Flame and Ashes

by Janet Mcnaughton

  I did not say goodbye to Alfie. I pretended to be busy in a corner of the second floor, sweeping, when he left. Mama did not call attention to me and, in his excitement, Alfie failed to notice. As they walked down the stairs, he took Ruby’s hand in the most trusting manner. I felt as if some evil magic had transformed her into his sister, and I was now the maid, humble and ignored.

  Two men from the Yarrow rowed over to our wharf as I watched though a window, my vision blurred as much by tears as the soot on the glass. When Alfie got into the boat beside Ruby, he asked Mama a question, then looked up at the windows. I was sure he could not see me, but I ducked back anyway, hot tears on my face. It was all I could do to keep from rushing outside to pluck him from the boat. Instead, I forced myself upstairs and lay down on my bed, face to the wall, wishing I had a blanket to pull over my head, though it was far too hot to do any such thing. I knew I would have to keep very still because the boards under the straw pallet do not hold together, and I would have to get up to rearrange the bed if I fidgeted, or fall to the floor. I have no talent for holding still.

  Mama said nothing when she saw me on my bed. I understood that she was angry with me for behaving so badly. I could not simply get up and join everyone without suffering a loss of dignity. I was stuck.

  I spent the day lying rigid on my bed. At suppertime I saw no reason to get up to eat, especially as no one had been able to locate bread that day. When the meal was finished, Papa suggested it would be a good evening for a stroll, as the wind was blowing in off the sea. He was trying to divert Mama’s attention away from me, and I was grateful. Mama asked me, once, if I would come. I could not reply, my throat was that stopped with the tears I could not cry.

  Nettie said there was a bakery on Duckworth Street that had narrowly escaped the fire, and she would buy bread from it tomorrow if she had to get up at dawn. Papa told her he would see about our stove this week, their voices fading as they went downstairs.

  I think I might have died of grief, or maybe hunger, if Mr. Matt had not returned with a loaf of bread and half a roast chicken, given to him as pay for his day’s labour. He went directly for the breadknife on Nettie’s old splitting table and gave me no time to be dignified. “Triffie my maid, who could say no to a roast chicken sandwich? The wind’s shifted round, and I think we’re finally in for a change of weather. Let’s eat outside.”

  The Critches have a bench under the apple tree near their well. Mr. Critch waved to us from the door of his cooperage as Mr. Matt led me into the garden. The burnt-out city is hidden by our warehouse home, and the wind blew down the South Side hills, fresh from the sea. But for the ache in my heart, I could imagine the fire had never happened. I was too sad to talk at first, and Mr. Matt seemed to understand. As we ate, though, I began to wonder where he got this food.

  “These people got family that’s not burnt out,” Mr. Matt explained. “One lady’s mother made the bread and another has a sister who keeps chickens over by Patrick Street.”

  “We used to live on Patrick Street, before Windsor Castle,” I told him.

  He almost choked on his sandwich. I had to slap him on the back. When he could talk again, he said he never knew that our family knows what most people called our house.

  “I’m the only one,” I said and I told him how I found out. By the time we finished our meal, I felt better, though I still ached for Alfie. But I so was tired from being sad, and from the effort to keep still, I crawled into bed and immediately fell asleep. I didn’t even hear my family return.

  It was dark when I awoke, and Papa had bundled me into his arms. “Come, Tryphena, woebegone creature that you are.” I didn’t know why he was carrying me downstairs, but he was smiling and something in my heart melted. Everyone else was already on the wharf, staring at the sky, enraptured, when Papa put me down. No lamps shine where the city used to be, so there was no light to hide the beauty above us. Shimmering curtains of green and pink played across the sky, reflected in the black water of the harbour, outshining any fireworks — the aurora borealis.

  No one could ever remember seeing the northern lights over St. John’s as we saw them last night. We sat on the wharf for a long time, watching, and our neighbours joined us, everyone speechless. Papa sat with his arm around me and Sarah took my hand.

  Finally Mama spoke. “It seems the heavens are trying to remind us that life is beautiful, whatever misery besets us,” she said. “Triffie, you are not the only one who misses Alfie, and I would very much appreciate a hug.”

  Sunday, July 24th, South Side Warehouse

  Yesterday Nettie remarked that Alfie was “our salt and pepper.” Without him, life has no flavour. I am finding it hard to fill my time and I do wish Alfie had left me one of his new books. Mama and Papa are wrapped up in the insurance claims for the house and the store, an endlessly complicated process that leaves them both right crooked and inclined to snap if I ask for anything. Sunday is especially hard. We never work on Sundays. Nettie even peels all the vegetables for Sunday supper on Saturday evening and puts them in a pot of water. The question of how to occupy Sunday afternoons looms large without Alfie and I was glad when Sarah proposed that we write to him. I tore some pages from the back of this book and letter writing took up a good hour or more.

  Afterward, Sarah very generously offered to lend me one of her books. As she’d already read Jane Eyre to me aloud, I accepted Wuthering Heights. It could easily be set in Newfoundland as far as weather goes, but all the overwrought emotions make it very heavy going. It certainly paints a grim picture of being swept away by mad desire.

  Wednesday, July 27th, South Side Warehouse

  What a busy day for Papa! He found our stove and rescued Mouser.

  Papa had engaged Mr. Morrissey to take him around town today. His first stop was the post office, where he registered our new address. Now we’ll be sure to get the candy money, and of course letters from Alfie, if he writes us. Mama taught him how to make his letters, but he’s not very good with a pen yet. Nettie said, even if Alfie does write, I shouldn’t be holding my breath. Ruby was always waiting for mail because the postman only goes out in his cart from Heart’s Content toward Scilly Cove a few times a week. I can’t help hoping, though.

  Next Papa had arranged for Mr. Sampson to meet him at the remains of Windsor Castle. As they poked around in the rubble, he saw a sorry looking creature that, he said, appeared to be a cat. He took no notice, but the cat sat and watched until Papa finally realized it was Mouser. He and Mr. Sampson found our stove, covering themselves in soot and ash in the process, and Mr. Sampson confirmed that it was still in working order. Papa’s arranged to have it hauled over here tomorrow and Mr. Matt will bring stovepipe home so he can connect it for us. Mama and Papa are debating where to put it. Nettie is so pleased, she says she doesn’t care where it goes.

  But back to Mouser. Papa knew she would never sit still for a carriage ride, but he had brought a brin bag in case he found small things in the ruins. Mouser looked half starved, Papa said, and Mr. Sampson had brought along his lunch, a kipper sandwich, so they lured her over and Papa put her in the bag! Then, of course, the carriage had to detour over here to deliver her to us. She howled all the way, and Papa no longer looked respectable in his sooty clothes. People cast such dark glances, Papa was sure they thought he’d been up to mischief.

  Mouser was still howling when he carried her in, but as soon as she walked out of the bag and saw us, she stopped. I took some damp brin to her, and instead of scratching me or running away, she sat and purred while I rubbed soot from her fur. Nettie had just managed to buy a bit of butter from a woman who keeps a cow up the South Side Road and she spared a little to rub on Mouser’s paws the once. Nettie says, when Mouser licks the butter off her paws, she will catch the scent of her new home and know she belongs here. There are plenty of mice running around this warehouse, so we are as happy to see Mouser as she is to see us.

  Other things are settling in too — the coal fires are fina
lly out. Papa said one merchant, at his wit’s end, offered half of his land on the harbourfront to anyone who could extinguish his stockpile of anthracite. Mr. Mallard, a very clever merchant of wines, scrounged as many buckets as he could and hired fifty men at a dollar a day. They worked in two lines, one passing buckets full of water to the coal and the other passing empty buckets back to the harbour, pouring water on the coal until it finally went out. It sounds like something out of a fairy tale, but it’s true! Sarah is going to put the whole story in the letter we are writing to Alfie. We’ll also tell him about Mouser. Without Alfie, she would surely have perished in the fire. I do wish he had been here to see her come out of that brin bag.

  Friday, July 29th, South Side Warehouse

  Our biggest newspapers, The Evening Telegram and The Evening Herald, were burnt out in the fire. Only The Royal Gazette managed to stay afloat, and one other newspaper, The Morning Despatch, started up only the week before last. Because paper is so scarce, both are just a few pages and not many copies are printed, so real news is hard to come by and rumours abound. Last night Mr. Matt came home in time to join us for supper with a copy of The Morning Despatch. (He also brought a set of stovepipes, which we all declared to be mostly beautifully made.)

  Sarah and I read every scrap of that newspaper today. It seems there was no man lost to the fire along with his six children, as we heard on that first morning in the park. That was just a rumour. Considering the terrible loss of house and home, very few people perished. A Mrs. Stephens who kept a shop on Victoria Street died along with her daughter and their maid, because the invalid daughter was too slow getting out of the house, it seems. This daughter had a child, and a man who boarded with the family had already taken this child to safety. When he returned, he found the house aflame and felt certain everyone must have escaped. With people scattered all over the city, it was days before he realized the terrible fate that had befallen them, and longer still before the ruin was safe enough to discover the bodies. Another woman died in her house on Bulley’s Lane, and a few more are said to be missing.

  The story of Mrs. Stephens, her invalid daughter and their servant was so affecting, Sarah and I began to cry as we read it. Nettie was over by the windows where the light is better, cutting one of Mama’s petticoats up to make curtains. She demanded to know why we were making such a racket, and ended up in tears herself when she read the story.

  But the paper also contains much encouraging news about relief that is coming to us from all over the world, just as the bishop told May it would on the morning after the fire. It is heartening to know, for example, that the New York Stock Exchange has taken up “a handsome subscription” for our city, and the soldiers of the Garrison in Halifax willingly gave up a day’s pay to help us, a sum of $750! The City of Chicago, of course, is very much interested in our plight, remembering their own Great Fire of 1871, which was much more terrible than ours. It seems cities as far away as Britain, the United States and our neighbours in nearby Canada are moved to come to our aid.

  The paper listed some figures compiled by the Relief Committee and I am going to record them here, so I will always remember how truly terrible this fire was. These are the numbers of people made homeless and property destroyed:

  No. of Families 1,874

  No. of Persons 10,234

  No. of Houses (estimated) 1,250

  This paper also listed the places where the homeless live now:

  Bannerman Park 1,021

  Quidi Vidi 124

  Parade Rink 136

  Near Railway Depot 190

  Drill Shed 65

  TOTAL 1,536

  Most people who were burnt out found some kind of shelter with family or friends or, like us, they had resources to fall back upon. Mama said only fifteen per cent of the people displaced by the fire are truly homeless now. She added it would be terrible if any of Papa’s crowd were among them. Papa has assured her that schooners are arriving daily, loaded with lumber for relief, and men are building sheds, digging latrines and putting up clotheslines. Bannerman Park is a shantytown, but Papa says meals and all manner of relief are provided to those who live there. When he said this, I remembered Miss Rosy sitting on the grass the morning after the fire, dressing her hair, and asked if Miss Rosy could be living there. Papa said he believed she might be, and Mama vowed that we will soon go to the park to see. When Papa opens up his shop here, Mama wants to hire those who are most in need first.

  Nettie is calling us to supper now.

  Friday, July 29th, after supper

  Something in The Morning Despatch puzzled us very much. While we ate supper tonight, Sarah asked about it and I was glad she did.

  “Papa,” she said, “on the last page of The Morning Despatch that Mr. Matt brought home, there was a summary of the sermon preached in the Roman Catholic Cathedral last Sunday.”

  “I’m glad, at least, that the Catholics in our crowd still have a cathedral to worship in,” Mama said. She went on to say that she wished the paper had included a summary of the sermon given at St. Thomas’s for the congregation of our Cathedral last Sunday. Though there’s a perfectly good Church of England in our new neighbourhood, she still wishes she could worship with those who share our losses.

  Papa patted her hand and reminded her, as he has many times since we moved here, that it is better for us to befriend our new neighbours and show we are happy to be among them.

  Sarah persisted, getting to the heart of the matter. She said the priest expressed hope that our Cathedral would soon be restored, but he also spoke of the property that was stolen the day of the fire.

  Mama exclaimed that this was very forthright of him.

  Sarah had Papa’s full attention now. He asked her what she’d read.

  Sarah told him what had puzzled us both. The priest had said those who had stolen property that was sitting somewhere already recovered from the fire should return it.

  I couldn’t contain myself. “He seemed to be saying people could keep things that were stolen out of houses in the path of the fire.”

  Sarah nodded. “That can’t be right, can it? We must have misunderstood.”

  Mr. Matt spoke up. “Law of salvage.”

  I asked him what that meant.

  He said that when a ship is abandoned at sea, it’s fair play to take whatever can be rescued from it. Or after a ship is wrecked, anyone who can get goods off can claim ownership of them. He went on to explain that the law of salvage is one reason a captain will stay on a ship at all costs when trouble arises.

  “But surely that law doesn’t apply on land!” Mama had gone quite red.

  “No, Mrs. Winsor, it should not. It’s complicated enough to apply that law at sea,” Mr. Matt said.

  But we were left to wonder. If someone stole property from a house that was about to burn, our house for instance, would it be theirs to keep?

  Sunday, July 31st, South Side Warehouse

  Today the usual monotony of Sunday afternoon was relieved by a lovely surprise. Just as Sarah and I were finishing our weekly letter to Alfie, someone pounded on the door below. (It’s a good distance from our attic to the door, so pounding is required.) Papa went downstairs and returned with May, her mother and Miss Maude Seaward, who had come for a visit. Nettie bustled away to make tea while we settled our visitors on chairs and benches as best we could. The Seaward ladies looked about with kind eyes, paying many compliments to our makeshift arrangements. I could never have imagined that Mama would entertain May’s family in an old warehouse, or that everyone would be so pleased.

  We learned that the Seaward family are still living in Avalon Cottage on Forest Road. This has been a busy time for them, as all requests for relief must be verified, and clergymen are considered most reliable witnesses, so people come to Avalon Cottage with their relief orders day and night. Church aid is also being arranged for the needy, and that was one reason for this visit. (It shocked me to think anyone would regard our family as part of “the needy.
”)

  Miss Maude told us that the bishop has been busy inspiring sympathy in England and a shipment of clothing will soon arrive from the St. Andrews Waterside Church Mission in London. Then Nettie brought tea, and Mrs. Seaward exclaimed as she took the cup, “Oh, is this your wedding china?”

  Mama averred that it was indeed.

  “So lovely,” Mrs. Seaward said, caressing the saucer. “I fear we rescued nothing of value. So many treasures lost.” She asked if we had heard rumours of all the houses that had been looted the night of the fire and Mama said yes, we had.

  “We have faint hope that anything was taken from Ordnance House,” May’s mother continued, “as the doors were stout and firmly locked.”

  Mama laughed and said that our door stood wide open the night of the fire.

  Mouser was resting nearby and it was too much for me to resist. The whole story came pouring out of me, starting with the china barrel, ending with Papa’s discovery of Mouser. By the time I finished, the Seawards looked quite astonished.

  Mama regained control of the conversation with a meaningful look. “We were lucky enough to recover Mouser. It seems incredible to hope our property might be returned. We have accepted our losses.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Seaward replied. “And you are so lucky to live under your own roof.”

  I looked around our vast warehouse, filled with odds and ends of furniture and stacked crates, and realized she was right. When I first came here, I thought it a hovel, but I’m starting to feel at home.

  As May and I had now spent a polite interval behaving (or, in my case, almost behaving) I wondered if I could be allowed to show her our new neighbourhood. I wasn’t sure the Seaward ladies would agree, but they did, and we hurried off before they could change their minds. I showed May where we will make our shop, and we went outside to Mrs. Critch’s garden, where the scent of flowers almost overpowers the smell of fish.