Firehorse (9781442403352) (35 page)

“Not anymore,” I half-croaked. I felt my face flush. “I'm going to become a veterinary. I'm determined to do it. The veterinary college here in Boston, the one where you went, turned me down, but Grandmother left me money, and I'm going to apply to some other colleges and … and I want to thank you for everything you've done. I promise I won't let you down.”

Gentle humor lit his eyes. “I hope I don't let
you
down.” Affectionately he brushed the tip of my nose just the way Grandmother had, and I got another pang at that. He ducked
under the bar, all business again. “I'm completely used up, so I'm heading home for a long nap—I hope. I'll stop by tomorrow to check on him—and you,” he added, smiling, “but send for me sooner if you need me.”

“I will.” I didn't want him to go; I wanted the three of us to stand ankle deep in the sweet-smelling straw and savor all that had happened, but I also needed time to think. And the carriage shed, even on a cold November afternoon, was the perfect place for contemplating the future.

When Mr. Stead's footsteps had faded, I turned back to the colt. He stopped his fretting long enough to nose my pocket inquisitively. He was a smart one; he'd already learned about the peppermints. I laughed and ran my fingers through his short, fluffy mane. He bumped me again. “All right, all right,” I said. Reaching into my pocket, I discovered Mary Grace's letter. I'd almost forgotten it. Quickly I handed the colt his peppermint. He nodded his head up and down with enthusiasm, and I took that opportunity to duck out of the stall.

The packing quilt was folded on an empty barrel. I shook it free of dust and spiders, wrapped its heaviness around my shoulders, and settled onto the crate. Already smiling at what I expected to be Mary Grace's dramatics, I tore open the envelope. When I unfolded the letter, a small coil of reddish horsehair fell onto my lap. I knew at once it was from Peaches, and my heart gave an anxious thud. The heading was dated October 5,
1872—over a month ago. What could have delayed its delivery?

“Dear Rachel,” Mary Grace began.

I'm terribly sorry it's taken me so long to write. You know me, always tackling too many tasks in one day, correspondence rarely being one of them. I've been so busy planning my wedding that I've hardly had time to eat, which I've found is beneficial to the waistline
and
fainting spells. Mother says I'll be marching down the aisle in my underdrawers if I don't hurry up and decide on fabric for a dress, but did you ever realize how many different shades of white there are?

The real reason I'm writing is to tell you about your horse, Peaches. Why didn't you tell me that you were planning on selling her? I was so shocked to see her offered for sale at that old Mr. Cox's livery, and I said to myself, “They can't sell Rachel's horse to just anybody; it's not right.” So I made my father go right down there and buy her for my sister Lucy. She's moony for horses like you were—are you still? —and I knew that your mare would take good care of her. Anyway, she lives in our carriage house now with Father's other horses and I think you would say that she's happy here. Lucy combs her mane so much that it rivals my hair for shine, and I don't think that horse goes to sleep at night until she's bedded knee-deep in clean straw. I've even caught Lucy trying to sleep in her stall with her. Honestly, she's just like you
.

And that's the other reason I wanted her to have your horse, Rachel. You see, I've always admired you. I know we ‘re different—I like clothes and shoes and fine china and you like horses, horses, and
horses! Ha! But I like the fact that you never cared what people thought of you. I probably care too much, and that's its own kind of misery. I hope my sister grows up to be like you: strong and able to stand on her own two feet and on her own terms
.

I was going to close this letter, but Lucy just came in and dropped this awful hank of hair on my writing desk. She says it's to remind you of Peaches and to let you know that she's happy. I hope you are too
.

With all my best wishes
,

Mary Grace
.

Brimming with emotion, I refolded the letter and cradled it in my hands. The chestnut colt—I'd have to think of a name for him—was watching me with an impish look that promised adventure, and I smiled back at him with complete and utter satisfaction. Now
this
was a day to end all days … or to begin them.

The Great Boston Fire of 1872 occurred only one year after Chicago's devastation. This historic blaze ate through Boston, destroying 775 buildings and causing millions of dollars in damage. The first sparks came from an empty hoopskirt factory, but how they ignited is still a mystery.

What made this fire unlike any of the other “great fires” of the time, though, is that half of Boston's firefighting strength—the horses—were sick or dead in their stalls when the alarm rang out. A huge epidemic, variously called “distemper” or “influenza” or “epizootic,” was storming across the country that year. The disease had struck some thirty thousand horses in New York alone, and in Boston, commerce was at a virtual standstill. The city became a tinderbox, unprotected, and on the evening of November 9, everyone learned the value of the missing firehorses.

As I began to collect research materials on this unique event, and as a story began to form in my mind, I came across the diary of a fourteen-year-old girl who'd lived in Boston in
1872. Her writings became a prime resource, not only for the daily weather, but for household activities, meal preparation, and, most importantly, characteristic hopes and dreams of a Victorian teenager. Rachel's drive and her often intense emotions are modeled on the spirit of that diary.

But was the diary's author typical? Just what could girls achieve in 1872? Outside the home, I discovered, not much. This was an era when women couldn't vote, couldn't own property and, if they managed to enroll in university courses, often found that the boys in those courses refused to share the classroom with them. A retired Harvard medical professor even published a book warning that women who strived for such higher levels of learning risked the atrophy of their reproductive organs.

And yet there were stirrings—maybe corsets weren't necessary, maybe skating or hiking wasn't overly dangerous, maybe employment outside the home wasn't completely impossible. Independent spirits such as Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony were tirelessly demanding that women receive the same legal rights as men. In New York City, Dr. Emily Blackwell was overseeing the Women's Medical College founded by her sister and fellow physician, Elizabeth. Out west, Calamity Jane (born Martha Jane Cannary) was dressing in soldier's clothes and serving as a scout for George Custer. She rode, shot, and drank with the men. (Back East, though, it would take another thirty years for riding “cross-saddle” like a man to lose its scandal.)

So … what would happen if a girl who simply loved horses, who required their presence as much as she required
oxygen, decided to become a veterinarian? In 1872 she'd have to fight against so many institutions: social convention, scientific “fact,” familial beliefs, and even religious constraints. Could an adolescent have the strength to strike out on her own path, relying only on an instinct that said “this is what I was born to do”?

With the framework of my story in place, I set out to fill in the details. I read several novels from the period to better understand Victorian language and customs, as well as such conveniences as horsecars, kerosene lamps, and iceboxes. I consulted books on firefighting history to learn about firehorses and their training. Amazing. These specially chosen horses had to be brave enough to gallop
toward
a blazing fire rather than away from it. They had to be strong enough to pull a steam engine weighing two tons or more, yet agile enough to negotiate narrow streets and tight corners. On top of that, they had to be smart enough to dart from their stalls at the sound of the alarm and back into position in front of the engine or ladder or hose cart, waiting to be harnessed. It's no wonder these talented horses became neighborhood heroes.

As I was working my way through this novel, a serendipitous but calamitous event occurred: strangles (an equine disease also known as distemper) infected a stable run by a good friend of mine. I saw firsthand how the firehorses must have suffered: fever, lethargy, respiratory distress, a chokingly thick nasal discharge (horses can't breathe through their mouths.) Week upon week of stall rest was the only safe treatment agreed upon by local veterinarians, though antibiotics and surgical drainage were advised for the more severe cases. One horse died.

What did veterinarians of 1872 do for this disease? Research showed that veterinary medicine was still in its infancy at the time. While a few reputable veterinary schools existed, a diploma could easily be purchased through the mail. Antique veterinary manuals from my own collection advised noxious tonics and/or bloodletting for almost every illness.

I'd visited Boston once, but as I neared the climax of my story, I decided to travel there again. I arrived in late October, just two weeks before the anniversary of the fire. I walked the Common and the historic neighborhoods surrounding it, taking lots of photographs. I spent one fascinating morning in the city's library reading archived newspaper accounts of the fire, and discovering how the front pages of newspapers in 1872 featured stories little different from those of today. From those accounts I also tried to acquire an ear for the more florid language of the time so that Mr. Selby's columns would sound authentic.

Back home, one detail was still missing. I've ridden all my life, so I could draw on personal experience for much of Rachel's interaction with Peaches, and later, the Girl. I've often assisted equine veterinarians (and my father is a retired veterinarian), so I've seen much of what Rachel experiences. But one thing I'd not done is ridden—let alone galloped—a large, draft-type horse. A friend arranged for me to experience the power of a magnificent Friesian on a wide-open trail. Though I wasn't bareback, I was thus able to imagine Rachel's first breathtaking gallop astride the Governor's Girl.

As a woman living in the twenty-first century, I'm lucky
to have had spirited women pave the way for me. Yet even in these times of “equal rights” I've been told on more than one occasion that women can't or shouldn't venture into certain areas reserved for men. I don't believe that. This story is for all those girls who have been told “you can't” and still decide for themselves that “I can.”