The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [154]
Meanwhile, the commotion outside our door grew even more deafening; the temperature began to rise, and as the early-morning light began to fill our room, we could see that the air was beginning to turn hazy. The smell of smoke stung the inside of my nostrils.
Oh, where was Mr. Bleeker? Why had he not burst into the room to save us, as he always did? But maybe he needed to be saved, for a change; what if they were sleeping, incredibly, through all this? I dropped the sheet I was holding and ran to the door once more—but the hallway was now thick with smoke, with even more people covering their eyes, choking, running, and still crying that one word—“Fire!”
I shut the door, knowing I couldn’t open it again unless we had no choice but to try to make our way out through that teeming, terrifying hallway. But I couldn’t let any more smoke inside our room; while Charles was trying to knot the sheets together, I shoved two of my dresses beneath the doorway to try to keep the smoke out. The Bleekers couldn’t save us, and I couldn’t save them; we were all on our own, now. I could only pray that we would see one another, safe and sound, when all was over.
“Vinnie, it’s so hard—my hands are too small!” Charles protested, massaging his wrist. I ran to help him; it was difficult, knotting those heavy hotel sheets together; I didn’t know how we’d get them secure enough to hold our weight.
“Here, tug on this,” I told him, grabbing one end of two knotted sheets and handing him the other. “Tug hard!”
He did, I did—and the sheets slid apart. We stared at each other; Charles sat down upon the floor, as if he simply had no more will, and began to cry.
“Vinnie, we can’t do this! Where’s Bleeker? We can’t save ourselves! We’re too little!”
“Don’t say that!” I longed to shake him; I detested his weakness at that moment, for I was too close to giving in to my own.
Kicking at the sheets, I ran to the window, but of course it was too high, the sash far above my head. I needed to stand upon something solid in order to open it, and my steps were too wobbly. “Help me,” I yelled at Charles, as I spied a heavy chair next to the bed; we managed to inch it—oh, so excruciatingly slowly!—across the plush carpet, until it was in front of the window. Climbing upon it, throwing all dignity to the wind—my nightgown was now twisted about my waist, exposing my legs—I tried to unhinge the lock on the sash; it was big, slippery in my sweating palms, and at first I didn’t think I could move it. But finally it did loosen, and I tugged on it until it released; leaning my shoulder against the sash, I pushed with all my might, praying that it might move. It did, enough so that I could then jump down and put my hands in the opening of the window; Charles joined me, and we were able to push it up enough so that we could lean out.
The scene before us was unreal. The street was full of people, some running, some crying—some lying broken and still. Oh, how wonderful it had seemed yesterday, to be on the very top floor of the hotel! But now it simply meant that we were a very long way from the ground. Smoke rolled out of windows on either side of us, and below, terrifying fingers of flame indicated that the fire must have started on one of the lower floors. I felt the heat rising all around me, as if from the very depths of hell. Horses were neighing, people were sobbing and shouting, bells were clanging—fire bells, from fire wagons; there were many already in the street below, and others coming; you could hear the clatter of horses’ hooves, the squeal of careening wagons, echoing between the buildings several streets over.
The hotel was surrounded on all sides by other buildings, but it was also surrounded on all sides by wires. All those new electric wires cities were installing these days—they were like a lethal spiderweb just outside the hotel