The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [157]
Already there was a coroner’s wagon on the scene; stretchers were being removed from it, filled with bodies covered with sheets, and then placed back inside. Hospital wagons were also being loaded with the wounded, and every few minutes the driver would slap the reins as a wagon sped off, full of broken, burned occupants. Mothers were searching for children, crying out their names; children were screaming for parents. Everywhere there were people walking, looking, seeking.
But also, people were simply sitting, on curbs, in the street, still in their nightclothes which were now torn and streaked with ash and dirt; some were dripping wet, as if they’d doused themselves with water to protect against the flames. All were staring at the scene before them, eyes glazed over, as if they simply could not process the carnage, as if they simply could not understand how they had escaped it.
“You stay here. I’ll go out and see if I can help, and find the Bleekers,” I told Charles, who dutifully nodded and sat down upon an upturned bucket. Someone had placed a blanket around his shoulders, too, but he was shaking, his face still that awful red, his breathing labored. But I couldn’t stay inside with him, waiting to be told what to do next; I needed to move, to fill my lungs with air, to remind myself that truly, I was alive.
So I moved among my fellow survivors as the hotel continued to burn; occasionally, there would be a fresh cry as pieces of it came crashing down. But soon there was no one left inside to scream; the flames continued to crackle, the bells to clang, but from within the flames there was only deathly silence.
“Please, let me help.” I tugged on the skirt of a woman in a white dress, a blue cape around her shoulders; she carried a basket of blankets and a bucket of clean water with a ladle, and was moving among the survivors, giving them drinks and warmth.
“That would be a blessing.” She smiled down at me, not betraying any surprise at my size, and handed me an armful of blankets. The heat from the fire was still blazing hot but only if you were facing it; otherwise, the January air was relentlessly cold. As the sun continued to rise, people’s wet garments began to sparkle as if fine diamonds had fallen upon them—but after a closer look, I saw that they were ice crystals. Shuddering in sympathy, I was grateful for the blanket across my shoulders, the warm shoes upon my feet—for many survivors were barefoot.
“Do you know where—is there a place where the wounded are being taken? Where we might be able to meet up with our friends, to see if they survived?”
“I believe there’s a man writing down the names of the survivors—over there.” She pointed to a man carrying a pad of paper and a pencil, near the largest fire wagon. “You can check with him and give him your name.”
“Thank you.” I headed that way, handing out blankets; a few people recognized me and smiled weakly, calling out, “Mrs. Tom Thumb! What are you doing here?”
“My husband and I were staying in the hotel,” I replied. “We were rescued by a fireman.” I scanned the crowd in all directions, searching for the Bleekers—surely Mr. Bleeker, so tall, with his distinctive long gray beard and sad face, would stand out? Surely they escaped, just as we had?
And then I heard my name again—“Vinnie!” But it was a moan; about twenty feet away, I saw Mr. Bleeker kneeling over a broken body in a nightgown.
“Mr. Bleeker!” Picking my way across what now resembled a battlefield, I fell to my knees beside him; he was holding his wife’s hand, shaking his head as tears rolled down his face.
Julia Bleeker was still alive; her eyes were closed, and her breathing was shallow. But her face was pale, her nightgown was plastered to her body in bloody patches,