The Firebrand

The fire lashed out with a roar, its long tentacles of flame reaching for the hysterical woman trapped in the window, grasping her.

Lucy stood alone under the window, the heat singeing her eyebrows and lashes. She had no idea how to help the poor woman. The hotel entry was impassable, its doors blasted out by the flames, the marble lobby melting in the inferno. She looked around wildly for a ladder, a rope, anything.

The woman’s screaming spiked to a shrill peal of hysteria. Her dress or nightgown had caught fire. A second later, the screaming stopped. Then something fell from the window.

Simple reflex caused Lucy to hold out her arms. The impact knocked her to the pavement, and once again the air rushed from her lungs. A cracking sound, like the report of a shotgun, split the air. The walls of the hotel shook, and the roof caved in, sucking down the big glass dome, and then the flaming rubble of the building itself. The woman disappeared, swallowed like a pagan sacrifice into the devouring flames.

Lucy sensed a movement in the bundle she held, but there was no time to check. She forced herself to scramble to her feet. Still clutching the bedding, she ran for her life, hearing the swish of raining glass and the boom of gas lines igniting. With a glance over her shoulder, she saw a geyser of smoke and sparks where the hotel used to be. Racing to the river, she hurtled down the bank toward the water. She slipped in the mud, landed on her backside and slid downward into darkness. Firelight glimmered on the churning surface of the water, but the immediate area was sheltered from the flames.

Something buried within the bundle of bedding moved again.

Lucy shrieked and set it down. Planting her hands behind her, she crab-walked away.

Then she heard a sound, the mewing of a kitten.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, disgusted with herself. “The poor woman was trying to save her cat.” What a noble deed, she thought. The woman must have known she could not survive the fire, and as her last act on earth she’d bundled up her pet and tossed it to a stranger for safekeeping.

Hurrying now, Lucy knelt down beside the untidy parcel. The least she could do for the doomed woman was look after the cat. Firelight fell over her, and she felt a fresh stab of panic, knowing she’d best get over the bridge to safety.

The bulky parcel had been tied with satin ribbons of good quality, a man’s leather belt and a long organdy sash. A lady’s robe or peignoir formed the outer wrapping, and inside that were two pillows, a quilt and what appeared to be an infant’s receiving blanket.

With more urgency than a child on Christmas morning, Lucy removed the wrappings, hoping the cat wouldn’t bolt once she freed it.

It didn’t bolt. It wasn’t a cat.

Lucy shrieked again, this time with surprise, not fear.

Her shriek caused the little creature to wail in terror, round mouth open like the maw of a hatchling wanting to be fed.

Except it wasn’t a hatchling, either. It was a baby. No, a toddler.

Lucy couldn’t speak, couldn’t even think. The firelight winked over the child, who kept wailing and pedaling chubby legs under a long pale gown.

“Oh, God,” Lucy whispered. “Oh, Lord above.” She could think of nothing more to say, and had no idea what to do. A baby. She’d saved somebody’s baby.

She couldn’t tell if it was male or female, though she saw with some relief that it was moving and bawling with great vigor. The fall from the window hadn’t hurt it in the least. It must be hardier than it looked, then.

“Who…what on earth am I going to do with you?” Lucy asked, looking the child in the eye.

Something in her tone or her look must have caught the baby’s attention, for it stopped crying and simply stared at her.

“Well?” she asked, encouraged.

The baby took a deep breath. Lucy actually thought it might speak to her, though she realized it was a very young child. Then it let loose with another wail. As she watched, it rolled over and crawled away, trailing the little blanket in the mud.

Lucy was completely at a loss. She’d never seen a baby up close before, but the sight of it, so helpless and lost, sparked a powerful instinct in her. She reached out and touched it, then tried to gather it up in her arms.

It was awkward, like trying to hold a wriggling litter of puppies, all waving limbs, surprisingly powerful.

“Come now,” Lucy said. “There, there.”

The baby quieted when she spoke, and stilled its flailing for a moment. The heated sky glowed ominously, and she knew she had to get them both to safety. When she stood, the child clung to her, its tiny hands clutching at her and its legs circling her waist.

“You poor thing,” she said, eyeing the burning sky. “We have to go. Once you’re safe, we’ll find out who you belong to.”

But in her heart of hearts, she already knew that the child’s mother had perished in the collapsing hotel. Somehow she would have to find its surviving family. Not now, though. Now, her challenge was to make her way to her parents’ home.

“Come along,” she said. Her hand curved around the baby’s head. The curly, fair hair was soft as down. “I’ll take care of you.” Keeping up a patter of encouraging words, she struggled with the ungainly burden of the child, climbing the riverbank toward the bridge. “You’ll be safe with me.”

“Oh, thank the Heavenly Father above, you’re safe.” Patience Gloriana Washington opened the door of the huge mansion on North Avenue to let Lucy in. Patience wore her plain preacher’s garb, a habit she’d adopted when she’d embraced poverty, but no somber robe could mask her naturally regal air. Though she had never set foot outside Chicago, she resembled an African princess. Famous for her magnetic preaching in Chicago’s largest Negro church, Patience was a close friend of the Hathaway family. Her older sister, Willa Jean, had been the Hathaways’ housekeeper since the war ended, and Lucy and Patience had practically grown up together.

“Land a-mercy, what you got there, girl?” she asked, regarding the muddy, bedraggled bundle in Lucy’s arms.

Lucy sagged against the door, exhausted, her arms shaking from carrying the baby all the way from the bridge. About ten blocks ago, it had fallen dead asleep, its head heavy on her shoulder, and now it rested there, ungainly as a sack of potatoes.

“It’s a baby,” she whispered, pushing aside the blanket to reveal a head of wispy golden curls. “Its mother bundled it up and dropped it from a window while the building burned and I—I caught it.” She took a long, shuddering breath. “Then the building collapsed, and I fear the woman died.”

“I swear, that’s a miracle for sure.” A soft glow suffused Patience’s face. “It purely is. Especially since—” She broke off. “Boy or girl?”

Lucy blinked. “I don’t know. There wasn’t time to check.”

“Land sakes, let’s take a look.” With expert hands, Patience took the sleeping baby into the parlor and gently laid it on an ottoman. The child stirred and whimpered, but didn’t fully awaken. She unpinned its diaper. “A girl,” she said. “A precious baby girl. Looks to be about a year old, more or less.”

Lucy stared in awe as Patience swaddled the child. A baby girl. She couldn’t believe she’d rescued a baby girl. The child stretched and yawned, then blinked. When she saw Patience’s face, she let out a thin wail.

“Oh, please,” Lucy said. “Please don’t cry, baby.”

When she spoke, the baby turned to her, and an amazing thing happened. Something like recognition shone in the little round face, and she reached up with chubby hands. The deep, fierce instinct swept over Lucy again, and she picked the little girl up. “There now,” she said. “There, there.” Nonsense words, but they made the crying stop.

Patience watched them both, her eyes filled with a sad sort of knowing. “The Almighty is at work tonight,” she murmured. “Sure enough, he is.”

For the first time, Lucy noticed streaks of hastily dried tears on Patience’s face. A chill slid through her, and she stood up, still holding the tiny girl. “What’s happened?”

Patience touched her cheek, her warm, dry hand trembling a little. “You best go see your mama, honey. Your daddy was bad hurt fighting the fire.”

Lucy felt the rhythm of dread pounding in her chest like a dirge.

“I’ll take the baby,” Patience offered.

“I’ve got her.” Lucy led the way up the stairs and rushed to her father’s bedroom, adjoined by double doors to his wife’s suite of rooms. Dr. Hauptmann was bent over the four-poster bed, and Viola Hathaway sat in a chair beside it. Patience’s sister, Willa Jean, knelt on the floor, crooning a soft spiritual.

Lucy had never seen her mother in such a disheveled state. She wore a dressing gown and her hair hung loose around her face. Holding her arms clasped across her middle, she rocked rhythmically back and forth, taking in little sobs of air with the motion.

“Mama!” Lucy hurried over to her. “Are you all right? What happened to the Colonel?”

The doctor stood up, pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to hold in emotion. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured. “So very sorry.”

“Lucy, my dear Lucy,” her mother said, never taking her eyes off her husband. “He’s gone. Our dear dear Colonel is gone.”