Someone had torn his chest open and thrown a shovelful of hot coals into the cavity. It was the only explanation. His throat was on fire. His mouth was full of ash. His tongue was a useless chunk of charred meat. He could not stop coughing, and every spasm felt as though it tore another strip of flesh out of his gullet, and made the coals in his chest burn brighter.
Justy tried to open his eyes, but they were stitched closed by a thousand burning needles. Something slapped him in the face, and he felt cold water soaking his hair and his clothes, and pouring down his cheeks. Like a blessing.
He swallowed his cough, tilted his head back, and let the water soak into his eye sockets. He rubbed them gently, and blinked his eyes open. Two faces looked down at him. One square and hard, the other round and soft. It was a moment before he recognized them. Ignatius Flanagan, the Bull. Jacob Hays, the High Constable.
“Justice prevails,” Hays said. A faint smile twisted his lips. A bucket dangled from his hand.
“Hardluck?” Justy choked. It was like dragging a tangle of fishhooks out of his gullet.
The Bull jerked his head. “He dragged you out by the scruff. Lucky you were wearing that topcoat or you’d be bacon by now.”
Justy propped himself up on his elbows. The jarvie was crouched on the pavement on the other side of the street. His tie was gone, and his suit was scorched and torn, turned mostly black with soot and smoke.
The Bull smirked. “I reckon you owe him a bonus, Nephew. And a new suit of clothes.”
There was a tremendous crash as the front of a building collapsed into the street in a shower of sparks and smoke. And then a wild hissing as a line of men and women doused the debris, sending up clouds of dirty steam. They hurried back to the hand pump on the street corner to refill their buckets, and several of Hays’ watchmen stepped quickly across to what was left of the house. They used long, hooked poles to hack and pull at the smoldering timbers and thatch. In the darkness, lit by torches and the light from the other taverns and oyster houses, the hole in the row of buildings looked like a missing tooth in a beggar’s grin.
“If there’s anyone owing, Mister Flanagan, I’d say it was you,” Hays said. “Imagine if that place had gone up, as they planned it to. The whole street would be ablaze. Your street.”
“My street, Marshal. But your city.”
Hays acknowledged the point with a stiff nod. “I am already in your nephew’s debt.”
He held the bucket out to Justy. “Drink. But small sips only. You know the drill.”
Justy sat up and scooped out the water with his hand. It was an effort not to gulp. A small crowd had gathered around them, to see how much damage had been done, but now that the fire was out, they began to drift away. A handful of the Bull’s men stood in a loose clutch behind their leader, some with bloodied faces, all carrying staves, their eyes watching out for trouble.
“Did everyone get out?” Justy’s throat closed around the words.
“I wish I could say so.” The Bull’s face was grim. “There were three girls in the top room. No one’s seen them. If they didn’t burn or choke, they’re buried under that lot now.”
Justy stared at the heap of wet, smoldering ash that spilled across the narrow street. He remembered the terror he had felt as the smoke burned its way into his mouth, his throat, his lungs. Better than burning? He couldn’t say. He turned away.
“You saved many more, Justice,” Hays said. “If you hadn’t tackled those men, hundreds might have died.”
“How did you know they’d be back there, anyhow?” his uncle asked.
Justy rubbed his throat. “I don’t know. It just felt like a diversion. And given they kicked off in Tickler’s Alley, I figured the fire would be set in the opposite place. Well, Hardluck figured.”
“I should have seen it,” Hays said. “My blood was up, I suppose.”
“Aye, well. Mine too,” the Bull said. He nodded to Hardluck, who was still standing a few feet away in his blackened clothes. “Good thing for all of us your man has his head screwed on.”
Hays watched his men tear down the last of the burned building. One of them wrenched at a stubborn bundle of thatch, jerking it loose so that it flew across the road and landed at Hays’ feet. He prodded it with his toe. “Old reeds. The thatch went up like a candle, did you see? Not many buildings like that on this street, which suggests this took some planning.”
A man pushed through the crowd. Cooper Corrigan’s wide face was pale, his Adam’s apple jumping in his throat.
The Bull stepped in front of him, put a meaty hand on his chest and shoved him back. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be minding Dover Street.”
Corrigan pulled his hat off. His hair stood up, wet and slick. “I put Daisy in charge, gaffer.”
“Look me in the eye, you bastard!” The Bull’s voice was like a whip. “If I’d wanted that lump Daisy in charge, I’d have told him myself. It’s your job to look after the libben when I’m not there. So why the dumb glutton are you here instead?”
The big Irishman gaped. “Liam…”
“Stop stammering like that’s a pudding on your shoulders and not your head. Liam who?”
“My boy, gaffer. I gave him a punishment for stepping out without my say. I sent him here to clean the jakes.”
He was still staring at the smoking ruin of the building. The Bull followed his gaze. “Well, you won’t need to worry. The jakes is out the back. The fire didn’t touch ’em.”
Corrigan’s face crumpled. “I told him he had to work in the house an’ all. Empty the girls’ slop buckets an’ that.”
The Bull swore.
“How old was the lad?” They turned at the sound of Hardluck’s voice.
Corrigan turned on him. “Mind your own, snowball. If it hadn’t been for one of your lot sniffing at him, I wouldn’t have had to trounce him.”
“I carried a lad out,” Hardluck said. “A tall streak, all arms and legs. Thirteen or fourteen years, maybe. I laid him down by the pump there.”
“Was he alive?” the Bull asked.
“He was senseless, but he was breathing. His legs and arms were burned, I think. I laid him down and washed his face off.”
The frantic filling of buckets had stopped, but a watchman still stood by the pump. Hays walked over and spoke with him for a moment, and then returned. “The lad was taken up to the Almshouse with the rest of them. He was awake and breathing. Likely burned, but alive.”
“Oh, thank Christ!” Corrigan’s voice wobbled. He put his hands over his face.
The Bull cuffed them down. “It’s not Christ you’ve to thank. It’s that man there.”
Corrigan scowled. He glanced at Hardluck. “Thankee for the life of my son,” he said.
Hardluck said nothing.
“A pretty trick for a snowball, to walk into the fire and come out whole.” The Bull chuckled. “Seeing as you left your post and this man saved your boy, Cooper, I think it should be you buys him a new set of clothes. I’ll take it out of your next wage. Fair enough?”
Corrigan’s face turned purple. He opened his mouth and snapped it shut. He nodded.
“It’s about time you got a grip on your boy,” the Bull said. “What was it this time?”
“I caught him carrying on with some guinea girl. Right where my missus keeps her stall, if you can believe it.”
“Not one of Lew Owens’ motts, I hope. I don’t want that bastard getting any more custom.”
Corrigan shook his head. “She didn’t look like a doxy. I only got a glimpse before she ran off, but she was a wee slip of a thing, dressed fancy, with her hair tied up in ribbons and little red shoes on her feet.”