back over her shoulder at the encroaching flames, plying the whip to force Buttons to go faster, faster.

He ached at the terror his family must have felt, trying to outrun the fire. Thanks to this good horse, they had made it to the lake and into Hazel's boat—but where were they now? He fished an apple out of the saddlebag and fed it to Buttons. Then he fashioned a makeshift bridle out of a roll of bandages Lizzy had packed, and rode on, leading Buttons behind him.

Feeding the apple to Buttons reminded him that he had not eaten in quite some time. He wasn't sure how long it had been. He forced himself to chew on a biscuit, swallowing mechanically because he knew he should—not because he was hungry. He could not imagine ever having an appetite again.

As the rocking motion of Delia's horse made his eyelids droop, he fought to stay awake. He knew he had to stay alert for fear of missing some small sign of his family—even if it was nothing more than a piece of
Wind Dancer
—Hazel's little dory.

South of Forestville, he saw something—something brightly colored caught in some rocks. As he drew closer, it reminded him of Ellie's little red cloak. He dismounted and dug it out of the sand and muck.

It
was
a red cloak, but whether or not it was Ellie's, he did not know. He thought it might be too small, but he had never been good at judging his girls' sizes. They all just seemed . . . little to him.

He remembered the first time Ellie had worn the red cloak. His mother had made it for her right before fall weather. The little imp had turned this way and that, standing on her tiptoes, prancing around the room, sparkling with happiness.

This was not Ellie's cloak. It could not be Ellie's cloak. He tossed it back on the ground with contempt. There was no way this sodden, bedraggled scrap of material had ever graced his daughter's body. He would not allow the possibility to even enter his mind.

Suddenly, the overwhelming smell of smoke and ruin, the loneliness, the desperation, the exhaustion, the sleep deprivation, took its toll and drove him to his knees in the sand. He grabbed the little cloak again, so very like the one that Ellie had worn, and cradled it in his arms.

“Why did you allow this, Father!” He stared up at the gray, silent sky. “Where were you! How could you bring the rain one day too late to save our homes and our families! You who created rain and fire—would it have killed you, Lord, to bring the rain a few hours earlier?”

There was no one around to hear him in this desolate place. As far as he could tell, not even God was listening. “Can you hear me, Lord?” he screamed. “Are you listening to me? Why didn't you take me, Lord, instead of them. They were all so innocent. I was the sinner. I'm the one who took others' lives in battle, and I would rather
die
than live without my family! Where were you, God, when my family needed you?”

Silence.

He stood up and spat in contempt of a Creator who had not bothered to help his family, who had not drowned the deadly fires with a downpour before the wildfire reached the village of White Rock. If lightning struck him dead for what he had said, so be it. He would welcome it.

Then he mounted and began the slow, fruitless ride down the ravaged east coast of Michigan, for no other reason than he had no idea what else to do.