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Mary's Moment

By Susan G. Mathis

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Chapter 1
1912
Thousand Island Park, NY
“FIRE!”
Mary Flynn yanked off her telephone switchboard headset to confirm the shouts of
danger. She sniffed a sulfurous odor, her heartbeat speeding to a sprint. Somewhere in the
distance, a burning structure told the tale. One of destruction and pain—and possibly, death. For
the third time in a month. A lump formed in her throat as she hurried toward the door and almost
bumped into Mr. Wiseman.
Her elderly friend caught his balance by grasping tighter to his intricately hand-carved
cane. Concern croaked in his gravelly voice. “It’s the boathouses, Miss Mary. Better call for
help. It’s a one-alarm, most likely. A bucket brigade of linemen and town folk have already
formed.”
Mary nodded. “Right away, sir. I’ll start with Clayton.”
She hurried to the switchboard and rang the Clayton Fire Department, tapping out her
nervous energy as she waited, drumming her fingernails on the smooth oak desk.
After far too many rings, a man answered. “George Flannigan here. How may I help?”
His deep, serene tone calmed her nerves. A smidgen.
She swallowed, willing her voice to steady and hide her fear. But it surged through her
veins and snuck out her mouth. “Mary Flynn, Thousand Island Park telephone operator. We have
a boathouse fire in progress. There’s a bucket brigade, but with the wind …” Her quivering voice
trailed off.
“I’ll gather a crew and be there soon.” With no further ado, he hung up.
Mary puffed out a breath, bowed her head, and prayed for the men, the fire, the town. It
was all she could do at the moment, confined as she was to her closet-like office.
Just a month ago, a fire had destroyed five cottages on nearby Grenell Island, and another
blaze had started at the Thousand Island Park Gardner Boat Shop a week ago. Nine boathouses
leveled.
Worse, though, was the Frontenac Hotel fire on Round Island last August, less than a
year past. That devastation had seared into the minds of all who loved the St. Lawrence River’s
Thousand Islands. If it could happen to such a magnificent, modern resort had the latest fire
prevention inventions known to man, it could happen anywhere.
Even here, in this fine hotel.
She tapped her fingers again. If only someone would update her on today’s fire. Her tiny
switchboard and telegraph room in back of the Columbine Hotel suited her fine—until
something like this happened. Then she yearned to be out in the thick of things, gathering
information, helping others. And safe.
If a fire hit the hotel, she could jump out of her office’s one small window if she had to,
but the massive rose bushes beneath would make for a rather unpleasant fall. The front door was
some distance from her office—through the large drawing room and long lobby. Smoke—or fire,
God forbid—filling the grand foyer would block her way. She’d have to take a precarious route
to the servants’ entrance—or face the thorns below.
She looked out the window for evidence of the fire, but her view of the nearby kitchen
building blocked everything else. Besides, the fire was in the opposite direction. Itching for
information, she rang her aunties, who owned an adorable little cottage on Oak Street west of the
hotel where she lived for the summer. The pink-and-white Queen Anne-style gingerbread
matched Aunt Maude’s sweet, feminine personality—the opposite of her sister, Stella’s.
Unfortunately, Aunt Stella answered, her loud, curt voice grating on Mary’s frayed
nerves. “Hello? Who’s calling? Mary?”
She groaned. “I am, Aunt. Do you have any information about the boathouse fire?” Mary
chewed her bottom lip. “I’m confined to my workstation and am dying to know more.”
“I smelled the smoke. Been on the porch all morning hoping to chat with a neighbor or
two, but it seems everyone is still about their morning ministrations.”
Aunt Stella huffed into the mouthpiece of her new candlestick telephone, causing an
irritatingly loud sound. She’d only had the new device a few weeks and definitely needed
coaching on how to use it properly. Like not breathing into someone’s ear.
Mary pulled the headphone away from her ear. “Please let me know if you hear anything,
okay?”
Aunt Stella guffawed. “You’ll be the first to know. If there’s a tale to tell, you can be sure
you’ll hear it from me.”
“Thanks, Auntie. Hello to Aunt Maude.”
Aunt Stella hung up just as Mr. Wiseman knocked. “May I update you?”
Mary nodded, motioning for him to take the small chair next to the switchboard. Besides
that seat, her own workstation chair, and the switchboard and telegraph machines atop a large
oak desk, there was nothing else in the tiny room. Thankfully, the electric light, small window,
and warm cream-colored walls made the room somewhat inviting.
The chair creaked in protest as the older man sat. Small-framed and salt-and-pepper
haired, the man possessed a smile that always seemed to rise to his lively blue eyes. But not now.
He set his cane beside him and folded his hands atop his protruding paunch. “Clayton Fire
Department just arrived, but the fire is spreading. It’s taken out a few boathouses already. With
the wind and all, I hope the men can stop it before it moves into the center of the Park.”
Her heart took to trotting. “How’d it start?”
Mr. Wiseman clucked his tongue. “Don’t rightly know, Miss Mary. There were fifteen
linemen installing a new telephone line who saw it and started the bucket brigade. Good lads, all.
Several of ’em let loose the boats nearest the fire. Likely saved a dozen vessels, though the
owners will have to fetch them from the swift river current before they scatter to the four winds.
Wee Tommie Roberts ran from house to house, alerting the owners.”
Mary pressed her hand to her heart. “Oh, that’s a mercy.”
He shifted in his seat, which groaned under him. “Better fix this chair afore it collapses.”
He gave it a pat, and with much effort, stood and grasped his cane. “I’ll head back to the
veranda. If there be more to tell, I’ll let you know.”
Mary stood to see him to the door, but the wire from her headset pulled her back into her
chair. She grinned, rolling her eyes at the blunder. She sheepishly removed it and followed him
into the hallway. “Thanks, Mr. Wiseman. I can always count on you for the latest news.”
He chuckled, tapping his cane on the shiny oak floor. “I suspect your Aunt Stella takes
the lead on that one. She knows every piece of gossip from Lake Ontario to Singer Castle, that
one.” He shook his head, sending wispy shocks of hair flying every which way. He plopped his
straw hat on his head and tipped it with a slight touch to the brim. “Be back with news when I
hear more.”
She patted his wrinkly hand. “Thank you, sir.”
He brushed a kiss on her cheek and hobbled back toward his perch on the porch. The
former minister had taken summer residence in the hotel ever since his wife of fifty years left for
heaven. Every day the weather cooperated, Mr. Wiseman sat in the same spot on the veranda,
watching the world go by, reading the Good Book, playing chess, and chatting with anyone who
would visit.
She, for one, loved to spend time with him. He’d become a father figure of sorts, doling
out wisdom and counsel with a large dollop of God’s love. Unlike her aunt, who loved gossip,
Mr. Wiseman spoke of higher things. Conversations with him were deep, thought-provoking, and
sometimes challenging. And though his body showed the troubles of time, his mind was as sharp
as a man her own age.
At twenty-eight, she’d become an old maid, just like her Aunt Maude. Not that Mary
didn’t desire marriage. It just never stepped across her threshold or even winked at her. Oh, she’d
cast her eye on a boy or two, but they fled as soon as they learned she was a modern woman who
enjoyed working outside the home.
No. She’d not permit a sink or a crib or any other domestic doldrum to chain her. She had
too much to offer. Too much to accomplish.
Mary startled when the telegraph came to life. Dots and dashes danced in the air as she
picked up her pencil and began deciphering the message as quick as a hummingbird’s flight.
“Alex Bay here. See smoke. Need help?”
Did they? She tapped out her reply. “Clayton here but please help. Boathouses burning.
Wind strong.”
She waited for what seemed a decade before the answer came, the clicks and ticks in the
irregular succession of one unsure how to send a proper telegraph message. “Sending help.”
Mary sat back in her chair, folded her hands, and sent up a quick prayer. Whether or not
the boys needed it, aid was on the way. She grinned at the satisfaction of making such a lofty
decision. If she were a housewife, dinner and diapers would be the only decisions she’d be
making.
She stared out the window, wishing once again for a clear sight to the fire. Why couldn’t
she settle for the normal course of things? Marriage. Motherhood. Matronly attentions.
She ran her hand along the familiar machines in front of her. The telephone switchboard
was a marvel, and she enjoyed connecting with others. But the telegraph suited her fancy best.
She’d become quite adept at her work, speedily transcribing wires, even recognizing the senders
by idiosyncrasies, much like the tones of a voice. Accuracy was critical in her translations,
especially in times of sorrow and danger. Like now. And she’d found a level of satisfaction in
her days, tucked away in seclusion with machines as her friends.
Still, if she was honest, she longed to be loved.
But by whom?
~ ~ ~
By the time George Flannigan and his three volunteer firefighters arrived from Clayton, the fire
had consumed four boathouses, and five more were in peril. Despite the linemen and community
volunteers forming a bucket brigade, their efforts were mostly in vain as they frantically tossed
buckets of water on the flames without rhyme or reason. On the river, several launches and skiffs
floated aimlessly as men swam out to retrieve them. Two burned boat hulls drifted like coffins
along the shore.
Thousand Island Park hadn’t yet established a formal volunteer fire department, but this
was ridiculous. Surely, someone on the island knew something about firefighting. Where was the
Park’s equipment? He shook his head at the two chemical engines long ago spent and the
unseasoned bucket brigade of men and boys.
A heavy-set man shouted to George and his companions, pointing to a sparkling new
machine yet unused, partially hidden from his view around the corner of a nearby building. “Any
idea how to use the steam engine? None of us have a clue.”
They have a brand-new steam engine but don’t know how to use it? Good Lord, help us!
George nodded. “Aye. Burt and Manny will take care of that. Who’s in charge here?”
A young teener spoke. “No one, sir. We ain’t got no fire chief, nor a fire department, for
that matter.”
George patted his chest. As the only professional firefighter on scene, he must. “Then I’ll
lead this one.”
He set Burt and Manny to preparing the steam engine and quickly made a plan to gather
the volunteers into teams of three to five to fill specific jobs. The linemen could create a
firebreak, but the wind kept whipping up embers, sending them aloft to land on the nearby
boathouses.
He picked up the speaking trumpet he’d brought with him and put it to his mouth. “Listen
up. You’re doing fine work, folks, but we need to get better organized. We have to stop this fire
afore it spreads throughout the Park.” He pulled several strong-looking men from the bucket
brigade, then handed them the shovels and axes his team had brought. “You five, make a
firebreak. Dig a trench here, and let nothing past you.”
They nodded and set to work.
George motioned to three others and handed them rag mops. “You men, take these and
wet them in the river. Then climb atop the unaffected boathouse roofs. Put out any embers,
sparks, or flames that come your way.”
Next, he recruited three lanky teens from the bucket brigade to patrol the ground for stray
sparks and embers. They saluted him and ran to their designated areas.
He grabbed two more men and handed them fire hooks. “Help me pull down the walls of
the last smoldering boathouse.” He pointed to the tenth boathouse that had caught fire and
showed them how to use the hooks. Thankfully, they caught on quickly. “That’s it, boys.”
As they continued to fight the fire, George swiped his brow. His black rubber-lined duck
coat and rubber boots held the heat like an oven. He baked inside, sweating until wet to his toes.
But at least the material protected him better than the other poor lads in street clothes. Everything
in him wanted to strip off his gear and hand his attire to one of them, but he knew better. He was
in charge and had to be ready to go into the fire itself if need be.
After several minutes, Burt and Manny had the steamer spraying the eleventh boathouse,
and an hour-and-a-half of furious work later, they’d finally gotten the fire under control. No one
was seriously hurt, but May thirtieth would be a sad day in Thousand Island Park history.
As the fire smoldered, he thanked the men and boys who’d worked so hard and stationed
Burt and Manny to oversee the cleanup operation. Four volunteers also stayed behind to make
sure no spot fires popped up.
George, however, needed to alert the town they were safe. And he wanted to inform Mr.
Wiseman himself.
He entered the vast green space along St. Lawrence Avenue commanded by the fourhundred-
room Columbian Hotel, looming bright white against the blue sky. With the resort built
in the shape of a Greek cross so that every room had an outside view, the best rooms looked out
to the river with doors onto verandas for quick and safe exit in case of a fire. Heaven forbid that
guests would ever need egress for such an emergency.
He'd inspected the hotel before and found it sound. Pressed tin ceilings in the hotel’s
common areas acted as fire retardants, and electric lights helped to avoid open flames such as
had been customary with candles or kerosene or gas lamps. There were only three fireplaces, all
in the main areas, which staff diligently oversaw when lit.
George shook himself from his focus on fire safety, a habit that overtook him far too
often. Still, he acknowledged that the builders had constructed the Columbian to protect its
patrons. George had visited there on several occasions, enjoying the hotel’s orchestra during
some of the daily concerts and evening dances. It was a fine place to come for entertainment, but
he especially enjoyed visiting the old preacher, Mr. Wiseman.
As George climbed the hotel steps, he waved to his old friend. “Aye. The fire’s under
control. I have a few men mopping up, but the Park is safe.”
Mr. Wiseman clapped his hands and then raised them to the blue sky. “Praise be to God!
I’ve been imploring the heavens for everyone’s safety. Anyone hurt?”
George waved a hand. “A few cinder burns and scratches, but nothing to be alarmed
about. Still, before the fire gave up its ghost, eleven boathouses and three launches succumbed to
nature’s treachery.”
Mr. Wiseman frowned and asked again, “But the volunteers weathered the storm all
right?”
George nodded, patting the old man on the shoulder. “All are well.”
Just then, the hotel manager, Mr. O’Shea, and a pretty young woman joined them.
George reiterated the news, observing relief on both of their faces.
Who was this petite, raven-haired lass with her ivory skin and bright caramel eyes? When
she grinned, one small dimple deepened on her right cheek, then disappeared as soon as her lips
softened. But her eyes danced at his news. Somehow, she exuded a strength that bordered on
sassiness, even before she said a word. He hadn’t met such an intriguing woman… since Alma.
At her memory, George instantly sobered, turning his attention to the gathering crowd.
Several dozen guests and residents cheered as the news passed from mouth to ear.
“Hurrah for Fireman Flannigan! Hurrah for the volunteers! Hurrah for Miss Flynn for
calling for help!”
The chants increased until George wanted to slip through a crack of the veranda’s plank
flooring. He grew hotter by the moment, but he dared not take off his leather helmet or heavy
duck coat. Without his uniform, he’d look even worse because he’d already sweated clear
through his clothing. Enduring the unwelcome accolades, he swiped his forehead before sweat
dripped into his eyes. He wasn’t one for public displays of honor, especially when he didn’t
deserve it. He had saved no one today. He hadn’t even singed his hair or burned his skin
retrieving a priceless memento. He’d simply organized a ragtag group of volunteers as the wind
and fire destroyed almost a dozen boathouses.
George gave a curt nod and turned from the gathering. “I should go.”
Mr. O’Shea seemed to understand his angst. “Come with me and escape the crowds.” The
hotel manager led him to a hotel room and opened the door. “Bathe, and I’ll fetch you clean
clothes. You can return them on your next visit.”
“Thank you, Mr. O’Shea. I really appreciate this.”
He shut the door and slipped off his helmet and duck coat, smiling at the well-appointed
white, tiled room. And how grand to have indoor plumbing. Before stepping into the bath, he
thought of the pretty lass.
Who was the lovely woman?
He had to know.

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