Suddenly there were steps heard in the little paved court; person after
person ran past the curtained window.
“Something’s up,” said Mary. She went to the door, and stopped the first
person she saw, inquiring the cause of the commotion.
“Eh, wench! donna ye see the fire-light? Carsons’ mill is a blazing away
like fun”; and away her informant ran.
“Come, Margaret, on wi’ your bonnet, and let’s go to see Carsons’ mill;
it’s afire, and they say a burning mill is such a grand sight. I never
saw one.”
“Well, I think it’s a fearful sight. Besides, I’ve all this work to do.”
But Mary coaxed in her sweet manner, and with her gentle caresses,
promising to help with the gowns all night long, if necessary—nay, saying
she should quite enjoy it.
The truth was, Margaret’s secret weighed heavily and painfully on her
mind, and she felt her inability to comfort; besides, she wanted to
change the current of Margaret’s thoughts; and in addition to these
unselfish feelings, came the desire she had honestly expressed, of seeing
a factory on fire.
So in two minutes they were ready. At the threshold of the house they met
John Barton, to whom they told their errand.
“Carsons’ mill! Ay, there is a mill on fire somewhere, sure enough by
the light, and it will be a rare blaze, for there’s not a drop o’ water
to be got. And much Carsons will care, for they’re well insured, and the
machines are a’ th’ oud-fashioned kind. See if they don’t think it a fine
thing for themselves. They’ll not thank them as tries to put it out.”
He gave way for the impatient girls to pass. Guided by the ruddy light
more than by any exact knowledge of the streets that led to the mill,
they scampered along with bent heads, facing the terrible east wind as
best they might.
Carsons’ mill ran lengthways from east to west. Along it went one of the
oldest thoroughfares in Manchester. Indeed, all that part of the town was
comparatively old; it was there that the first cotton mills were built,
and the crowded alleys and back streets of the neighbourhood made a fire
there particularly to be dreaded. The staircase of the mill ascended from
the entrance at the western end, which faced into a wide, dingy-looking
street, consisting principally of public-houses, pawnbrokers’ shops, rag
and bone warehouses, and dirty provision shops. The other, the east end
of the factory, fronted into a very narrow back street, not twenty feet
wide, and miserably lighted and paved. Right against this end of the
factory were the gable ends of the last house in the principal street—a
house which from its size, its handsome stone facings, and the attempt
at ornament in the front, had probably been once a gentleman’s house;
but now the light which streamed from its enlarged front windows made
clear the interior of the splendidly fitted up room, with its painted
walls, its pillared recesses, its gilded and gorgeous fittings-up, its
miserable, squalid inmates. It was a gin-palace.
Mary almost wished herself away, so fearful (as Margaret had said) was
the sight when they joined the crowd assembled to witness the fire. There
was a murmur of many voices whenever the roaring of the flames ceased for
an instant. It was easy to perceive the mass were deeply interested.
“What do they say?” asked Margaret of a neighbour in the crowd, as she
caught a few words, clear and distinct from the general murmur.
“There never is anyone in the mill, surely!” exclaimed Mary, as the sea
of upward-turned faces moved with one accord to the eastern end, looking
into Dunham Street, the narrow back lane already mentioned.
The western end of the mill, whither the raging flames were driven by the
wind, was crowned and turreted with triumphant fire. It sent forth its
infernal tongues from every window hole, licking the black walls with
amorous fierceness; it was swayed or fell before the mighty gale, only to
rise higher and yet higher, to ravage and roar yet more wildly. This part
of the roof fell in with an astounding crash, while the crowd struggled
more and more to press into Dunham Street; for what were magnificent,
terrible flames—what were falling timbers or tottering walls, in
comparison with human life?
There, where the devouring flames had been repelled by the yet more
powerful wind, but where yet black smoke gushed out from every
aperture—there, at one of the windows on the fourth storey—or, rather,
a doorway where a crane was fixed to hoist up goods, might occasionally
be seen, when the thick gusts of smoke cleared partially away for an
instant, the imploring figures of two men. They had remained after the
rest of the workmen for some reason or other, and, owing to the wind
having driven the fire in the opposite direction, had perceived no sight
or sound of alarm, till long after (if anything could be called long
in that throng of terrors which passed by in less than half an hour)
the fire had consumed the old wooden staircase at the other end of the
building. I am not sure whether it was not the first sound of the rushing
crowd below that made them fully aware of their awful position.
“Where are the engines?” asked Margaret of her neighbour.
“They’re coming, no doubt; but bless you, I think it’s bare ten minutes
since we first found out th’ fire; it rages so wi’ this wind, and all so
dry-like.”
“Is no one gone for a ladder?” gasped Mary, as the men were perceptibly,
though not audibly, praying the great multitude below for help.
“Ay, Wilson’s son and another man were off like a shot, wellnigh five
minutes ago. But th’ masons and slaters, and such-like, have left their
work, and locked up the yards.”
Wilson, then, was that man whose figure loomed out against the
ever-increasing dull hot light behind, whenever the smoke was clear—was
that George Wilson? Mary sickened with terror. She knew he worked for
Carsons; but at first she had had no idea that any lives were in danger;
and since she had become aware of this, the heated air, the roaring
flames, the dizzy light, and the agitated and murmuring crowd, had
bewildered her thoughts.
“Oh! let us go home, Margaret; I cannot stay.”
“We cannot go! See how we are wedged in by folks. Poor Mary! ye won’t
hanker after a fire again. Hark! listen!”
For through the hushed crowd pressing round the angle of the mill, and
filling up Dunham Street, might be heard the rattle of the engine, the
heavy, quick tread of loaded horses.
“Thank God!” said Margaret’s neighbour, “the engine’s come.”
Another pause; the plugs were stiff, and water could not be got.
Then there was a pressure through the crowd, the front rows bearing
back on those behind, till the girls were sick with the close, ramming
confinement. Then a relaxation, and a breathing freely once more.
“’Twas young Wilson and a fireman wi’ a ladder,” said Margaret’s
neighbour, a tall man who could overlook the crowd.
“Oh, tell us what you see?” begged Mary.
“They’ve getten it fixed against the gin-shop wall. One o’ the men i’ the
factory has fell back; dazed wi’ the smoke, I’ll warrant. The floor’s
not given way there. God!” said he, bringing his eye lower down, “the
ladder’s too short! It’s a’ over wi’ them, poor chaps! Th’ fire’s coming
slow and sure to that end, and afore they’ve either getten water, or
another ladder, they’ll be dead out and out. Lord have mercy on them.”
A sob, as if of excited women, was heard in the hush of the crowd.
Another pressure like the former! Mary clung to Margaret’s arm with a
pinching grasp, and longed to faint, and be insensible, to escape from
the oppressing misery of her sensations. A minute or two.
“They’ve taken th’ ladder into th’ Temple of Apollor. Can’t press back
with it to the yard it came from.”
A mighty shout arose; a sound to wake the dead. Up on high, quivering
in the air, was seen the end of the ladder, protruding out of the
garret window, in the gable end of the gin palace, nearly opposite to
the doorway where the men had been seen. Those in the crowd nearest the
factory, and consequently best able to see up to the garret window, said
that several men were holding one end, and guiding by their weight its
passage to the doorway. The garret window-frame had been taken out before
the crowd below were aware of the attempt.
At length—for it seemed long, measured by beating hearts, though scarce
two minutes had elapsed—the ladder was fixed, an aerial bridge at a dizzy
height, across the narrow street.
Every eye was fixed in unwinking anxiety, and people’s very breathing
seemed stilled in suspense. The men were nowhere to be seen, but the wind
appeared, for the moment, higher than ever, and drove back the invading
flames to the other end.
Mary and Margaret could see now; right above them danced the ladder in
the wind. The crowd pressed back from under; firemen’s helmets appeared
at the window, holding the ladder firm, when a man, with quick, steady
tread, and unmoving head, passed from one side to the other. The
multitude did not even whisper while he crossed the perilous bridge,
which quivered under him; but when he was across, safe comparatively
in the factory, a cheer arose for an instant, checked, however, almost
immediately, by the uncertainty of the result, and the desire not in any
way to shake the nerves of the brave fellow who had cast his life on such
a die.
“There he is again!” sprang to the lips of many, as they saw him at the
doorway, standing as if for an instant to breathe a mouthful of the
fresher air, before he trusted himself to cross. On his shoulders he bore
an insensible body.
“It’s Jem Wilson and his father,” whispered Margaret; but Mary knew it
before.
The people were sick with anxious terror. He could no longer balance
himself with his arms; everything must depend on nerve and eye. They saw
the latter was fixed, by the position of the head, which never wavered;
the ladder shook under the double weight; but still he never moved his
head—he dared not look below. It seemed an age before the crossing was
accomplished. At last the window was gained; the bearer relieved from his
burden; both had disappeared.
Then the multitude might shout; and above the roaring flames, louder than
the blowing of the mighty wind, arose that tremendous burst of applause
at the success of the daring enterprise. Then a shrill cry was heard,
asking—
“Is the oud man alive, and likely to do?”
“Ay,” answered one of the firemen to the hushed crowd below. “He’s coming
round finely, now he’s had a dash of cowd water.”
He drew back his head; and the eager inquiries, the shouts, the sea-like
murmurs of the moving rolling mass began again to be heard—but only for
an instant. In far less time than even that in which I have endeavoured
briefly to describe the pause of events, the same bold hero stepped again
upon the ladder, with evident purpose to rescue the man yet remaining in
the burning mill.
He went across in the same quick, steady manner as before, and the people
below, made less acutely anxious by his previous success, were talking
to each other, shouting out intelligence of the progress of the fire at
the other end of the factory, telling of the endeavours of the firemen at
that part to obtain water, while the closely-packed body of men heaved
and rolled from side to side. It was different from the former silent
breathless hush. I do not know if it were from this cause, or from the
recollection of peril past, or that he looked below in the breathing
moment before returning with the remaining person (a slight little man)
slung across his shoulders, but Jem Wilson’s step was less steady, his
tread more uncertain; he seemed to feel with his foot for the next round
of the ladder, to waver, and finally to stop half-way. By this time the
crowd was still enough; in the awful instant that intervened no one durst
speak, even to encourage. Many turned sick with terror, and shut their
eyes to avoid seeing the catastrophe they dreaded. It came. The brave
man swayed from side to side, at first as slightly as if only balancing
himself; but he was evidently losing nerve, and even sense; it was only
wonderful how the animal instinct of self-preservation did not overcome
every generous feeling, and impel him at once to drop the helpless,
inanimate body he carried; perhaps the same instinct told him, that the
sudden loss of so heavy a weight would of itself be a great and imminent
danger.
“Help me; she’s fainted,” cried Margaret. But no one heeded. All eyes
were directed upwards. At this point of time a rope, with a running
noose, was dexterously thrown by one of the firemen, after the manner
of a lasso, over the head and round the bodies of the two men. True, it
was with rude and slight adjustment; but slight as it was, it served
as a steadying guide; it encouraged the sinking heart, the dizzy head.
Once more Jem stepped onwards. He was not hurried by any jerk or pull.
Slowly and gradually the rope was hauled in, slowly and gradually did
he make the four or five paces between him and safety. The window was
gained, and all were saved. The multitude in the street absolutely danced
with triumph, and huzzaed, and yelled till you would have fancied their
very throats would crack; and then, with all the fickleness of interest
characteristic of a large body of people, pressed and stumbled, and
cursed and swore, in the hurry to get out of Dunham Street, and back to
the immediate scene of the fire, the mighty diapason of whose roaring
flames formed an awful accompaniment to the screams, and yells, and
imprecations, of the struggling crowd.
As they pressed away, Margaret was left, pale and almost sinking under
the weight of Mary’s body, which she had preserved in an upright position
by keeping her arms tight round Mary’s waist, dreading, with reason, the
trampling of unheeding feet.
Now, however, she gently let her down on the cold, clean pavement; and
the change of posture, and the difference in temperature, now that the
people had withdrawn from their close neighbourhood, speedily restored
her to consciousness.
Her first glance was bewildered and uncertain. She had forgotten where
she was. Her cold, hard bed felt strange; the murky glare in the sky
affrighted her. She shut her eyes to think, to recollect.
Her next look was upwards. The fearful bridge had been withdrawn; the
window was unoccupied.
“They are safe,” said Margaret.
“All? Are all safe, Margaret?” asked Mary.
“Ask yon fireman, and he’ll tell you more about it than I can. But I know
they’re all safe.”
The fireman hastily corroborated Margaret’s words.
“Why did you let Jem Wilson go twice?” asked Margaret.
“Let!—why, we could not hinder him. As soon as ever he’d heard his father
speak (which he was na long a-doing), Jem were off like a shot; only
saying he knowed better nor us where to find t’other man. We’d all ha’
gone, if he had na been in such a hurry, for no one can say as Manchester
firemen is ever backward when there’s danger.”
So saying he ran off; and the two girls, without remark or discussion,
turned homewards.
“In Pursuit of the _John Cropper_”