dance with me now,” James said. James tried to pull Britta away, but Sibley would not let go of Britta’s arm. She began to cry. I could see from where I stood the red welt already rising on her arm.
“Let her go now!” James shouted.
“I’m sorry,” Lester Sibley said, releasing Britta, who fumbled into a group of gaping girls. “I didn’t mean—” Without allowing the labor man to finish his apology, James yanked his fist back and swung at the man, landing a hard blow right in Lester Sibley’s face. Sibley staggered back, holding his hand to his nose as blood streamed down his chin and dripped onto his white shirt. James lunged for the man again. Britta and a few other girls nearby screamed. Several men snatched the footman’s raised arm and pulled him in the opposite direction.
“No fair, Chase,” one of the men told James as he resisted the hold on his arms. “You’ve got a foot on the man.”
“Serves him right for preaching about unions and strikes when we’re all trying to have a good time,” someone added.
“He’s only trying to help us,” another said.
The accordion player began a jaunty tune, but no one was listening. Instead voices rose above the song as arguments about Sibley and his cause broke out among the previously merry group.
Our group from Rose Mont had closed ranks around Britta. Sena put her arm around Britta and, followed by the other girls and the groomsman, led her away up Narragansett Avenue. Britta glanced back once, her eyes as red as the welt on her arm, just as James jerked free of the men restraining him and stormed away down the Cliff Walk. He quickly disappeared around the bend.
What was that all about? Mr. Sibley sure has a knack for stirring up trouble wherever he goes, I thought, looking about for the cause of the commotion. Mr. Sibley was nowhere to be seen.
C HAPTER 10
B oom!
“What was that?” Sena exclaimed. I’d caught up with Britta, Sena, and the others from Rose Mont. We’d just turned onto Bellevue when the explosion went off.
“Look at that!” Britta exclaimed, pointing north toward Touro Park. Over the trees, thick lines of smoke curled up into the night sky, blurring the stars.
With unspoken assent, we picked up our skirts and ran. Others quickly joined us, their eyes captivated by the eerie glow ahead. We were all destined for the site of the explosion, two similarly squat brick buildings, on opposite corners of Green Street.
A grotesque tableau of Dante’s hell, I thought, watching transfixed by the walls of red flame flashing against the dark sky.
From the relative safety of the sidewalk across the street I could feel the blistering heat press against my skin. Massive columns of black smoke billowed above the buildings, with small tendrils drifting into the street, weaving their way through the crowd. And rising above it all was the cacophony of chaos, pounding in my head. The fire roared like wind during a storm on the Plains. Police and firemen, who had arrived before us, shouted at one another over the clanging of bells. Panes of windows, already partially broken by the blast, shattered to the ground. One large piece landed a few feet away, the gold-stenciled letters LOAN still intact. Skittish horses bucked and neighed as carriages arrived on the scene. And then came a rumble and crash as a roof collapsed and the sound of gushing water spraying from the hose carriages onto the flames. I wanted nothing more than to hold my hands over my ears, but instead I shielded my eyes from the blaze with one hand and held a handkerchief over my mouth with the other; the metallic taste and smell of the smoke had begun to fill my mouth and lungs.
And yet I, like everyone else spellbound by the scene, stayed, wondering what caused the fire. Was it a gas leak? Or electric wires that got too hot? Or a faulty furnace with the coals left burning? But what about the explosion? Fires were an all too common occurrence; explosions were not.
With the
“Let her go now!” James shouted.
“I’m sorry,” Lester Sibley said, releasing Britta, who fumbled into a group of gaping girls. “I didn’t mean—” Without allowing the labor man to finish his apology, James yanked his fist back and swung at the man, landing a hard blow right in Lester Sibley’s face. Sibley staggered back, holding his hand to his nose as blood streamed down his chin and dripped onto his white shirt. James lunged for the man again. Britta and a few other girls nearby screamed. Several men snatched the footman’s raised arm and pulled him in the opposite direction.
“No fair, Chase,” one of the men told James as he resisted the hold on his arms. “You’ve got a foot on the man.”
“Serves him right for preaching about unions and strikes when we’re all trying to have a good time,” someone added.
“He’s only trying to help us,” another said.
The accordion player began a jaunty tune, but no one was listening. Instead voices rose above the song as arguments about Sibley and his cause broke out among the previously merry group.
Our group from Rose Mont had closed ranks around Britta. Sena put her arm around Britta and, followed by the other girls and the groomsman, led her away up Narragansett Avenue. Britta glanced back once, her eyes as red as the welt on her arm, just as James jerked free of the men restraining him and stormed away down the Cliff Walk. He quickly disappeared around the bend.
What was that all about? Mr. Sibley sure has a knack for stirring up trouble wherever he goes, I thought, looking about for the cause of the commotion. Mr. Sibley was nowhere to be seen.
C HAPTER 10
B oom!
“What was that?” Sena exclaimed. I’d caught up with Britta, Sena, and the others from Rose Mont. We’d just turned onto Bellevue when the explosion went off.
“Look at that!” Britta exclaimed, pointing north toward Touro Park. Over the trees, thick lines of smoke curled up into the night sky, blurring the stars.
With unspoken assent, we picked up our skirts and ran. Others quickly joined us, their eyes captivated by the eerie glow ahead. We were all destined for the site of the explosion, two similarly squat brick buildings, on opposite corners of Green Street.
A grotesque tableau of Dante’s hell, I thought, watching transfixed by the walls of red flame flashing against the dark sky.
From the relative safety of the sidewalk across the street I could feel the blistering heat press against my skin. Massive columns of black smoke billowed above the buildings, with small tendrils drifting into the street, weaving their way through the crowd. And rising above it all was the cacophony of chaos, pounding in my head. The fire roared like wind during a storm on the Plains. Police and firemen, who had arrived before us, shouted at one another over the clanging of bells. Panes of windows, already partially broken by the blast, shattered to the ground. One large piece landed a few feet away, the gold-stenciled letters LOAN still intact. Skittish horses bucked and neighed as carriages arrived on the scene. And then came a rumble and crash as a roof collapsed and the sound of gushing water spraying from the hose carriages onto the flames. I wanted nothing more than to hold my hands over my ears, but instead I shielded my eyes from the blaze with one hand and held a handkerchief over my mouth with the other; the metallic taste and smell of the smoke had begun to fill my mouth and lungs.
And yet I, like everyone else spellbound by the scene, stayed, wondering what caused the fire. Was it a gas leak? Or electric wires that got too hot? Or a faulty furnace with the coals left burning? But what about the explosion? Fires were an all too common occurrence; explosions were not.
With the
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