“Anyone hurt?”
“Few gonna have some bruises. But reckon we held our own.”
Kiernan swept his gaze over the toppled piles of bricks that had been awaiting transport—some were crushed, othersbroken. The glow from the flames also illuminated equipment destroyed and supplies overturned.
He motioned to one of his foremen who was directing the water brigade.
“The tenement can’t be saved!” Kiernan tilted his head toward the opposite side of the brickyard. “Put your efforts into saving the sheds and bricks.”
The foreman nodded, then gave a few curt commands at the fellows he’d been working with, and they began to jog toward the drying sheds.
Kiernan picked up a bucket, filled it with water, and joined them. But as they reached the open sheds with the bricks underneath, he stopped short and his heart plunged hard.
The roofs on all the sheds were already collapsing onto the bricks underneath. Since the bricks hadn’t been fired, they were too weak yet to withstand the pressure and were cracking and falling apart under the fiery boards falling on top of them.
Some of the men were attempting to rescue the bricks, dragging loads away from the flames. But the bricks were heavy and difficult to maneuver, and they wouldn’t be able to save many. Even so, Kiernan called out instructions, and the rest of the men joined in trying to salvage what they could. All the while, he searched each face for Torin’s.
“Torin?” he finally called to one of the other foremen.
The man was hauling an armful of bricks away from the burning shed. “Haven’t seen him.”
A sick knot formed in Kiernan’s gut. Torin wouldn’t have run off or hidden away in the middle of a fight. And he certainly wouldn’t neglect to help put out the fire. So where was he?
Kiernan headed toward the kiln, the knot inside cinching tighter. If Torin died, Alannah would be devastated. She’d lost everyone else in her family, and she didn’t deserve to lose Torin too.
As he neared the kiln, his boot kicked at something lying in the gravel. He halted and picked it up. It was a knife—Torin’s—and it was coated in blood. A second knife sat only a few feet away, the blade crimson. Not far from the knives a pair of spectacles lay on the ground, the frames bent and the glass crushed.
He grabbed the spectacles and stuffed them into his pocket even though they were likely irreparable. Then he crossed the final steps to the kiln. A stairway led down to an underground chamber, and through the open door, the glow of light inside illuminated a man kneeling beside an outstretched body.
Kiernan descended the steps two at a time and paused at the doorway.
The room allowed the workers to feed the fire, keep control of the temperature inside the kiln above, and monitor the progress of the firing process. To one side was a fan of sorts that Torin had been tinkering with—a new machine he’d built but hadn’t finished. Elaborate charts were tacked to the walls, and papers filled with diagrams were scattered over a standing table against another wall.
As Kiernan sidled through the doorway, he confirmed what he’d already guessed. The injured man was Torin. He was on his back with his eyes closed—one swollen shut and the skin already turning blue. His lips were busted, his nose bleeding, and his jaw cut.
The middle-aged, hefty fellow kneeling beside Torinwas Donahue, Torin’s assistant. The other was Donahue’s brother, and Kiernan couldn’t remember his name. They were both frantically trying to staunch the blood flow from what appeared to be at least a dozen stab wounds over Torin’s now bare torso. Some were surface wounds, but others looked like the blade had penetrated deep.
“He’s still alive?” Kiernan asked.
“Barely, boss.” Donahue wrapped linen around Torin’s lower arm. With a droopy eye and mustache that also drooped, Donahue was weaker on one side of his body but had always been a stellar employee at the glass factory and had come over to the brickyard upon Torin’s request. He was reliable and liked fidgeting with machinery as much as Torin.
Kiernan crouched, his hands itching for something to do. Desperation prodded him to help Torin, who was no criminal but instead a hard worker, intelligent, helpful, and caring. In addition, he was fiercely loyal to Alannah and wanted the best for her. “He needs a physician.”
“Oh aye,” said Donahue’s brother, who had a swollen eye and a bleeding slash on his cheek. He was pressing tightly against a wound in Torin’s side. “They cut him up bad. No telling what’s damaged inside. But if we can keep him from bleeding to death, then he’ll need plenty of sewing up.”
Kiernan swiped up the discarded shirt lying on the floor, in shreds from where the men had been tearing it and forming strips to stop Torin’s bleeding. Kiernan cut a slice, then pressed it gently against another wound, this one in Torin’s shoulder.
The young man shifted his head and moaned.
Blood began to seep through the linen in Kiernan’s hand.“Find a wagon that wasn’t torched. We’ll put him in the back and haul him to the city.”
Donahue’s brother tore a piece of linen. “The Farrell gang left him for dead. If they catch us trying to save him, they’ll come and finish him off and us too.”
Donahue nodded. “No doubt they’re still out there close by, watching us.”
Kiernan didn’t disagree with either of the men. But he wouldn’t neglect getting Torin to a doctor, not if there was still a chance of saving him.
He wrapped the linen around Torin’s shoulder, securing it in place at his armpit. “I’ll take him. By myself.”
