AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The hours that followed were a blur for Clara. Eventually, the footmen transported everything to the tents. Mr. Pyle had already used or distributed all the medicines, bandages, blankets, and consumables he brought earlier.
The LLS tents were already full, as were the other tents and makeshift structures. One of their tents was dedicated to the most seriously injured who needed transport to a hospital; the other was for firefighters and workers needing treatment for minor injuries or simply rest.
Clara surprised even herself with how unflappable she was as a caregiver in light of the gruesome burns and injuries. Caring for her aunt had half prepared her. Toward the end, Violet’s paralysis and bedridden state entailed sores and infection, and Clara’s research wide and far exposed her to literature where all manner of wounds were discussed and illustrated in detail.
She was more prepared for this work than any lady she knew, though Mr. Pyle was certainly the most composed. His shipboard medical training and cool demeanor were much needed. He toiled in the tent full of graver injuries, tending to men such as the steam powered pump operator whose hand had been amputated by the machinery.
As discreetly as she could, Clara inquired after James. Many had seen him or heard of him, but none could state his current whereabouts. Finally, she abandoned the pretense of discretion and openly quizzed every person she treated or with whom she had contact.
To no avail.
Toward the end of the day, in staggered another man. Stella and Clara each took one arm and guided him to a blanket on the ground. His once-white shirt was the color of coal, his pants filthy and torn. Though unbearably hot, the men kept their jackets on for protection against the barrage of sparks and debris.
The man’s face was coated with a deep layer of soot that settled into his every wrinkle and pore, making his bright blue eyes even more remarkable. They seemed lit from within. His hands were burnt and blistered, and he had the variety of abrasions and burns all men were coming in with.
Most of all, he was near collapse with exhaustion, even as his body jerked with coughing spasms. Working quickly with their basins and linen, Stella and Clara cleansed his face and hands as best they could.
Stella asked the man’s name as she applied unguent. As intimidatingly beautiful as she was, she put the men at ease by speaking with them on the most mundane of topics.
“Chavers. Isaac Chavers,” he answered listlessly, his voice raw.
Overhearing, Clara’s ears perked up. “Are you Mr. Robertson’s man of business?”
“Yes.” He looked at her with dazed curiosity. For the first time, he looked at his surroundings, then back at Clara.
“Do you know where he is? I must find him.”
He nodded, staring as if trying to place her. But he still didn’t speak—he could barely keep his eyes open.
“Please. Where might I find him, exactly?”
“I’ll show you,” he answered. Now that he was on the ground, however, he was too exhausted to rise.
“I didn’t intend to pester you, sir. I’m an acquaintance of Mr. Robertson’s, and very concerned about him. Is he well?”
“He’s alive.”
“Does he need to rest? Does he need help?”
Chavers nodded. “I can tell you where he is.”
Between coughs, he described the area where a wall had fallen and men worked with bare hands, hooks, and ropes to lift debris and save those trapped.
“Go,” Stella urged. “I’ll finish with Mr. Chavers.”
Clara carefully set his bandaged hand on the blankets and rose.
“Em, follow me,” she asked the young Violet House maid. They linked arms, covered their noses and mouths with handkerchiefs, and exited the tent.
Clara led her in the direction Mr. Chavers had indicated—and into hell.
They picked their way through debris-filled informal paths between wrecked buildings. Some of the items were recognizable—masonry stone and brick from the buildings, metal hardware bands that remained after the wood from barrels burned away, assorted metal wares like railway ties that had arrived in port to be distributed around the country.
Clara stepped on a smoldering pile of rubble and jumped when the heat seared through the soles of her half-boots. Eventually, they reached the area Mr. Chavers had described.
A crowd of men, all seeming weary and yet tireless, were taking down a pile, brick by brick. Many more were in the surrounding area, taking breaks or just watching.
She searched desperately, looking past the grime on faces and the rags the men wore, hunting instead for James’s unmistakable form. Her body knew his.
