Fire: Chicago 1871 Read Online Free

them—”
    â€œThey would have to rebuild much of the city to make any real difference,” Mr. Oliver broke in. “If the drought and the winds keep up, they may have little choice. Last night’s fire is still a bed of hot coals in some places.”
    â€œBut nobody can stop the fires, can they?” Nate asked.
    â€œChief Williams has all but begged the Council to put more money into new and bigger engines. I saw enough frayed hoses and worn fittings lastnight to make me wonder if anyone cares at all whether the whole damn place burns down.”
    â€œOh, Brian, please don’t curse.”
    Mr. Oliver patted his wife’s hand and put his attention back on his plate. Mr. Thomas fell silent, too. Nate waited, wishing he could ask more questions, but Aunt Ruth sent him another of her sharp glances.
    â€œAll this talk about fire is so upsetting,” Mrs. Oliver said to no one in particular.
    Mr. Dwight made a sympathetic sound deep in his throat. “With any luck, we’ll have rain soon.”
    â€œI was scheduled to work tonight,” Mr. Thomas said, refolding his napkin. “A sleeper train to Milwaukee. But so much coal was lost down there that they’ve delayed until they can see what’s what.”
    Outside, one of the shutters slipped free of its bracket and banged against the side of the house. Nate stood up. “I’ll fasten it,” he told his aunt. She nodded.
    Nate went through the little parlor, then out the front door. The dry wind slapped at him, and he looked up at the stars, then back at the city. In this wind, a fire would be almost impossible for the firemen to put out.
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    The wind whipped Julie’s hair across her face as she came out the door into the alley. She liked the Cass Street store. It was smaller than some of the others her father owned, but the building was new and it smelled of clean, fresh lumber.
    Her arms ached from carrying the ten-pound sacks of flour out to the wagon. She didn’t complain. Her father had been working like a demon, loading tins of coffee and sugar, then fifty-pound sacks of potatoes he stacked near the front of the wagon. She was piling the flour sacks near the rear gate, placing the bags as far up onto the wagon bed as she could.
    â€œWatch your dress,” her father said, glancing sideways at her. “Your mother will have my head if you ruin it.”
    Julie nodded and tried to walk a little faster. Her father was restacking the flour sacks up near the driver’s bench, his movements smooth and practiced. He had driven a delivery wagon for five years before he had opened his first grocery.
    Julie watched her father straighten his back and pull a handkerchief from his jacket pocket. He wiped his face. “It’s still warm out, even now with the sun almost down.”
    Julie faced into the wind so that her hair streamed out behind her. “It feels so good to be out tonight.”
    Her father laughed. “Maybe you can come help in the Polk Street store tomorrow. I still have one clerk out sick there. And I want to keep an eye on that new manager. I am not quite sure I trust him entirely.”
    Julie looked up at him. “Do you think he would steal from you?”
    â€œProbably not.” Her father squared up a stack of sugar bags, then he looked at her. “But the man is careless. I found three sacks of spoiled oats in the storeroom. They had gotten wet from a roof leak. Maybe you could help out down there for the next week or so.”
    Julie grinned. “Could I?” She loved working in her father’s stores, but her mother almost never allowed it. She thought that shop work was too common, and that it was beneath Julie to wait on the cooks and housekeepers who came to buy groceries for their employers’ kitchens.
    Staring at her father’s thoughtful frown, Julie shook her head. Her mother wouldn’t let her. “I have lessons