The Flame

by Jane Toombs

  Monique twisted her arms, trying to loosen her bonds. The rope on her right wrist bit into her flesh until she winced with pain. The bandanna tying her other arm yielded slightly, but not enough for her to free herself. She tired to reach the knot with her teeth and failed. Desperate, she threw her body from side to side on the bed. With a sudden crack, one foot of the bed collapsed, throwing her partly off the mattress so she hung suspended from her bound hands with her feet touching the floor.

  Hunching higher onto the bed, she curled up on the slanting mattress, closing her eyes to better concentrate on the low murmur of voices in the room below her. She heard not one familiar word. A cart rattled past outside and the distant tinkle of music drifted to her from the saloons along C Street.

  Drawing in her breath, she screamed. Nothing happened. She screamed again and again, sharp, frantic cries for help. When she listened, the voices from below had ceased. She waited, hoping against hope to hear footsteps on the stairs. None came. Finally the voices began again, louder than before, as though trying to drown out the unwanted sound of her screams.

  All she could do was wait for Campbell's return. And then? She closed her mind to what he meant to do and tried to plan instead how she should behave when he came back. As he'd warned her, whatever she did, the end result would be the same. Very well, she'd do nothing. Neither help nor hinder him. Have it over and done with as soon as she could.

  Afterwards, while he slept, she'd kill him.

  She might not have a weapon, but he had a gun and a knife, she was sure. With one of the two, she'd kill him. There was no question in her mind. He was an animal. All of them were, all the men who'd cheered him on the street outside the boarding house. So were the Chinese men in the house below her, afraid to lift a finger to help.

  Not only where these men animals, all men were. Hadn't her own father deserted her years ago, assuaging his guilt by sending her mother a few dollars each month? And the Randolph twins. Bile rose in her throat as she remembered Micah and Esau. If it hadn't been for them, she wouldn't be tied in this room like a trussed fowl.

  Jeremy, too. He'd lain with her night after night aboard the Columbia and then, as soon as the ship dropped anchor, had hurried to the arms of another woman, seeking the power of her father's money. Jeremy was the worst of the lot because he'd led her to believe he cared and then had betrayed her—the same as if he'd plunged a knife into her heart in the midst of their lovemaking.

  And Philippe. Tears filled her eyes and rolled unchecked down her cheeks. He was so weak, so spineless. She'd given Philippe a sister's love, and he'd repaid her by tossing her to Alex Campbell. The loss of Rowena should have warned her, yet it hadn't. Philippe had sacrificed her. For what? A few pieces of silver.

  She bit her lip to stifle her sobs, tasting blood again from the glancing blow Campbell had given her. Damn him. Damn them all. She willed the tears away. Feeling sorry for herself led nowhere. They expected that, these animals masquerading as men. These men who preyed on women. They expected all women to be weak, to continually turn the other cheek. She'd show them! Mary Vere might have forgiven some of them, but Mary Vere was gone. Not even her name remained. Monique Vaudreuil would have her revenge on Alex Campbell, on all of them.

  Time passed slowly. She had no idea whether an hour or more had gone by. She no longer heard any voices from below. Somewhere a coyote howled in the night. The lamp burned steadily on the table.

  A horse clip-clopped along the street and stopped in front of the house. Monique, half-dozing, tensed, coming alert. Slow, heavy footsteps climbed the steps and paused outside the door. A key rattled in the lock and the door swung open. Alex Campbell stood, blinking at her from across the room. His face was flushed and, as he turned to relock the door, his movements seemed overly precise.

  Taking the lamp from the table, he approached and held the light over her. “You are a hellion,” he said when he saw the bed tilted so the straw mattress lay half on the floor.

  Returning the lamp to the table, he came to the bed again and, with a grunt, bent over her. She turned her head to escape the stink of the liquor on his breath. He pulled her boy's shirt free of her trousers and undid the buttons before slipping the shirt to either side. In her struggles, the cloth band had slipped above her breasts, baring them. She could see his excitement as he stared down at her partial nakedness.

  His hands fumbled awkwardly as he undid the buttons of her pants. Grasping the cuffs, he pulled them from her legs. She wore nothing underneath. Sweat beaded his forehead.

  "I see you decided not to put up a fight,” he said. “You got some sense, after all.” He pulled a knife from a sheath on the side of his boot and cut her bonds. She messaged her aching wrists until the blood flowed to her numb hands again.

  "Get off the bed,” he told her.

  Eyeing him with apprehension, she stood up beside the bed and watched him grab the mattress and pull it and the blanket to the center of the room.

  "Take off your shirt and that damn cloth band."

  She obeyed.

  "Get on that mattress on your hands and knees,” he ordered.

  She stared at him, uncomprehending.

  "Get down on your Goddamned hands and knees!"

  She did as he ordered, glancing warily up at him when she was in position.

  "All right,” he said, walking around the mattress until he was behind her.

  She could hear his hoarse breathing, but was unable to tell what he was doing. Looking over her shoulder, she saw him toss his shirt on the bed, pull off his boots, then unfasten his pants and start to take them off.

  "You think I'm an animal,” he said. “Well, I'm gonna act like one."

  Suddenly understanding what he meant to do, Monique scrambled to her feet, forgetting her decision to be passive. He cursed and reached for her, only to trip over his pants. As she dashed to the far side of the table, he yanked his pants the rest of the way off and threw them aside. She grabbed the lamp and held it in her hand.

  "What d'you think you're doing, woman?” he bellowed.

  Without waiting for an answer, he grasped the edge of the table with both hands and shoved it at her like a battering ram. She leaped back. Hurling the table to one side, he lunged for her and she threw the lamp at him with all her strength. He ducked, the lamp smashing against the wall in a crash of broken glass and a rushing blast of flame.

  He turned and stared at the fire. Flames swept along a trail of kerosene toward him, while tongues of fire licked up the wall to the ceiling. With a curse, he grabbed the blanket and, holding it in front of him, tried to smother the flames.

  Monique drew away from the searing heat. Flames crackled in front of her and she coughed as smoke filled her nostrils. Campbell's blanket caught fire and he threw it aside. He leaped across the corridor of flame and, through the smoke, she saw him tear the cloth away from one of the windows. He picked up a chair, threw it at the glass, and the window exploded outward with a shattering crash.

  "Come on, woman,” he shouted. “Get over here."

  She started toward him, only to be driven back by the scorching heat of the wall of fire separating them. She retreated to the door. He stared at her, called to her one more time and then leaped from the window. She grasped the latch of the locked door, jiggling it in vain. The room was ablaze behind her, flames cutting off her escape through the window. There was no way out.

  She screamed in terror.

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  CHAPTER 12

  Monique pounded on the door, calling out for help. She heard shouts from below. Flames crackled higher behind her, the acrid smoke choking her and the heat searing her bare body.

  The door swung open. A small woman, a Celestial dressed in a loose-flowing red dress, stared at Monique, then past her at the fire. Monique rushed into the hall, flames following her. The woman pulled the door shut on the fire as Monique gulped in air.

  "Hurry,” the woman said, tugging at Monique's hand. Mon
ique followed her along the hallway to narrow back stairs. As they went down them, the roaring sound of the fire lessened.

  "Hurry,” the woman urged again, leading Monique along another corridor to the rear of the building, where they stopped in front of a closed door. “Wait,” she added and disappeared into the room.

  Seconds later she was back, holding out an emerald green gown. “You take,” she said.

  Monique pulled the dress over her head, finding it small, but loose-enough fitting so she managed to get it down over her breasts and hips. The skirt fell slightly below her knees.

  The Chinese woman put a hand over her mouth as though to hide a smile at picture of Monique in the ill-fitting gown.

  "Thank you for saving me,” Monique said.

  Not looking directly at her, the woman steepled her hands and bowed. “Me Chai,” she said.

  "My name's Monique."

  Chai held out her hand, and Monique grasped it, letting the other woman lead her along the corridor to another door that, when opened, led outside. The cold rush of night air felt good on Monique's face as they hurried across the rear yard. When they reached a shed, she paused to look back. A fierce red glow lit the sky above the house roof and, as she watched, sparks danced skyward and smoke billowed up into the night. Men with their hair in long braids rushed past, calling to one another in Chinese.

  Chai tugged at her hand, and Monique followed her again, along an alley to a narrow street, past a lighted building where, through an open door, Monique saw Chinese men gathered around tables. A fantan house? The two women crossed a street and entered another alley. When they reached the next street, Chai stopped, released her hand and pointed up the hill in front of them.

  "You go,” she said.

  "You saved my life,” Monique told her, hoping the Chinese woman understood her. “I'd have burned to death in that room if you hadn't unlocked the door for me. How can I ever thank you enough?"

  "Women, you, me. No need thanks. Men!” She grimaced, shaking her head as though in disgust. “Chinee men, American men, all men afraid. Afraid Six Companies. Afraid Campbell, afraid Reid, afraid get sent back China."

  "Men are animals,” Monique told her.

  Chai repeated the last word syllable by syllable, making Monique realize she didn't understand it.

  "Pigs, jackasses, goats, coyotes, dogs. Animals,” Monique explained.

  Chai smiled and nodded. “Animals,” she repeated. “Men animals."

  "If I can ever help you,” Monique told her, “if ever you need anything, anything at all, come to me. I'm your friend, remember that.” She squeezed Chai's hand. “You and I are friends."

  "Yes, friends.” Again Chai steepled her hands and bowed. “Chai hurry back.” She slipped away into the darkness.

  A bell clanged. Looking up the street, Monique saw uniformed men running down the hill toward her. She backed into the shadows and watched as they raced by. The men were harnessed to a wagon whose high wheels clattered over the rutted street. As the wagon passed her, she saw, in the light from its two lanterns, the red-painted sides and the hose coiled in the back. A pumper.

  "Fire!” Volunteer firemen shouted the dread word as they pounded past her after the wagon. “Fire!"

  Lights came on in houses on both sides of the street as their occupants lit lamps and candles. Shades were raised and tousle-haired men, some in nightcaps, leaned from the windows.

  Monique began to tremble as the events of the evening finally caught up with her. She hugged herself, staring at the encroaching flames, realizing the fire must have ignited the houses to either side of the building she'd been in. Realizing she had to get home despite her reluctance to face Philippe, she stepped from the alley and began to climb the hill. Firemen ran past her pulling a hose-cart, dogs yelping and snapping at their heels. She didn't stop until she reached C Street, where she stood on the boardwalk at the corner, looking back, down at the roofs of the houses clustered below her on the mountainside.

  The flames were spreading, sending forked, snake-like tongues of fire to lick the sides of wood walls, crawl atop rooftops and, helped by the ever-present wind, dart from building to building, from shanty to shanty. Half-dressed men rushed from already burning homes, their arms laden with belongings. In the eerie white light she saw firemen unroll hoses, while others manned the pumps to send water arching up into the flames.

  She watched, horrified and yet fascinated. The fire ebbed, and she thought it was under control, but then flames shot up again. Carts and wagons rattled up the hill past her, the fleeing, soot-streaked drivers calling to one another in alien phrases.

  A column of light rocketed skyward far below her, followed by the roar of an explosion. Another blast shook the ground, then another and another. Stored explosives?

  Again the fire receded. Monique felt a feathery touch on her cheek, light as a snowflake. She rubbed her cheek with her finger, held her finger to the light and saw the black smudge of ash.

  "I suspect our doughty volunteers have managed to control the raging inferno,” a man's voice said to her right.

  Startled, she turned to look and saw two men standing a few feet away from her, one young and red-haired, with a mustache of the same color, the other taller and older, a grizzled, bearded man who reminded her of pictures of Biblical patriarchs.

  "Don't be alarmed,” the young man told her. “The Unreliable and myself are quite harmless. You see, we're both employed as scribblers for the local newspapers. My friend represents the Gold Hill Union and I serve the interests of the Enterprise. I'm Sam Clemens, and The Unreliable, as I call him, goes by the name of Lester Harrington."

  "I'm Monique Vaudreuil,” she said. Both men bowed slightly, the younger looking past her as though too shy to meet her gaze, the older man staring at her for a long moment before looking away and shuffling his feet.

  "Delighted to make your acquaintance,” Sam Clemens said.

  "The same,” Lester Harrington told her.

  They watched the fire in silence for a time. Finally Clemens said, “The fire seems about done for.” He waited for Harrington's nod, then said, “Miss Vaudreuil, if you would come to the Enterprise office with me, I think I might be able to help you."

  "Help me?” She gazed at him in surprise. “Why would you think I needed any help from you?"

  "It's this way. In the newspaper business, we hear almost everything that goes on in Virginia City."

  "Nosy, all of us,” Harrington murmured.

  "That, too,” Clemens agreed. “But to come to the point, I know about the unfortunate result of yesterday's poker game at the Silver Dollar and I know about Alexander Campbell. You appear before us here in bare feet and wearing a Celestial costume that was obviously not made to adorn you, and the fire began in Chinatown. I'm intrigued and I'd like to try to help."

  The alternative was for her to go home to the boarding house, face Philippe and come to a parting of the ways, since she could no longer remain with him. She decided she'd just as soon put that off a little longer. And, perhaps, Clemens really could help her. Certainly she knew no one else who might.

  "All right, I'll go to your office with you,” she said.

  Lester Harrington raised his hat to Monique when they paused at the bottom of the steps leading up to the Enterprise office. “Do you think the fire's worth a paragraph?” he asked Clemens.

  "No more than that. Nobody really cares what happens in Chinatown, unless they happen to own property there."

  Harrington nodded and trudged off in the direction of Gold Hill.

  Monique went inside with Clemens, who brought her a chair and a cup of coffee.

  Seated, she sipped the coffee gratefully, trying not to be too conscious of how she looked, barefoot, in the ill-fitting gown given to her by Chai. Reminded of Chai, she asked, “Did you really mean what you said about Chinatown? That no one cares what happens there? I think that's terrible."

  Clemens shrugged. “I like the Chinese. They're quiet, peac
eable, free from drunkenness and industrious as the day is long. A disorderly Chinaman is rare and a lazy one doesn't exist. As long as he has the strength to use his hands, he needs no help from anyone. White men complain of lack of work, but a Chinaman never complains for he always manages to find something to do."

  "Yet they're not treated like white men. It's not right. Until I left Alabama, I used to think the only slaves were the Negroes in the South. Here all foreigners are treated worse than slaves."

  "It's the way of the world.” Clemens shifted in his chair, leaning forward to gaze at her. “At the moment, I want to help you, not a world full of maltreated men and women. I know Alex Campbell abducted you from your boardinghouse room, claiming he'd won you in a poker game, untenable though that may have been. I can see you've escaped him. Do you mind telling me how? I promise the Enterprise will not print a word of what you may tell me."

  She saw the sympathy in his eyes, the lack of judgment about how she looked at the moment and suddenly felt she'd found a friend. So she told him some, though not all, of her story. When she described how the fire started and her escape from it, he nodded.

  "The Flame,” he said. “I christen you The Flame of Virginia City."

  She frowned, uncertain she liked the title. “I only hope no one was hurt. I didn't mean to start a fire. I only wanted to get away from Alex Campbell any way I could."

  "In that, no one can blame you. The man's a brute and a bully. To the best of my knowledge there were no deaths or injuries, though a great many buildings burned. But they'll be rebuilt in a few weeks’ time. As I say, the Chinese are an industrious people. “Now, as to how I can help you. I'll let it be known around town that if Alexander Campbell attempts to harm you, the Enterprise will expose him. The men of Virginia City will rally round a woman in peril, Miss Vaudreuil. Campbell is a desperado, and his employer, Van Allen Reid, is no better."

  While hoping he was right about scaring Alex Campbell off, Monique remembered all too clearly how the mob had cheered him on. Sam Clemens might have a gentleman's instincts, but she doubted the majority of men in Virginia City did. “Thank you,” she said politely, putting her cup on the table and rising. “I must return to my room."