In this impressive article, =Mr. W. Larkins=, the well-known
steeplejack, of Bow, London, sets forth some of his most
exciting experiences in the way of felling chimneys and
repairing steeples--a form of "high art" which has perils
peculiarly its own. The striking photographs which accompany
the text lend additional realism to a straightforward
narrative.
I come of a race of steeplejacks. My father earned his living at the
business, and met his death at it, falling from a church spire at
Dumbarton, in Scotland.
Strictly speaking, the work is not really and truly so extraordinarily
hazardous as people seem to think--that is to say, if a man takes
proper precautions. Steeple-climbing is very much like mountaineering
in this respect: it is the foolhardy folk who get hurt, and those who
are inexperienced or careless.
Look at myself, for instance. I have been climbing since I was seven,
and am now past thirty, and I have never met with an accident. But,
then, I am a life-long abstainer and non-smoker, and I take no risks
that forethought is able to provide against.
Narrow escapes I have had in plenty, but they hardly count in my line
of business. All dangerous trades involve risks to those following
them.
A rotten coping; a puff of wind, coming up unexpectedly from nowhere
in particular; a loose brick, or a piece of decayed ironwork--any one
of these may easily spell death.
Then, too, there are what, for want of a better term, I may call
"outside risks": outside the regular run of our hazards, that is to
say. For example, I once came very near to losing my life through
being attacked by a swarm of bees while repairing a tower at
Culmstock, in Devonshire. I had to descend very quickly, but I
returned at two o'clock in the morning and asphyxiated the lot while
they were asleep. Incidentally, I secured for myself thirty pounds
of very excellent honey. The insects had been there for years,
having found their way into the interior through a cavity left by a
scaffold-pole used in erecting the edifice.
Another nasty experience that befell me occurred so recently as
October, 1908. I was engaged to fell two lofty stacks at Millwall.
They were each about a hundred feet high, and were known locally as the
"leaning chimneys," being about four feet six inches out of the
perpendicular.
This peculiarity made the task of cutting into their bases a somewhat
ticklish one, since it was difficult to say, even approximately, when
they were going to fall. Also, of course, I had to perform the work on
the side to which they were inclined.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR, MR. W. LARKIN, OF BOW, LONDON, WHO HERE
RELATES SOME OF HIS MOST REMARKABLE EXPERIENCES.
_From a Photo. by F. W. Pickford._
]
However, the first one toppled over all right, the "groaning" of the
undermined mass, as it swayed ever so slightly to its fall, giving
me timely warning of what was about to happen. But the second one
collapsed far more suddenly, with the result that the "heel" of the
falling portion actually "kicked" me clean off the base that remained
standing! I fell fifteen feet, turning a complete somersault and
alighting on all fours. I was somewhat shaken, but quite uninjured.
The biggest job I have undertaken up till now has been the decorating
and repairing of the Nelson column in Trafalgar Square. This was my
Matterhorn, so to speak.
I carried out the decorations to the order of the Navy League. It was
the year 1905, the centenary of the great Admiral's crowning victory
and death, and it was determined to do the thing in style. Nearly
forty tons of laurel were used, and the greater portion of this had to
be carried aloft and fixed to the column at varying heights right up
to the top.
My orders as to not damaging the memorial in any way were most
stringent; no nails or spikes of any kind were to be driven into it.
This meant devising an altogether new method of ascent.
I thought out many plans, but eventually decided to lash ladders to
the structure by means of ropes passed round and round it. It was a
ticklish, trying job, but it was accomplished without hitch or mishap
of any kind.
[Illustration: MR. LARKINS AT THE SUMMIT OF THE NELSON COLUMN IN
TRAFALGAR SQUARE.
_From a Photograph._
]
Two sets of ladders were used, placed opposite to one another. This
was necessary, as the column measures forty feet in circumference--too
far to pass a rope round with ease. The most difficult part of the
ascent to negotiate was the cornice at the top of the column. This is
the heaviest projection for "throw-back" work in England, and I had
to climb up and over it with my back to the ground, for all the world
like a fly on a ceiling.
[Illustration: FELLING A CHIMNEY AT PIMLICO.
_From a Copyright Photo. by The Sport and General
Illustrations Co._
]
I am not ashamed to confess that I breathed more freely when I had
rounded the obstruction, and was able to cautiously slide myself on to
the platform which supports the statue. From below this appears flat,
but it is really bevelled, with a sharp slope outwards. I found it,
too, covered with an inch-thick layer of greasy soot; so that to walk
about on it was exceedingly risky. However, once I got the life-line
secured to the statue all was plain sailing.
I discovered a crack in the hero's arm, which I afterwards repaired.
When I tell people this they not infrequently ask, on the spur of the
moment, "Which arm?" Of course, the figure has only one.
By the way, I have read many accounts of the statue, professing to
give its size and dimensions, and they are nearly all wrong. The
exact measurements, as taken by my assistant, and afterwards carefully
verified by myself, are as follows.
The figure itself is seventeen feet four and a half inches in height,
and it measures five feet three inches across the shoulders. The sword
which hangs by its side is seven feet nine and a half inches long.
Besides repairing the statue I also re-pointed the column from top
to bottom. It is a splendidly-executed piece of work, solid granite
throughout, and should have lasted for centuries, but the authorities
have allowed an underground railway station to be excavated right at
its base, and this must undoubtedly have weakened the foundations.
I do not wish to pose as an alarmist, but I should not be greatly
surprised if, owing to this cause, the memorial suddenly collapsed
some day, like the Campanile at Venice.
Speaking of statues, I had the task of repairing that of the first
Duke of Sutherland. It stands out in my memory as the very coldest
and most uncomfortable piece of work I ever undertook. The memorial
is situated on top of Ben Bhragie, a mountain more than twelve hundred
feet high, near Golspie, Sutherlandshire. The figure is of colossal
size--thirty-three feet six inches from heel to head--and the pedestal
on which it stands measures ninety feet from base to summit.
[Illustration: THE BEGINNING OF THE END--A STACK JUST BEGINNING TO
FALL.
_From a Copyright Photo. by Gale & Polden, Ltd._
]
The time was mid-winter; there was five feet of snow on the mountain,
and gale followed gale with irritating persistency. Ladders and gear
froze solid during the night, so that it became necessary in the
morning for me to chop my way to the top through the ice that had
accumulated meanwhile. The ascent and descent of the mountain, too,
proved so long and arduous that I could only put in about two hours'
work in a day. Altogether, I was not sorry when the job was completed.
[Illustration: CUTTING INTO THE TOOTING CHIMNEY--THIS STACK FELL
UNEXPECTEDLY, ACTUALLY GRAZING MR. LARKINS'S SCALP AS HE SLIPPED FROM
UNDER IT.
_From a Copyright Photo. by The Sport and General
Illustrations Co._
]
Personally, I consider there is more risk in felling chimneys and
such-like structures than in climbing them; that is to say, when they
are felled in "my" way. The old-fashioned method was to undermine
the base and prop it up with timber. This was then saturated with a
mixture of oil and tar and set on fire. When it burnt through, down
came the chimney.
The other way, which I may truthfully lay claim to have invented, is
to cut away the bricks without under-pinning, keeping a sharp look-out
aloft meanwhile. Sometimes I stand a small, straight twig upright in
the gash. When this bends ever so little it is a sign to me that the
thousand tons or so of masonry above me is inclining away from the
perpendicular, and that its collapse is imminent.
One has to be very careful and very agile. I remember felling a shaft
at Summerstown, near Tooting. It was brick-built and circular, a
hundred and forty feet high, and weighed about eight hundred tons.
Experience has taught me that this kind of chimney can usually be cut
about halfway through at the base before it shows signs of giving way.
On this occasion, however, the collapse came when I was barely a third
of the way through, and with scarcely any warning. I leapt aside, but
the descending stack grazed my scalp as I slipped from under. I was
able to realize then something of the feelings of Marmion when he
galloped out of Tantallon Castle across the rising drawbridge, and
felt the falling portcullis bars "raze his plume."
There were probably not far short of a thousand people present, and in
the silence that followed the fall of the stack they sent up, as with
one voice, a loud cry of horror. I was completely hidden from view by
the clouds of dust that always arise on these occasions, and they were
quite sure I had been killed. All I lost, however, were my tools and
cap and jacket, which were buried under the mass of masonry. They are
there now.
It transpired afterwards that the chimney had been built too close
to the banks of the Wandle River, so that its foundations had become
undermined--hence its premature collapse.
One reads not infrequently of fights with madmen in mid-air. I used
to regard these as fiction pure and simple, until such an adventure
actually befell myself.
It happened at Deptford, about two years ago. I had been engaged to
repair the outside of the top of the shaft at the waterworks there.
The fires were not drawn, and the heated fumes and smoke that were
continually being belched from the mouth of the chimney made the job
a far from pleasant one, especially as the day happened to be
exceptionally warm, with scarcely a breath of air stirring.
Still, a "jack" takes but little notice of these things, and I and my
two assistants worked steadily on for some hours. I was just thinking
of giving the word to knock off for dinner, when the man nearest me
suddenly stopped of his own accord, threw down his tools, straightened
himself up on the coping, facing inwards, and clasped his hands above
his head, like a man about to take a dive--which was, in point of
fact, precisely what he was going to do. Only, it was not into water
that he intended plunging, but straight down the reeking chimney, to
be presently incinerated by the flaming furnaces far below!
I think the two of us that were left divined his intention at the same
moment. "Quick! Grab him!" I cried, and we both dashed at him. Only
just in time, for his head and shoulders were disappearing within the
mouth of the shaft as we clutched him by the legs. It was a wonder
that he did not drag us down with him, for he struggled fiercely. But
it was two to one, and eventually we overpowered him and hauled him
out on the coping.
There he lay, limp and gasping, half choked with the fumes, while we
bound him hand and foot with a ladder-rope. Then, with assistance, we
managed to lower him to the ground. The doctors said that the heat of
the sun had temporarily affected his brain.
Another nasty turn I had was while I was engaged in repairing the
steeple of a church in Wiltshire. I was sitting in a cradle under a
coping, while my man was standing on the projection immediately above
my head. He leaned over to ask me a question, lost his balance, and
the next thing I knew was that his body was hurtling downwards past me
through the empty air. I nearly followed him, so sick and unnerved was
I at the sight.
[Illustration: THE WALLINGFORD CHIMNEY--OWING TO THE CONFIGURATION OF
THE GROUND THIS HAD TO BE THROWN UPON ITS CORNER.
_From a Copyright Photo. by The Sport and General
Illustrations Co._
]
[Illustration: THE WALLINGFORD CHIMNEY FALLING--IT WILL BE NOTICED
THAT THE BRICKWORK IS STILL ALMOST INTACT.
_From a Copyright Photo. by The Sport and General
Illustrations Co._
]
[Illustration: ONE OF THE ALDERSHOT CHIMNEYS FALLING, WATCHED BY AN
IMMENSE CROWD--THIS STACK AND ANOTHER FELL EXACTLY UPON THE LINES
MARKED OUT FOR THEM.
_From a Copyright Photo. by Gale & Polden, Ltd._
]
This may sound strange, but I think any man who has done much climbing,
whether on mountains or on steeples and other high artificial erections,
will bear me out when I say that to witness an accident of this kind,
and to know oneself impotent either to prevent or assist, is one of the
most terrifying experiences that it is possible to conceive. Whymper has
left it on record how, when during his most memorable ascent Lord
Frederick Douglas and his friend fell to their deaths, he was so utterly
unnerved for the time being that he could only cling to the face of the
precipice, trembling and crying, unable to move a step one way or the
other.
Luckily the end of my little adventure partook rather of the nature of
comedy than tragedy. When I mustered up courage to look down, I saw
my mate sitting on the corrugated iron roof of a building far below,
vigorously rubbing that portion of his anatomy upon which schoolboys
are popularly supposed to be birched.
He had fallen squarely upon it, and the resilient roof, acting like
a spring mattress, had broken his fall, bouncing him up and down some
half-a-dozen times with continually decreasing momentum until at last
he came to rest. He was much bruised and shaken, but no bones were
broken, and after a few days' rest was as fit as a fiddle again.
Most jobs a steeplejack has to undertake are hard ones; hard, that
is to say, from the point of view of manual labour. Occasionally,
however, one drops across one that is ridiculously easy.
For example, I was called to Truro because the vane on top of the
steeple of its famous cathedral refused to work. Residents were making
obvious jokes about its being a weather_hen_, and not a weathercock at
all, because it "sat so tight."
I travelled three hundred miles on the level, and then climbed four
hundred feet into the air, with visions of displaced masonry and
fractured ironwork before my eyes, only to find that the socket in
which the vane worked was badly in need of oiling. I rather think
that that is a record in big efforts for little objects. Three hundred
miles by rail, four hundred feet by ladder--and all to grease a
weathercock!
This, by the way, was the highest steeple I ever climbed, also
the most southerly, except the French Cathedral, Jersey. The most
northerly was that which surmounts Dornoch Cathedral. This is Mr.
Andrew Carnegie's regular place of worship, and quite close to his
residence, Skibo Castle.
[Illustration: FELLING A CHIMNEY A HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS OLD--IT
STOOD TWO HUNDRED FEET HIGH AND WEIGHED TWO THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED
TONS--THIS AND ANOTHER CHIMNEY WERE THROWN WITHIN AN HOUR.
_From a Photograph._
]
[Illustration: THE OLD-FASHIONED METHOD OF BURNING PROPS--APPLYING THE
MATCH TO THE MATERIAL. WHEN THE SUPPORTS HAVE BURNT THROUGH DOWN COMES
THE CHIMNEY.
_From a Copyright Photo. by The Sport and General
Illustrations Co._
]
"I suppose," I remarked to some of the local residents, "that Mr.
Carnegie is pretty generous round here?"
"No," they replied; "he has made it a rule not to give anything to any
charity that is situated within twenty miles of Skibo."
At the time I thought this was hard, not to say foolish. On further
reflection, however, I can see he is wise; he does not want his
demesne to become a magnet, drawing hospitals, almshouses, and what
not to its immediate vicinity from the uttermost ends of the earth.
When I am given a job, I usually keep quiet about it beforehand. It is
no use attracting a crowd, and that is precisely what happens if the
news gets spread abroad. The work of a steeplejack seems to exercise a
quite extraordinary fascination over all sorts and conditions of men.
Thus, at Aldershot recently, some twenty thousand people assembled
to see me throw two chimneys. They flocked to the scene from the
surrounding neighbourhood, and Aldershot itself made high holiday of
the occasion, most of the big works being closed.
The authorities kept the ground clear, although I must say that the
crowd showed no disposition to invade the immediate proximity of
the stacks, when once we had got fairly to work on them. Even the
dwelling-houses within a possible radius of the falling masses were
deserted, and one family erected a tent in a neighbouring field and
camped out in it until all danger was at an end.
They need not have been scared, however, for the stacks fell exactly
upon the lines I had chalked out for them. Outsiders can rarely be
made to understand how comparatively simple it is for a steeplejack
who knows his business to make a chimney fall precisely where he wills
it to.
In many instances exactitude in this matter is the first essential. In
the case of the great Par stack, in Cornwall, for example, I was under
forfeit of two hundred pounds not to deviate more than a yard either
way from the space marked out for it, which was only a foot or two
wider than its own diameter.
This insistence was quite reasonable, for the chimney was surrounded
with cottages, and stood close alongside the main line of railway.
Officials and populace were alike alarmed, and the former begged of me
to desist. When I declined, they held up the traffic as a measure of
precaution until I had completed the job. As a matter of fact, not
even a window in the cottages was broken nor a shilling's-worth of
damage done to the railway line.
People are always asking me to take them with me to the tops of shafts
and steeples. Usually I decline, but I have to make exceptions. I have
piloted some scores of clergymen to the summits of the steeples of
their own churches; and once I escorted the reverend incumbent's
daughter, a sprightly girl of eighteen. I was rather nervous about it,
but I need not have been. She was the steadiest and coolest climber,
for an amateur, that I ever had any dealings with.
I cannot end this article without speaking about what I always call
"my most romantic climb." This was at Athenry, in County Galway.
A steeple had been struck by lightning and knocked out of the
perpendicular. After this it had been taken down--an easy job--but
nobody could be found who could put it up again. When several other
steeplejacks had failed I was sent for as a forlorn hope, and
succeeded. The romance of the climb, however, lies not in this feat,
but in the fact that it was from the spire, after its replacement,
that I first caught sight of the young lady who is now my wife.
[Illustration: THE DOMINICAN CHURCH, NEWRY, IRELAND--A PORTION OF THE
SPIRE WAS BLOWN OFF IN A GALE. A TELEGRAPH WAS SENT TO MR. LARKINS,
AND THE FOLLOWING DAY THE SPIRE WAS "LADDERED" AND WORK IN FULL SWING.
_From a Photo. by H. Allison & Co._
]