Steeplechase (24 page)

murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many faces
,

the pressing on of many footsteps in the outskirts of

the crowd, so that it swells forward in a mass …

Twenty-three.

—Charles Dickens,
A Tale of Two Cities

The Nashoba Steam Fire Society

A
t the foot of the ladder, Horace picked himself up, bruised and sobbing. He gave one terrified upward glance at the trapdoor, but he saw only flames.

The church door banged open and shut. Horace tottered outside and made his way to the road, the wind at his back. When the sky suddenly darkened, he looked up, half-blinded by tears and by the rain in his face, and saw an enormous balloon swoop low over the treetops.

Horace had seen the balloon before. Now, gaping, he watched it droop and lift and stretch out nearly flat, with the good fairies in their bowler hats clinging to the tipping basket. And then, as the collapsing balloon blew out of sight, a wagon rattled by on the road and the rain came down in sheets.

The balloon was hurtling east. “Shouldn't have gone up today, Jack,” said Jake, clutching the railing of the basket. “Too late in the year.”

Jack clapped one hand on the brim of his hat. “Seemed such a nice day, Jake.”

“Raining now,” said Jake, as the balloon wallowed and plunged. “Coming down like pitchforks.”

Then both of them cried “Whoopsie” and fell sideways in a heap.

Scrambling to his knees, Jake pointed and shouted, “Church on fire, Jack. Looky there.”

“Boy down there,” hollered Jack.

“Fire department,” yelled Jake. “Got to tell 'em.”

The balloon lifted, billowed wildly, and sagged. The burning steeple vanished. Below them in the racing, rattling wagon, Hector waved his arms and shouted, “Jesus Christ, boys.”

Jack leaned out of the basket, pointed west, and shouted, “Church on fire, Hector.”

Jake leaned out the other way, pointed east, and cried, “Fire engine, Hector.”

Hector stared up at them with his mouth open, then lifted his whip and brought it down on the back of his old horse. In the blowing wind and drenching rain, horse and wagon plunged away in the direction of the town green.

While the squall lasted, it was a violent downpour. Jake and Jack tumbled around in the basket of the balloon, but Jake managed to crawl on hands and knees to the firebox and relight the coals, hoping to lift the drooping bag above the trees. The coals began to smolder and the rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, but it was too late.

“Whoopsie, Jake,” cried Jack as the basket scraped and caught and then wallowed free again. “We're tickling the treetops.”

“Hang on,” shouted Jake. “We're going down.”

A moment later, the withered balloon flopped into a tangle of branches, brushed through the outermost twigs, caught on a dozen snags, and hung suspended, sagging and deflated. A pair of identical bowler hats spiraled down through the branches and splashed in identical puddles.

Lying flat on their backs in the swaying basket, Jack and Jake considered the matter philosophically.

“Time to settle down maybe, Jack.”

“Guess you're right, Jake.”

“Maybe get married, Jack.”

“Good idea, Jake.”

“Lotsa pretty girls out there, Jack. Whoopsie, the bag's on fire.”

The Nashoba Steam Fire Society was a volunteer outfit, but when Hector shouted
“Whoa
” at his wheezing horse and delivered the news, the fire bell rang and the volunteers came running. In no time at all, the boys had the boiler fired up and steaming and the team hitched up and prancing. Hector, hanging on precariously, pointed straight up the Acton Turnpike.

But instead of a burning building, the fire turned out to be a flaming balloon. Undaunted, the sturdy volunteers uncoiled their hoses, aimed a stream of water straight up in the air, and put the fire out. Then, with ladders poking into the treetops, they rescued the dangling aeronauts.

Jake and Jack were drenched, but they did their civic duty. “Hey, you fellers, there's a church on fire,” said Jake earnestly, picking up his bowler hat from the middle of a puddle.

“Up the road apiece,” said Jack, rescuing his from another puddle.

“Probably burned to the ground by now,” said Hector with a grin.

“We'll take a look,” said the heroic chief of the volunteers. “Gentlemen, hop on board.”

At once, the steaming machine was tearing up the road again with Hector, Jack, and Jake bouncing on the running board. The galloping team slowed down as the firemen caught sight of the new church. All heads swiveled to the left, looking for smoke and flame, but except for the blackened steeple, the little building seemed undamaged.

“Fire's out,” said Jack.

“Rain did it,” said Jake.

“Gee-up,” shouted the fire chief, and soon the bold volunteers were barreling along the road in the direction of a famous tavern in the town of Acton. Neither Jack nor Jake turned their heads the other way, nor did any of the gallant firefighters, to see a small boy huddled in the wet grass.

But Eben, whipping Mab into a lather and racing after the mighty engine of the Nashoba Steam Fire Society, looked not only to the left at the blackened steeple but also to the right, to the place where his small nephew was crawling out of the ditch. Horace was wet and weeping but unhurt. Eben picked him up, wrapped him in his coat, and carried him home.

Girded for Any Horror

H
orace, oh, Horace,” cried Ida, enfolding him while his grandmother ran upstairs for a dry shirt and a pair of drawers.

Eben was soaking wet, too, but he ran out again into the night and jumped up on the seat of the wagon. When Mab gave him a reproachful look, he said, “Sorry, old girl,” and urged her into a canter. But at once he had to pull her to a clumsy halt, because his mother was screeching at him and handing up an umbrella. The rain had stopped, but Eben took it, popped it open, and clucked at Mab, who bounced into a trot and carried him briskly back along the road to Nashoba.

On the way, he stopped to pick up his brother-in-law. Alexander had been looking for Horace all over town. Water trickled from his whiskers and his trousers were soaked with mud, but he laughed with delight at Eben's good news. His gig was waiting beside Josiah's gate, and Alexander took off at once for home.

There was no laughter in Josiah's house. When Eben reported that Horace had been found, Josiah said grimly, “Then it's only James who is missing,” and Isabelle caught at Eben's coat and cried, “Oh, where can he be?” and her mother said softly, “Surely he's looking for the boy.”

Then Eben remembered the blackened steeple of Josiah's church. He began to tell them, then checked himself and said, “I found Horace on the road beside the church. Perhaps James was there, too. I'll go back.”

Isabelle snatched up her shawl, and her mother pleaded, “No, dear, no,” but Josiah said, “Let her go.”

Then Eben gave Josiah a warning look. “I'm afraid, sir, there was a fire.”

At this, Josiah pulled on his rain-drenched coat and girded himself for any horror.

In the wagon, no one said a word as Mab trotted solemnly along the Acton Turnpike. Nor did they speak as they stood together on the trampled grass and gazed up at the blackened steeple in the light of Josiah's lantern. Around them, the haunted clearing gave off a sense of sorrow. There was an ugly smell of burning.

“Wait here,” said Eben to Isabelle.

“Yes, my dear, wait,” said Josiah.

“No, no,” cried Isabelle, and she clung to her father's arm.

But when Eben urged her again, saying, “You must wait, Isabelle,” she let go of Josiah's arm and stood back, trembling.

Waiting alone in the dark, she listened to the hollow echo of their boots on the floorboards inside the church. Then there were other small noises, and finally no sound at all. Eben and Josiah had been gone a long while when Isabelle at last called out, “Father?”

There was no reply, but soon Josiah's lantern flickered in the doorway and he came out, followed by Eben. Their faces were grave.

Josiah went to his daughter and took her hand. “Oh, what is it?” whispered Isabelle. When he told her that they had found James and that he was dead, she broke down and fell to her knees.

Isabelle did not often weep. She had cared for her stricken husband in hospitals in Washington and Philadelphia and in a rooming house in New York City, and here at home she had nursed him with unfailing devotion. For three suffering years, she had borne it without faltering, but now she threw herself down on the wet ground. Her sobs were not gentle and ladylike. Isabelle blubbered and tore with her fingers at the grass.

Her father murmured in pity and stooped to help her, but Eben reached past him, lifted Isabelle in his arms, and carried her to the wagon. Then Josiah took the reins and Eben kept his arm around Isabelle, who leaned against him, racked with weeping.

NOW

The Lost and Found Steeple

TODAY'S SPECIALS

Green Pepper, Onion & Mushroom Pizza

Provolone & Pepperoni Pizza

Cheese, Pepperoni & Sausage Pizza

Mozzarella & Pepperoni Pizza

Tomato, Sausage & Zucchini Pizza

The Works

The Call of Nature

F
or the customers of the Nashoba pizza parlor, the lack of public rest rooms was like the scarcity of indoor plumbing in the old town of Nashoba. Mary whirled the car into the weedy parking lot and zoomed to a stop, and Homer leaped out and plunged into the wilderness.

It was not a pretty wilderness, but a wasteland. Homer shoved hastily through a thicket of burdock, collecting burrs on the sleeves of his sweater, and headed for a stand of dead trees. But even here the protective cover was too sparse for Homer's modesty, which was more hoity-toity than one might have expected in a burly, bewhiskered male of the species, six feet, six inches tall. Homer pushed on and broke through the wasteland at last into a glade screened by willow trees. It was perfect. Homer relieved himself gratefully, then looked around as he zipped up his pants, aware of something odd about the place, a kind of frowsy dignity.

Then he saw the reason. A tall stone stood at one side of the glade, half-overgrown with Virginia creeper. It did not look like a glacial boulder. Ankle-deep in brambles, Homer pulled aside the crimson leaves. He was not surprised to find an inscription neatly carved on the face of the granite. The letters were encrusted with moss and lichen, but he could make out a pair of crossed swords, the mark of a soldier's grave.

Back in the parking lot, he found Mary napping in the backseat. “Come on,” he said, giving her a shake. “You've got to see this.”

She reared up sleepily and said, “Do I have to?”