It Happened at the Fair (22 page)

Before his thought was complete, the lines of the ropes began to part like cotton string in a gas jet. Their lengths, unable to withstand the heat, disintegrating to a scant few feet.

He groaned, hardly aware of the crowd doing the same. Della pressed herself against his side, the fragrance of roses intermingling with the smell of smoke. He encircled her waist with his arm.

Please, God,
he thought.
Get them down safely.

With great caution, one by one, they turned and crawled around the balcony to the west side, the flames almost touching their hands and feet. There was no hurrying, no panic. Every man waited his turn.

John insisted another go before him. Then another. And another. Until he was at the end of the line.

Anger surged through Cullen. He knew he shouldn’t begrudge the men in front of John. He knew why John had let them pass. He was unmarried. Had no children. And was the least among them.

But Cullen wanted him down. Selfish as it was, he wanted his friend off that blasted tower.

The multitude stilled during the men’s perilous journey, then cheered on its completion. But the men were no better off there. The flames had worked their way upward all around the tower.

They would have to make a choice. Either leap a hundred feet to the roof or let flames consume them.

CHAPTER

21

Cullen had managed, with a herculean effort, to suppress thoughts of his mother, but now it was impossible. He’d come over only to watch John put out a fire he’d conquered three times before. Never had Cullen dreamed a tragedy of this magnitude would unfold.

Once again he was twelve, standing helpless outside a mill in Charlotte as fire engulfed every door, every window, every possible means of escape.

She’d gone in to give a blanket she crocheted to a man whose wife had just had a baby. Cullen had been thrilled to be free of her super-vision, only too anxious to break away and run to the blacksmith’s. The man would often allow Cullen to work the bellows, and he’d raced off, never thinking it would be the last glimpse he’d have of his mother.

A deep, aching pain crushed him in a vicious grip. His throat began to close.

“Look!” a man shouted, bringing Cullen back to the present.

He made himself take a deep, calming breath, laced though it was with smoke.

A silhouette on the tower stripped off his helmet and spun it down to his companions on the roof. It was a mute appeal for those below to make one more effort at a rescue. Another helmet joined his.

Several firemen on the roof picked up a hose. The crowd cheered, but Cullen remained silent. He’d seen fire engines before. Knew the limitations of their hoses.

The jets activated. A thin stream of water lifted its head, barely reaching two-thirds of the way up.

Della moaned. The man beside them cursed. Cullen withdrew inside himself. He didn’t pray. He didn’t cry. He didn’t feel.

Closer and closer the men huddled. One broke free of the rest, pushing his way through the band of comrades. He grasped one of them by the hand, then yanked him forward and threw his arms about his neck.

Brothers, Cullen thought. John had said two of the men in his company were brothers. And now they said their good-byes.

The self-imposed shell around Cullen’s heart began to fracture.

One after the other hugged their friends on the ledge. They ruffled John’s helmet, grasped his shoulder, squeezed him close.

Tears streamed down the faces of the firemen on the ground. The crowd prayed and cursed in turn. Della openly wept, her face drawn with horror.

Firemen on the roof frantically whipped off coats, vests, and even trousers to form a makeshift catching net.

Clanging ambulances and multiple fire engines tore the crowd asunder. Panic-stricken guards struggled to form lines and keep the people back. British soldiers, Russian soldiers, and French marines in disordered uniforms all materialized out of the throng. Without needing direction, they faced the mob and forced an opening where before there had been none.

The crowd cheered the soldiers and every new fire engine that came from the city.

Incoming horses shone with white lather, barely able to pull their engines to the finish line. Groups of firemen, guards, hospital guides, and ambulance attendants met them with canvas cots, stretchers, and stoic expressions.

People from all over the world in a dozen languages bemoaned the fate of the men on the tower. Positioned as he was, Cullen could see the fear and disbelief on the faces of the truckmen just arriving.

Would his sprinkler system have prevented the tragedy? He wasn’t sure. He’d not tested it for explosions like this. But it might have helped. Perhaps bought just enough time for John and the others to slide down those ropes.

One of the men on the tower disentangled himself from the tight knot their group had formed. Reaching down, he grabbed a rope.

No
, Cullen thought, for the line had been burned and couldn’t be more than fifteen feet long.

The fireman went over the edge, slid down the rope, and dangled at its end for what seemed a lifetime.

Cullen tensed. The crowd didn’t move. Not a sound could be heard other than the crackling flames licking the man’s feet.

Cullen glanced at John and realized the fire blocked his view. He and the other men made large gestures with their hands, as if asking one another what had happened to the man who still held on mere feet below them.

Raising his knees, the man on the rope propped his boots against the wall, then sprang away from it, releasing the rope at the same time. He cartwheeled through space, his outline sharp against the whitewashed wall.

The people sent up a roar of hurrahs.

The firemen below scrambled to follow his trajectory with their net.

The man ripped right through it, rebounded off the roof, then settled in a heap.

The sound of impact could be heard even over the fire. The crowd jumped at the crash. Confusion ensued as everyone spoke at once. Then, when realization hit, shrieks, cries, and curses abounded.

Cullen slid his eyes closed.

Della shrank into him and turned her face away.

He needed to get her out of there. “Let’s go.”

She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “We’re not going anywhere in this crowd.”

Sure enough, they were packed in from behind. Even if they made it to the opposite edge, the guards weren’t letting anyone past the barricade.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She swiped her tears. “Yes. I can’t watch, though.”

Before he could gather her close and shield her from the tragedy, the woman in front of them crumbled. Extending his arms, he barely managed to catch her before she hit the ground.

“Make room. Quickly.” Della nudged those around them until they opened enough space for him to lay the woman in.

“Are you okay?” he asked Della.

Nodding, she crouched down, then removed the woman’s hat and loosened her collar. He stood back up, relieved Della had something to temporarily occupy her mind.

The men on the tower crowded around the rope, assuming it would carry them to safety.

“No!” Cullen shouted before he realized he’d spoken out loud.

Della jerked her head up.

He tried to mask his distress but felt sure she could see it.

Swallowing, she returned her attention to the unconscious woman on the ground.

A second man slid down. Caught unawares by the shortened length, he plummeted like a leaden ball through the fire, then right through the thin roof and into the caldron of flames below. He’d scarcely let loose of the cord when another skimmed down, his flight ending as he lodged into debris on the roof.

Too fast to count, firemen skated down the cord with heart-rending regularity. As each figure appeared outlined against the tower, Cullen’s gut clenched.

Men sobbed and averted their gazes. Women clung to posts and supports, hiding their faces in their hands, then screaming whenever a groan from the crowd announced another had dropped.

All had taken the plunge but four. Standing, they huddled together, John still among them.

Cullen didn’t know whether to rejoice or be even more horrified, for he knew the men finally realized what had happened to the others.

The woman on the ground recovered enough to sit up, but not stand. Della handed her a fan, then went from her to another who’d fallen to her knees with hands clasped, screaming hysterically.

Cullen followed closely behind Della, offering his help, but she shooed him away. Still, he kept her within arm’s length. He didn’t want to lose her in the crowd, especially under these circumstances.

The space cleared by the guards continued to fill with patrol wagons and ambulances from the city. Fire engines chugged and pounded. Yards of hose lay in zigzagged rows. Men from the hospital service grouped around little red banners. A layer of soot and horror frosted it all.

It didn’t seem real. Had it just been yesterday he and John laughed over some joke? Had it only been this morning when John nudged him again about a demonstration of his system? That he stopped just short of saying his feelings for the Crowne Pen lady were becoming serious? Was the woman in question even here, or was she still in Machinery Hall, blithely unaware of the tragedy unfolding?

A child sobbed. Hushing him, the mother held the boy’s head against her neck, bouncing, rocking, and crying with him. Cullen thought about the families of the firefighters. The wives, the children, the brothers, the sisters, the mothers, the fathers who had no idea their loved ones would not be returning home.

It was too much. Too much to take in all at once.

The flames grew more savage, fanned by the wind and fed by the combustible material that made up every building in the fair.

White powder from the plaster covered the people, the ground, the buildings. Billowing black smoke blotted out the blue sky that had been crisp and clear just thirty minutes before.

John and the three remaining men began to rig up a line, tying one burned remnant of rope to another, but its length was still far too short. They secured the knotted rope to the ledge, and the first man clambered over. He dropped straight down. The second came down sideways. The third just outright jumped.

John was the only man left.

Cullen couldn’t breathe. Tears poured down his face. He thought of the sisters John had told him about. He’d been the only son, yet he had left farming to strike out on his own.

Grief squeezed Cullen’s heart. Who would tell John’s family? What was John thinking right now?

As if sensing the question, John threw his pocketbook to a comrade on the roof, then pantomimed a handshake. All alone and silhouetted against the tower, he clasped his own hand, then struck his heart. A clear message of deep affection for those who would survive him.

Cullen swiped a sleeve across his eyes and questioned God. Again. How could He let such atrocities occur?

His mother’s image flashed before him. Had she died of asphyxiation or from the flames themselves? Had she tried to send him and his father a parting message? Had her last thoughts been of them or of horror?

The tower began to rock. Grasping the flaming rope, John calmly lowered himself down and dropped from its burning end.

Cullen pressed a fist against his mouth.

The tower lurched, toppled, and broke in half, collapsing in a rush of flame, smoke, and debris. The sound was like nothing Cullen had ever heard before. Surely no volcanic explosion had ever been louder.

The force tossed John into the air, before releasing him to plunge toward the roof.

Bowing his head, Cullen sobbed. Della was there in an instant, offering quiet reassurance. Going up on tiptoes, she slipped her arms about him and pulled him close. Burying his head into her shoulder, he gripped her tight, squeezed his eyes shut, and continued to weep.

For John. For the firemen. Their families. His own mother. And for himself.

CHAPTER

22

Within an hour, the entire building collapsed in a tremendous gust of flames. Firemen fought the monster. Wagons whisked away bodies. The stench caused Della to gag and look anywhere but to where ambulance attendants rushed around with blood-splattered faces.