“Who’s Mary Cowley?” Sally asks as she trails behind them, wishing very much for her shoes, which have, by now, most likely turned to cinder. The ground is uneven, and in the dark, she can’t see where she is putting her feet.
“Native woman,” says the old man. “Married Jared Cowley. But she’s a widow now. Lives just over there, on the other side of the green.”
The young man scoffs. “If she’s Native, so am I.”
“None of my business what she is,” says the old man, addressing Sally directly. “She’s as close to a physician as you’re likely to get, and I feel certain she’ll take your friend in.”
The men make their way toward a two-story clapboard house with a steep roof and a generous front porch. The house sits east of the green, and it is as if Mary Cowley is expecting them. She flings her door open wide and beckons the group through the entryway and into the parlor, which is a large and generously appointed room that reminds Sally of her parents’ parlor at Red Hill. The settee is already occupied, as is the floor closest to the hearth, so the men—upon Mrs. Cowley’s instruction—lie Margaret down under the window, between a wingback chair and a small drop-leaf table that has been pushed against the wall. By the time Sally turns to thank both men for their assistance, they are halfway to the front door.
“Selfish bastards,” she whispers under her breath, then, in a voice loud enough for Mrs. Cowley to hear, she tries to make light of their quick departure. “I suppose they decided they’d get out of here before I asked them for something else.”
“That may be true,” says Mrs. Cowley, who does not look Native so much as otherworldly in the dim light of her lamp. “But in this house you may ask for anything you like.”
The woman is a godsend. After making their introductions, she tucks a pillow underneath Margaret’s head and scurries off. When she returns, she is carrying a quilt, which she hands to Sally. “Something to cover her with. I’m sorry I can’t offer her a bed. They’re all full.”
Sally is so grateful to the woman, she thinks she might cry. “No, thank you. This is enough.”
“Are you sisters?”
“Sisters-in-law. She’s married to my late husband’s brother.”
“What’s her trouble?”
Sally doesn’t know if she is asking because she is curious or because sheintends to offer aid, but she hopes it is the latter. “A broken leg, for certain. And I’m not sure what else,” she says as she unfolds the quilt. “She’s been sick. You really don’t mind if I use this?”
“It can be washed. But do you want to try to get that dress off her?”
“She’s not very cooperative,” says Sally hesitantly as she eyes Margaret, who has begun to shiver uncontrollably.
Mrs. Cowley bats the air with her hands, as if Margaret’s disposition is of little concern to her. She pulls a pair of shears from her apron pocket and hands them to Sally. “We’ll just cut it off. I’ve got an extra shift upstairs.”
“You’re so kind.”
Mrs. Cowley disappears again. By the time she returns, Sally has snipped away what remains of Margaret’s skirt and is carefully working the tip of the scissors between her stays and the soft flesh of her stomach. When she is done, she tucks an arm behind Margaret’s shoulders and pleads with her to sit up.
Margaret is delirious or close to it, but she does as she is told. Mrs. Cowley rolls the neck of the shift over her head, and as they work her arms into the sleeves she says “Now, isn’t this better?” in the same tone she’d use to address a small child. Margaret doesn’t respond. When the shift is on, Sally lowers her friend’s head back onto the pillow, and Mrs. Cowley pulls what remains of her dress out from under her. “I don’t see any reason to save this,” says the old woman. “Do you?”
Before Sally can say anything, they are interrupted by a pounding at the door. Mrs. Cowley goes to answer it and Sally can hear two men demand to know whether a sixteen-year-old girl named Maria Price has been brought in. Mrs. Cowley must not know the answer to the question—so many people have been coming and going—so she invites them in to see for themselves.
In all the tumult, Margaret murmurs something, and Sally has to lean in close to hear her better. “What did you say?”
“Mr. Scott,” she says a second time, and Sally’s breathing stalls. “Did he survive the fall?”
Sally stutters something, then rises and makes her way across the parlor, slipping past the knot of people in Mrs. Cowley’s entryway. When she is outside, she sprints toward the theater, which is now completely encased in flames.
GILBERT
The Baptist meetinghouse is mayhemwhen Gilbert approaches, McCaw slung over his back.
A large crowd has gathered in front of the building, everyone apparently believing—as Gilbert does—that a house of God is the most obvious place to go during a time such as this.
A few people have pulled carts up in front of the building and are loading the injured into wagon beds. Others have brought their horses and are convincing the maimed to heave themselves into the saddles. One man deposits a woman with an ugly gash on her forehead into a wheelbarrow. But most people come and go on foot.
Pastor Courtney tries to make order of the chaos. “If you are injured and need assistance, come inside. If you are looking for someone, you may enter briefly, but please try to stay to the side aisles and clear out as soon as you’ve confirmed that the person you’re looking for is not here.”
Alister Murdoch, who sings in the choir on Sundays, is standing beside the pastor with a sheaf of papers in his hand. “How do you spell that?” he asks a man with a big beard as he presses the nub of a pencil down on the page.
“T-a-b-i-t-h—”
