Firehorse (9781442403352) (25 page)

When enough of the harness was unfastened, Mr. Stead rose and ordered the young man to release the horse's head. Immediately the dark gelding began flailing like some giant black water bug trapped on its back. As he searched for a hold, his iron-shod hooves scraped the cobblestones in a frantic staccato. Eventually he got his front end up but then, gasping like a
half-drowned creature, he sank back, his hindquarters still twisted uselessly on the ground. Sweat slicked his coat. Violent tremors shook his body. Mr. Stead slapped the horse's flank, urging him to try again. The gelding swayed, obviously in a state of shock and exhaustion, but mustered his strength. Grunting with the effort, he lunged forward. One hind leg found footing beneath his massive body, and the other one joined in, and together they pushed him off the street.

Onlookers applauded, relief on their faces. The horse, on the other hand, a finely bred gelding as dark as polished mahogany, looked completely emptied. He whinnied anxiously, and somewhere down the street an unseen horse whinnied understanding. I longed to throw my arms around him and stroke his neck and tell him everything was going to be all right.

Mr. Stead began helping the same young man refit the harness, and together they drew the buggy forward. Its folding canopy tilted and sagged like a sprung umbrella, and the men had to force it into place. With the crowd thinning, I was able to hear some of their conversation.

“Have you got it on that side?”

“Almost, just give me a … there, that's it.”

The driver, meanwhile, was retrieving fallen packages from the street's windblown debris. He dumped a couple into the buggy with such a careless clatter that the gelding startled and leaped forward. Mr. Stead grabbed the reins.

Turning to pick up another package, the driver said irritably, “I owe you my thanks, I suppose. That blasted animal intended
on lying there the livelong day.” It took every ounce of Mother's training for me not to race over and kick him in the shins.

Mr. Stead didn't acknowledge the man's callous words. He was carefully running a hand down each of the horse's shivering legs, murmuring reassurances. When he'd worked his way back to the top, he cupped the horse's jowl in his hand and gazed into the animal's eye. That relaxed the gelding enough that he tried nibbling the brim of Mr. Stead's black bowler hat.

“I'm behind schedule,” the driver said, leaping into the buggy and reclaiming his whip, “so if you don't mind?”

Mr. Stead closed his fist on the reins. “I do mind. And I'd advise you to take this horse more slowly until he gets his confidence back.” The driver waved away the advice but found the veterinary not as easily dismissed. “He has some bad scrapes the length of his near hip and on his hock, and a nasty cut below this fetlock here.” He indicated it with the toe of his boot. “They'll need warm bandages tonight. You'll see to that?”

A silent stare-down ensued. When the driver realized he wasn't going anywhere until he agreed, he said, “Yes, yes, of course. I'll have someone see to it. Now, if you don't mind?” He wriggled like a spoiled child and tugged on the reins. This time Mr. Stead released them. Without even looking for an opening, the man yanked the gelding into traffic, brandished his whip, and went rattling away at a wobbly trot.

Shaking his head, Mr. Stead picked up his satchel and came walking straight toward me. Nonsensically, I froze against the lamp. That put us eye to eye.

“Have you ever seen such reckless driving on a city street?” he asked. “And they'll upend themselves again, no doubt—more's the pity for that nice gelding.” Doffing his hat and cocking a sideways smile at my unusual position, he said, “How are you, Miss Selby?”

“Fine,” I replied, though the scrolled metalwork was carving into my ribs. “Thank you.”

“Good.” His single glance at my hands made me want to hide them away again. But there they were, for all the world to see. I expected him to comment; the thought formed on his face, I saw it. Instead he asked, “How's our mare doing today?”

And that one little word “our” gave me another bubbling chill. “I've led her out,” I told him. “She trotted as sound as ever and even bucked some. I think she's feeling much better.”

He looked impressed. “You took her out all by yourself? She can be quite a handful, you know, even for the men at the station.”

“I know,” I said, giddy with pride. “We get along splendidly.”

I needed to move off the lamp base; the situation bordered on lunacy. Yet I was so eager to sustain the conversation that I clung to that pole as tightly as one of Mother's climbing ivies.

Mr. Stead cleared his throat and shoved his free hand into his pocket. His face lit. “Would you care for a peppermint?”

“Yes,” I answered, and decided that was reason enough to hop down. “Thank you.”

Another awkward silence ensued as we each rolled the
hard candies in our mouths, clacking them against our teeth, spinning them with our tongues. I watched two boys flinging leaves off the bridge in the Public Garden. I breathed in the smells of marigolds and roasted meats and chimney smoke, all cleansed by the bite of peppermint. As a chill gust of September wind parted around us, I realized the shelter Mr. Stead provided and felt newly warmed.

“I believe I owe you an apology,” he began abruptly, “for not … well, you see, some of my clients warned that I … oh, it's this distemper business as much as anything. It's spreading like smallpox. Everyone has sick horses, it seems.” He crunched his candy into nothing and swallowed. “In fact, I'm on my way over to McLaughlin's Livery, where I keep Balder, to see some more right now. I'll be driving on to the fire station near your house afterward and”—he dropped his gaze to his boots and I found myself admiring his sandy-colored eyelashes and the sprinkling of freckles across his eyelids—“and I'd be pleased … um … to offer you a ride home.”

Now
this
could be a day to end all days! “Well, yes, thank you,” I sputtered. “I'd like that.” And just as easily as that, we headed back up Boylston and past the public library. If there had been storm clouds on that last occasion at our house nearly three months ago, they were gone now. I couldn't be happier walking at his side.

“Are you still reading that manual of yours?”

“Almost finished,” I answered.

I expected a look of surprise or maybe a small compliment,
but he walked on without saying anything. The man could be maddeningly close-mouthed. We turned up Tremont Street.

“Your father is certainly making a name for himself with his columns,” he said. “I hear everyone talking about them.”

Oh, so that was it. I hadn't received Father's permission yet, and he was holding it against me. “Yes, he does like the front page.”

“He seems to keep long hours. Just last Wednesday evening I was seeing to a horse over on Atlantic—a case of bog spavin—and as chance would have it, a fire broke out in one of the warehouses, and there he was, already on the scene, furiously scribbling notes.”

As chance would have it? At once I could smell the smoke that always seemed to cling to Father like an invisible cloud, and a cold wave of suspicion rolled over me. “Yes,” I replied with an involuntary shiver, “he does work hard.”

A stamped metal horse head advertised the location of McLaughlin's Livery, though a cloud of blackflies did the same. As we approached its cavernous entry, Mr. Stead stiffened slightly. He seemed to be having second thoughts, and his hand tightened on my arm. “Stay close,” he murmured. Day became night as we stepped into the murky stable.

“Ah, the veterinary! Here at last!” An elfin liveryman hobbled from his office to clasp Mr. Stead's hand. His legs bowed wide in parentheses, reserving the space for a missing horse. “My thanks for coming. It's gone from bad to worse for us here. Say, do you want Balder harnessed?”

“Yes, if you will. I have more calls.”

The man motioned to a rail-thin stableboy, who hurried away. “And who is
this
angel at your side?” His leer was softened just enough by his grandfatherly age to keep me from bolting. “She's a welcome sight.”

“Mr. McLaughlin, allow me to introduce Miss Rachel Selby. I've offered her a ride home—to see to her horse,” he added quickly. “She has a wonderful way with them.”

I cringed as Mr. McLaughlin examined me as critically as he would an animal up for auction. “Does she now?” he replied. “My granddaughter does too.” Maybe I'd pegged him all wrong. “I think the horses come to appreciate a female hand. They're not so dumb as to turn away from a soft pat when they're more used to the whip, eh?” His metallic blue eyes glinted. “Some of my drivers could probably learn a thing or two from you, miss.”

“Well, maybe not. I've … never actually driven a horse. I'd like to learn, though.”

He and Mr. Stead exchanged raised eyebrows and I winced. Too bold.

“Well, we'll just have to see about that now, won't we?” Switching to the subject at hand, he gestured for us to follow. “The first one's this way.”

The enormous livery was more like a cave than a barn, and the deeper we traveled into it, the heavier the air became. It was practically dripping with the dank odors of ammonia and manure and mildewed leather. Yet for all its lack of light, the stable was
bustling. Horses rattled their tie rings and stamped and nickered. Boys whistled as they mucked stalls, their sidelong glances marking our passage. Others scurried here and there, shouting orders and filling them. Squeaking carriages were rolled out to the vast, planked center of the barn, where horses were led singly or in pairs to have harnesses slapped across their broad backs.

As we passed one of the carriage rooms, I marveled at the beautiful vehicles stored there: oil-black coupés sporting curved glass fronts, emerald-green rockaways accented by carmine or violet seats, a charming basket phaeton awaiting next summer's country excursions. The room even held an ominous-looking hearse, somberly painted in black and silver and ornamented with dusty, drooping plumes. Even without a casket inside, the sight gave me gooseflesh.

“Bartley!” Mr. McLaughlin hollered down one long aisle. “Bring up Firecracker.” A smoke-colored cat trotted across his path just then, dangling a limp rodent from her mouth, and in the same breath, though more kindly, he said, “That's a good puss.”

During the wait Mr. Stead opened his satchel and donned his apron. The stableboy finally returned from the livery's dark recesses, dragging behind him a lethargic dappled horse who could barely stagger. When the animal caught a hoof on a loose plank and tripped, he very nearly pitched onto his nose. That set off a series of explosive coughs.

“How long has he been like this?” Mr. Stead asked the livery owner.

“About a week.”

The man received an exasperated look.

“I know, I know. I should've had you look at him sooner. But there's near three hundred horses here. I can't pay for a veterinary every time one gets a snotty nose.” The smallish man tried a defiant glare, but it was shot through with guilt.

Laying an ear to the horse's throat, Mr. Stead asked, “What have you been doing for him in the meantime?”

“I had the boys drench him with some Epsom salts and I've upped his ration, but he's not eating any of it.” The man glanced meekly at me and tested a smile.

Mr. Stead examined the horse's crusted nostrils. He felt for heat in the ears and ran his hands down the legs, frowning all the while, then laid his own ear against the horse's throat again. Finally he straightened. “Well, I don't think it's pneumonia—yet. But he's got the distemper for sure.”

Mr. McLaughlin groaned.

“How many more like him?”

“Five.”

Mr. Stead cocked his head, questioning.

“Well, five for sure. Maybe another ten or twelve on their way.”

“That's only the beginning, I assure you.”

Poor Firecracker could hardly breathe. Braced on splayed legs, he drooped his head nearly to the floor. Each strangled gasp required a spasmodic wrenching of his neck. Mr. Stead pulled some bottles from his satchel.

“How much is this going to cost me?”

Mr. Stead glanced over his shoulder reprovingly. “My normal charge is fifty cents a horse, but if you don't have it, you can take an equal amount off Balder's bill.”

The liveryman nodded, though he didn't agree to anything.

One by one, half-dead horses were dragged to the spot to have a black, cily liquid forced down their throats. They didn't have the strength to struggle and stumbled back to their stalls just as spiritlessly. When Mr. McLaughlin called out for Buddy to be brought up, however, the stableboy returned empty-handed, as pale as if he'd witnessed a ghost.

“He's dead, sir,” he told the man. “Dead, right in his stall—stiff as a board.”

A crushing sorrow gripped me. Every bone in my body ached to do something to help, but I was ordered to stay in my place while the men went to examine poor Buddy's remains. They returned somberly, the liveryman looking all the more shamed.

“It's not your fault,” Mr. Stead reassured him. “This distemper is a nasty piece of work. But move the others up closer to the front of the barn, if you can. They need the fresh air. And try scrubbing their stalls and mangers with a strong decoction of tobacco. That will help keep the disease from spreading.”

Mr. McLaughlin nodded humbly as we climbed into the waiting buggy. “Thank you. I'll do it right off, that I will. And Balder'll be getting extra rations this week—on the house.”

As if he understood, the bay gelding whinnied exuberantly. It was the only happy note in an otherwise gloomy place, and we drove away in silence.

TWENTY-THREE