Fire! There is something appalling in the cry to most ears; something
deadly in the sound; something that tells of imminent danger and urgent
haste. After David Boone's first alarm was given, other voices took it
up; passers-by became suddenly wild, darted about spasmodically and
shouted it; late sitters-up flung open their windows and proclaimed it;
sleepers awoke crying, "What! where?" and, huddling on their clothes,
rushed out to look at it; little boys yelled it; frantic females
screamed it, and in a few minutes the hubbub in Poorthing Lane swelled
into a steady roar.
Among the sound sleepers in that region was Miss Deemas. The fair head
of that lady reposed on its soft pillow all unconscious of the fact that
she was even then being gently smoked before being roasted alive.
Miss Tippet, on the very first note of alarm, bounced out of bed with an
emphatic "There!" which was meant to announce the triumphant fulfilment
of an old prophecy which she had been in the habit of making for some
time past; namely, that Matty Merryon would certainly set the house on
fire if she did not take care!
The energy with which Miss Tippet sprang to the floor and exclaimed
"There!" caused Emma Ward to open her eyes to the utmost possible
extent, and exclaim, "Where?"
Without waiting for a reply she too bounded out of bed like an
indiarubber ball, and seeing (for there was always a night-light in the
room) that Miss Tippet's face was as white as her night-dress, she
attempted to shriek, but failed, owing to a lump of some kind that had
got somehow into her throat, and which refused to be swallowed on any
terms.
The repetition of the cry, "Fire! fire!" outside, induced both ladies at
once to become insane. Miss Tippet, with a touch of method even in her
madness, seized the counterpane, wrapped it round her, and rushed out of
the room and downstairs. Emma followed her example with a blanket, and
also fled, just as Matty Merryon, who slept in an attic room above,
tumbled down her wooden staircase and burst into the room by another
door, uttering a wild exclamation that was choked in the bud partly by
terror, partly by smoke. Attempting in vain to wrap herself in a
bolster, Matty followed her mistress. All three had utterly forgotten
the existence of Miss Deemas. That strong-minded lady being, as we have
hinted, a sound sleeper, was not awakened by the commotion in the
street. In fact, she was above such weaknesses. Becoming aware of a
crackling sound and a sensation of smoke, she smiled sweetly in her
slumbers, and, turning gently on her other side, with a sigh, dreamed
ardently of fried ham and eggs--her usual breakfast.
While these events were occurring the cry of fire had reached the ears
of one of London's guardians; our friend Samuel Forest. That
stout-hearted man was seated at the time rapping the sides of his
sentry-box with his head, in a useless struggle with sleep. He had just
succumbed, and was snoring out his allegiance to the great conqueror,
when the policeman on the beat dashed open his door and shouted "Fire!"
Sam was a calm, self-possessed man. He was no more flurried by this
sudden, unexpected, and fierce shout of "Fire," than he would have been
if the policeman had in a mild voice made a statement of water. But,
although self-possessed and cool, Sam was not slow. With one energetic
effort he tripped up and floored the conqueror with one hand, as it
were, while he put on his black helmet with the other, and in three
minutes more the fire-escape was seen coming up the lane like a rampant
monster of the antediluvian period.
It was received by the crowd with frantic cheers, because they had just
become aware that a lady was asleep in one of the upper rooms, which
were by that time unapproachable, owing to the lower part of the
staircase having caught fire.
The fact was made known with a sudden look of horror by Miss Tippet,
who, with Emma Ward, had been rescued from the first-floor window by a
gallant policeman. This man, having procured a ladder, entered the
house at considerable personal risk, and carried the ladies out in
safety, one after the other; an event, we may remark in passing, which
is not of rare occurrence at London fires, where the police are noted
for their efficient services and for the daring of some of the members
of the force, many of whom have received medals and other rewards for
acts of personal daring in attempting to save life before the firemen
had arrived on the ground.
Having put Miss Tippet and Emma in a place of security, the policeman
was about to make a desperate attempt to reach the upper floor by
rushing through the flames, when the escape came up and rendered it
unnecessary.
Dozens of tongues and hundreds of voices directed Sam Forest to the
right window. He pointed his escape towards it, but so vigorous was the
uninvited assistance lent by the crowd that the head of the machine went
crashing through it and dashed the frame into the middle of the room.
To say that Miss Deemas was horror-struck by such an awakening would be
to use a mild expression. Her strong mind was not strong enough to
prevent her strong body from trembling like an aspen leaf, as she lay
for a few moments unable to cry or move. Suddenly she believed that she
was dreaming, and that the instrument which had burst through her window
was a nightmare or a guillotine, and she made dreadful efforts to pinch
herself awake without success. Next moment a man's head, looking very
grim in the light of a bull's-eye lamp, appeared at the top of the
guillotine. So far this was in keeping with her idea; but when the head
leapt into the room, followed by its relative body, and made a rush at
her, Miss Deemas cast courage and philosophy to the dogs, gave herself
over to abject fear, uttered a piercing shriek, dipped her head under
the bedclothes, and, drawing her knees up to her mouth, clasped her
hands over them in agony.
"Come, ma'am, don't take on so; no time to lose; floor's goin' down!"
said Sam. He coughed as he said it, for the smoke was getting thicker
every moment.
Shriek upon shriek was the only answer vouchsafed by the terrified
Eagle. A wild cheer from the mob outside seemed to be a reply of
encouragement to her; but it was not so; it was called forth by the
sudden appearance of a fire-engine dashing round the corner of the lane.
"Be quiet, my good lady," said Sam Forest in a voice of tenderness; but
if his voice was tender his actions were the reverse, for it was now a
matter of life or death; so he grasped the Eagle, bedclothes and all, in
his arms, and bore her to the window.
It is probable that this act revived in Miss Deemas some reminiscences
of her childhood, for she suddenly straightened herself out and
struggled violently, after the manner of those sweet little ones who
_won't_ be made to sit on nurse's knees. Being a tall, heavy woman, she
struggled out of Sam's grasp and fell to the floor; but her victory was
short-lived. Another moment and that bold man had her round the waist,
in a grasp from which she could not free herself. Sam was considerate,
however, and polite even in this extremity. He begged pardon as he
wrapped the bedclothes round his victim, and lifting her into the head
of the escape, let her go.
No swoop that the Eagle ever made (mentally) down upon base, unworthy,
arrogant man, was at all comparable to the descent which she made
(physically) on that occasion into the arms of an expectant fireman!
She held her breath, also the blankets, tightly, as she went down like a
lightning-flash, and felt that she was about to be dashed to pieces, but
to her surprise soft cushions received her, and she was immediately
borne, by another of these desperate men in helmets, into an adjoining
house, and left unhurt in the arms of her sympathetic friend Miss
Tippet.
"Oh, my dear, _dear_ Julia!" exclaimed Miss Tippet, shutting the door of
the room into which they had been ushered, and assisting her friend to
disentangle herself from the bedclothes. "Oh! what a mercy we've not
all been roasted alive like beef steaks--or--oh! _what_ a sight you are,
my darling! You must have got it coming down that dreadful thing--the
what's-'is-name, you know. Shall I ring for water?"
"Tut, nonsense!" exclaimed the Eagle, panting as well from nervous
excitement as exhaustion; "you are always so fussy, Emelina. Please
assist me to tie this string, Miss Ward."
"Yes, I know I'm fussy, dear Julia!" exclaimed Miss Tippet, bustling
nervously about the room; "but I can't help it, and I'm so thankful
for--; but it was so bold in these noble fellows to risk their lives
to--"
"Noble fellows!" shouted Miss Deemas, with flashing eyes, "d'you call it
noble to pull me out of bed, and roll me in a blanket and shoot me down
a--a--I don't know what, like a sack of coals? Noble fellows, indeed!
Brutes!"
Here Miss Deemas clasped her hands above her head in a passion of
conflicting feelings, and, being unable to find words for utterance,
burst into a flood of tears, dropped into a chair, and covered her face
with both hands.
"Dear, dear, _darling_ Julia!" said Miss Tippet soothingly.
"Don't speak to me!" sobbed the Eagle passionately, and stamping her
foot; "I can't bear to think of it."
"But you know, dear," persevered her friend, "they could not help
being--being--what d'you call it?--energetic, you know, for it was not
rough. We should all have been roasted to death but for them, and I
feel very, _very_ grateful to them. I shall respect that policeman as
long as I live."
"Ah, sure an' he _is_ a dacent boy now," said Matty Merryon, who entered
the room just then; "the way he lifted you an' Miss Emma up an' flung ye
over his showlder, as aisy as if ye was two bolsters, was beautiful to
look at; indade it was. Shure it remimbered me o' the purty pottery ye
was readin' just the other night, as was writ by O'Dood or O'Hood--"
"Hood," suggested Miss Tippet.
"P'r'aps it was," said Matty; "he'd be none the worse of an O before his
name anyhow. But the pottery begood with--`Take her up tinderly, lift
her with care,' if I don't misremimber."
"_Will_ you hold your tongue!" cried the Eagle, looking up suddenly and
drying her eyes.
"Surely, miss," said Matty, with a toss of her head; "anything to plaize
ye."
It is due to Matty to say that, while the policeman was descending the
ladder with her mistress, she had faithfully remained to comfort and
encourage Emma; and after Emma was rescued she had quietly descended the
ladder without assistance, having previously found time to clothe
herself in something a little more ample and appropriate than a bolster.
But where was David Boone all this time? Rather say, where was he not?
Everywhere by turns, and nowhere long, was David to be seen, in the
frenzy of his excitement. Conscience-smitten, for what he had done, or
rather intended to do, he ran wildly about, making the most desperate
efforts to extinguish the fire.
No one knows what he can do till he is tried. That is a proverb (at
least if it is not it ought to be) which embraces much deep truth. The
way in which David Boone set personal danger at defiance, and seemed to
regard suffocation by smoke or roasting by fire as terminations of life
worth courting, was astounding, and rendered his friends and neighbours
dumb with amazement.
David was now on the staircase among the firemen, fighting his way up
through fire and smoke, for the purpose of saving Miss Tippet, until he
was hauled forcibly back by Dale or Baxmore--who were in the thick of it
as usual. Anon, down in the basement, knee-deep in water, searching for
the bodies of his two shopmen, both of whom were standing comfortably
outside, looking on. Presently he was on the leads of the adjoining
house, directing, commanding, exhorting, entreating, the firemen there
to point their branch at the "blue bedroom." Soon after he was in the
street, tearing his hair, shouting that it was all his fault; that he
did it, and that it would kill him.
Before the fire was put out, poor Boone's eyelashes and whiskers were
singed off; little hair was left on his head, and that little was short
and frizzled. His clothes, of course, were completely soaked; in
addition to which, they were torn almost to shreds, and some of his skin
was in the same condition. At last he had to be forcibly taken in
charge, and kept shut up in an adjoining house, from the window of which
he watched the destruction of his property and his hopes.
Almost superhuman efforts had been made by the firemen to save the
house. Many a house in London had they saved that year, partially or
wholly; as, indeed, is the case every year, and many thousands of
pounds' worth of property had they rescued; but this case utterly defied
them. So well had the plot been laid; so thoroughly had the
combustibles been distributed and lubricated with inflammable liquids,
that all the engines in the metropolis would have failed to extinguish
that fire.
David Boone knew this, and he groaned in spirit. The firemen knew it
not, and they worked like heroes.
There was a shout at last among the firemen to "look out!" It was
feared one of the partition walls was coming down, so each man beat a
hasty retreat. They swarmed out at the door like bees, and were all
safe when the wall fell--all safe, but one, Joe Corney, who, being a
reckless man, took things too leisurely, and was knocked down by the
falling bricks.
Moxey and Williams ran back, and carried him out of danger. Then,
seeing that he did not recover consciousness, although he breathed, they
carried him at once to the hospital. The flames of the burning house
sprang up, just then, as if they leaped in triumph over a fallen foe;
but the polished surface of poor Joe's helmet seemed to flash back
defiance at the flames as they bore him away.
After the partition wall fell, the fire sank, and in the course of a few
hours it was extinguished altogether. But nothing whatever was saved,
and the firemen had only the satisfaction of knowing that they had done
their best, and had preserved the adjoining houses, which would
certainly have gone, but for their untiring energy.
By this time, David Boone, besides being mad, was in a raging fever.
The tenant of the house to which he had been taken was a friend, as well
as a neighbour of his own--a greengrocer, named Mrs Craw, and she
turned out to be a good Samaritan, for she insisted on keeping Boone in
her house, and nursing him; asserting stoutly, and with a very red face
(she almost always asserted things stoutly, and with a red face), that
Mister Boone was one of 'er best an' holdest friends, as she wouldn't
see 'im go to a hospital on charity--which she despised, so she did--as
long as there was a spare bed in her 'ouse, so there was--which it
wasn't as long as could be wished, considerin' Mister Boone's height;
but that could be put right by knocking out the foot-board, and two
cheers, so it could--and as long she had one copper to rub on another;
no, though she was to be flayed alive for her hospitality. By which
round statement, Mrs Craw was understood to imply a severe rebuke to
Mrs Grab--another greengrocer over the way (and a widow)--who had been
heard to say, during the progress of the fire, that it served Boone
right, and that she wouldn't give him a helping hand in his distress on
any account whatever.
Why Mrs Grab was so bitter and Mrs Craw so humane is a matter of
uncertainty; but it was generally believed that the former having had a
matrimonial eye on Boone, and that Boone having expressed general
objections to matrimony--besides having gone of late to Mrs Craw for
his vegetables--had something to do with it.
Next day, D. Gorman happened, quite in a casual way of course, to
saunter into Poorthing Lane; and it was positively interesting to note--
as many people did note--the surprise and consternation with which he
received the news of the fire from the people at the end of the lane who
first met him, and who knew him well.
"Wery sad, ain't it, sir?" said a sympathetic barber. "He was sitch a
droll dog too. He'll be quite a loss to the neighbourhood; won't he,
sir?"
"I hope he won't," said Gorman, loud enough to be heard by several
persons who lounged about their doors. "I hope to see him start afresh,
an' git on better than ever, poor fellow; at least, I'll do all _I_ can
to help him."
"Ah! you've helped him already, sir, more than once, I believe; at least
so he told me," said the barber, with an approving nod.
"Well, so I have," returned Gorman modestly, "but he may be assured that
any trifle he owes me won't be called for just now. In fact, my small
loan to him is an old debt, which I might have got any time these last
six years, when he was flourishing; so I'm not going to press him now,
poor fellow. He's ill, you say?"
"Yes, so I'm told; raither serious too."
"That's very sad; where is he?"
"With Mrs Craw, sir, the greengrocer."
"Ah, I'll go and see him. Good-day."
Gorman passed on, with as much benignity thrown into his countenance as
it could contain; and the barber observed, as he re-entered his shop,
that, "that man was a better fellow than he looked."
But Gorman's intentions, whatever they might have been, were frustrated
at that time; for he found Boone in high fever, and quite delirious. He
did not, however, quit the house without putting, as he expressed it, at
least one spoke in his wheel; for he conducted himself in such a way
towards Mrs Craw, and expressed so much feeling for her friend "and
his," that he made quite a favourable impression on that worthy woman.
He also left a sovereign, wherewith to purchase any little luxuries for
the sick man, that might be conducive to his health and comfort, and
went away with the assurance that he would look in to inquire for him as
often as he could.