It was Jenny who first wakened in the house on the hill, for she
slept lightly as a young mother does. And yet when she woke, sleep
was not wholly out of her eyes and mind, and it seemed to her that it
was morning, and that Sam, her good Sam, was up betimes in the
kitchen. She heard the fine crackling, at first a mere crepitation,
of the crawling flame, and felt comfortable as one does at the notion
of the good creature fire, the greatest servant of man. Deep in the
hearts of men lies the love of it, for fire has served them through
the innumerable generations of their rise from those who knew it not.
A million ancestors of each have sat by brave flames in dark
woodlands and have warmed themselves and found comfort in all the
storms of the open world. For the house is the fire, the covering of
the fire, and the hearth is the great altar, where a daily sacrifice
is made to the gods.
She fell asleep again.
And then she smelt smoke and roused herself suddenly and saw a
strange light outside in the darkness. The fire flickered like a
serpent's tongue, and she saw it, and her heart went cold. For the
servant becomes a tyrant, and the god is oftentimes cruel to his
people. She clutched the child, and with her other hand caught hold
of George. She cried to him aloud, and even before he was awake he
stood upon the floor, knowing that some enemy was at hand. And even
then the red enemy looked in at the window and there was the tinkle
of broken glass.
"Oh, this is Pete's work," he said. But he said it not aloud. "Get
up, girl. Come, tenas," he cried. He opened the door and found the
house full of smoke. Below, he heard the work of the fire. And the
outer wall below the window was one flame.
"This is Pete's work," he said. And he said to himself--
"What of the Mill?"
Jenny clutched the baby to her bosom, and he slammed the door to. It
was not the first time he had met fire and he understood it. He
wetted a handkerchief and tied it over his own mouth. There were
some who would have wondered at his swiftness, and the cool courage
of him in so threatening a fight. He bound wet rags across the brave
lifted mouth of Jenny, and the child cried as he did the same for
him. Then he caught her in his arms and rushed the stairs, and as he
ran he called aloud, "Sam, Sam!"
The smoke was pungent, acrid, suffocating, and the heat of the air
already cracked the skin. Out of the smoke he saw licking tongues of
flame, flame curious and avid, searching, strenuous, alive. One
tongue licked at him and he smelt, among all the other odours of the
fire, the smell of singed hair. He heard the crying of the child,
its outraged mind working angrily. Jenny whimpered a little. Her
hand was steel about him. He rushed an opaque veil of blinding
smoke, interpenetrated by lightnings, and bull-headed burst in Sam's
door. He heard the boy cry out. But they were saved, if it were not
that Pete stood outside to kill those whom he had driven from their
shelter. That might be; Quin knew it. And yet he could not go
first. Sam caught his arm.
"Oh, oh, Mista Quin!" he cried, "oh, oh, velly dleadful, my much
aflaid."
Sam had pluck enough, as he had more than once shown when some white
young hoodlums of the town had small-ganged him. But when fire is
the master many are not brave.
"Open the window," said Quin. Outside to the ground was a drop of
twelve feet. But the ground was hard. Quin put Jenny down by the
window and got a blanket from the boy's bed.
"Out you go first, Sam," he said.
But Sam, though not "blave" and "velly much aflaid," knew it was the
right thing for the "Missus" to go first.
"Oh, no, Mista Quin, my no go first. Missus she go and litty chilo.
My not too much aflaid."
He trembled like a leaf all the same.
"Get out of the window chop-chop," said Quin in a voice that Sam had
only heard once before when he had dared to be insolent. He sprang
to the window, and, clutching the blanket that Quin held, he slid to
the ground.
"Now my catchee Missus," he said exultantly. And with the fire
beneath the boards of the room, Quin had no choice. He tied a quilt
round Jenny's waist and lowered her and the child till Sam could
touch her. He let go, and sliding down the blanket, which he had
made fast to the frame of Sam's bed, he, too, reached the ground
safely. And people came running up the hill. Whether this was
Pete's work or not they were safe. But their house was a torch, the
flames soared above the gambrel of the roof.
Jenny sat upon a rock, clad only in her nightgown, with the quilt
thrown about her shoulders. Her home was burning and all their
beautiful things were destroyed. She could not cry, but her heart
wept, and the child was her only comfort. She knew well enough that
this was Pete's work, she felt it in her heart.
And a crowd gathered. There were many from the City: those whose
work it is to put out fires, and some of the police. There was a fat
saloon-keeper whom she knew by sight and the old boss of the Farmers'
Home. With them were many Siwashes from Shack-Town: among them the
wedger-off who had replaced Pete. She saw old Papp, the German from
"California," and Chihuahua, with his beady eyes flashing, and his
teeth all a-grin. With him came his klootchman, Annawillee, the one
who always sang the song of the mournful one, also called Annawillee.
Then there were Chinamen in wide flapping pyjamas, old Wong, the wise
man, and Fan-tan and Sam Lung, and Quong. They made a circle about
her and the fire, and chattered in Chinese, in Chinook, in Spanish,
for now Spanish Joe, the handsome man, came up and palavered with
Chihuahua. She felt their eyes upon her. She had "shem" that they
should see her, for she was not Quin's wife, and his child cried upon
her knees. She hid her bare feet under the nightgown. Sam stood by
her. She saw Quin speak to the police, to the firemen. Any help was
vain. Then Long Mac ran up the hill, as light as a wapiti on his
feet. He said but a word and ran back. But it was a wise word,
though too late.
"Send someone down to the Mill, Quin. If this is Pete, it won't
satisfy him. I'll get a boat and go on the River."
"Do," said Quin. "I'll see this through and be with you in a minute."
But the swift minutes passed, and before they gave up all hope
(though Quin never had hope) and before he could say what should be
done with Jenny, someone cried out suddenly--
"The Mill, the Mill!"
As if they had been turned on their heels by some strange machinery
the big crowd turned and saw a running light in the Mill. It was as
if the crowd of workers danced with lamps: as if there were some
Chinese Feast of Lanterns in its dark floors. Then the flickering,
dancing lights coalesced and they saw flames flow out, and flow down
and climb up.
"The Mill!" said Quin.
Bad enough to lose his house, his home, which now he loved, but to
lose the Mill was a thousand times worse. The house was but a new
thing and the Mill was old. Thousands of days he had watched the
work and heard its song: not a board of it, not a rafter, not a stud
or beam or scantling or shingle that wasn't his delight. It was part
of himself, the thing wherewith he worked, the live muscles with
which he toiled: his spirit extended to it: he ran it with his steam,
with his belts, with his mind, his energy.
"Oh, my Mill!"
Barefoot as he was, being clad only in his shirt and trousers, he
leapt down the hill and never felt his wounded feet. Jenny saw him
go, saw the crowd break and waver, saw it turn and flood the lower
hillside, moving down. Their lighted faces turned from her, she saw
them run.
"Oh, Tchorch, oh, Tchorch!"
But George never heard her feeble cry in the torrent. He had
forgotten her and the boy.
And when she could again see for her tears she was alone save for
Sam, her faithful Sam, and Annawillee and Indian Annie, the last to
climb the hill. Even Chihuahua had gone and all the Chinamen. She
saw Wong departing last of all. The fire drew even the philosopher.
She heard Annie speak to her.
"Ho, tenas Jenny, toketie Jenny, dis your man, mesachie Pete.
Evelybody savvy Pete done um, Jenny. Oh, what peety toketie house
mamook piah, all bu'n, all flame."
"Oho, hyu keely, hyu keely," moaned Annawillee, "pletty house mamook
piah. Mamook nanitch you' papoosh, Jenny, let me see papoosh."
These were foul and filthy hags, and now Jenny knew it. She cried
and Sam did not know what to do.
"Missus, you no cly," he said despairingly. But still she cried, and
Annie sat down by her.
"Where Mista Quin klatawa? Ha, Moola mamook piah all same yo'
toketie house, tenas. Now you got halo house, you come mine, Jenny."
And Annawillee lifted the quilt from the baby and saw it.
"Hyu toketie papoosh, hyu toketie, ha, I love papoosh, Jenny's
papoosh."
"What I do, Sam?" moaned Jenny. The Mill was in a roar of flames.
It lighted the town and the river and the white canneries across the
wide red flood.
"Oh, you come down to sto'e," said Sam. Where else could she go but
to the store? Why hadn't the big boss told him what to do? For
everything outside the house Sam was as helpless as the very papoose.
He hated and loathed the Siwashes and their klootchmen. They were
dreadful, uncleanly people. It was his one great wonder in life that
"Missus" was a Siwash klootchman.
"You come down to sto'e," he said.
"You come my house, Jenny," said Annie, who thought if she gave Jenny
shelter she would get more dollars from Quin, who lately had refused
her anything. "You come my house, tenas."
But Sam held her tight and helped her on the difficult path. Her
feet were bare and so were his. Neither Annie nor Annawillee had
mocassins on, the soles of their feet were as hard as horn.