The
HARMSWORTH
MONTHLY PICTORIAL
MAGAZINE
VOLUME I.
1898-9.
No. 3
PUBLISHED BY
HARMSWORTH BROS. Limited, London, E.C.
FAMOUS RAILWAY SMASHES.
BEYOND THE SUNSET.
THE BEHAVIOUR OF WARRINGTON, V.C.
TRAINING OUR FIRE BRIGADE HEROES.
HOW THE MINISTER'S NOTES WERE RECOVERED.
LITTLE MAID.
PHOTOGRAPHIC LIES.
GASCOYNE'S TERRIBLE REVENGE.
THE MOST REMARKABLE FORTRESS IN THE WORLD.
MY FAIR NEIGHBOUR'S PIANO, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
AMERICAN WIVES OF ENGLISH HUSBANDS.
THE TRAGEDY OF A THIRD SMOKER.
SOME INCRIMINATING DOCUMENTS.
A TINY SHOE.
IAN'S SACRIFICE.
"PERPETUAL MOTION" SEEKERS.
THE STIR OUTSIDE THE CAFÉ ROYAL.
A VERY QUEER CRICKET MATCH.
POSTAGE STAMPS WORTH FORTUNES.
OUR MONTHLY GALLERY OF BEAUTIFUL AND INTERESTING PAINTINGS.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES.
[Illustration: WHY THE ANTELOPES STAMPEDED!
_From the Painting by William Strutt._
_By Permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., Bond Street, W_]
[Illustration:
FAMOUS RAILWAY SMASHES
THIS ENGINE WENT OVER THE EMBANKMENT IN THE HEATHFIELD ACCIDENT.
_Lankester, Tunbridge Wells, Photo_]
By Frederick A. Talbot.
_Illustrated by Remarkable Photographs._
Sir Fredrick Bramwell once calculated that if a man made up his mind
to be killed in a railway accident, he would have to travel night and
day in express trains for 900 years in order to fulfil his purpose. But
such a happy state of affairs did not always exist.
In 1859, when there were only some 10,000 miles of railway in
the United Kingdom, and the number of persons carried was about
175,000,000, it was calculated that one out of every 8,708,411
passengers was killed _from causes beyond his own control;_ while
in 1897, when over 21,000 miles of railway were in operation, and
considerably over 1,000,000,000 passengers were carried, the average
was one in about every 26,500,000.
Indeed, in the sixties railway disasters were of such frequent
occurrence that, on December 27th, 1867, Her Majesty wrote to the
directors of the various railway companies in London requesting them
"to be as careful of other passengers as of herself." Now, owing to
the stringent regulations of the Board of Trade, the infallible block
system, and interlocking of signals and points, it is impossible for
a signalman to err without the grossest culpable negligence. The
railway companies, too, have considerably improved their permanent
ways, constructed heavier rolling stock, while the contrivances for
controlling and maintaining the trains in check are of the most perfect
description.
But there is an old adage that "accidents will happen in the best
regulated families." The railway is no exception to the rule, and,
notwithstanding multitudinous and careful precautions, and the extreme
vigilance displayed by officials, the community is startled now and
again by the news of some dreadful catastrophe that has overwhelmed the
iron steed. Fortunately, accidents are few and far between, while the
number of passengers killed is infinitesimal--the total last year was
only thirty-four.
It is a fortunate circumstance that in these days of lightning
travelling a train very seldom comes to grief through travelling too
rapidly. Yet such a disaster occurred between Heathfield and Mayfield
on the Eastbourne section of the London, Brighton, and South Coast
Railway last year. For the length of about twenty miles this railway
is a single line, and meanders along through the valleys among the
hills, so as to avoid tunnelling, in the most zigzag manner. Between
Heathfield and Mayfield, a distance of about four miles, there are a
series of steep rising and falling gradients, many of one in fifty, and
sharp ~S~ curves.
It was while travelling round one of these curves of nearly a third of
a mile radius at a speed of from twenty-five to thirty miles an hour,
that a train was derailed and the greater portion of it precipitated
down an embankment sixty feet high. The engine fortunately fell over
and remained by the side of the permanent way. Our tail-piece conveys a
very good idea of the sharp curve, and also of the gradient. Although
many of the carriages were smashed, only the driver was killed, and
possibly, had he stuck to his engine, his life might have been spared.
Some of the passengers, as is generally the case in railway disasters,
had marvellous escapes. One gentleman, who was sitting reading,
suddenly felt the carriage give a lurch and then roll over and over
down the embankment, while he was tossed violently about, till it
crashed into another, when the superstructure was torn from its
foundations. Considering the gravity of the accident it was a wonder
that there was not a heavier death roll. As it was, it cost the company
£13,000 for compensation to the injured.
The most shocking disaster that has ever happened upon any railway in
the United Kingdom, excelling even the famous Tay Bridge disaster, when
74 passengers were killed by the bridge having collapsed, occurred on
the North of Ireland Railway on June 12th, 1889, at Killooney. It is
known as the Armagh accident.
[Illustration: A SMASH WHICH COST £13,000 FOR COMPENSATION.
_Lankester, Tunbridge Wells, Photo_]
A holiday excursion had been arranged by the teachers connected with
a Sunday-school in Armagh. The place selected was Warrenpoint, on
Carlingford Bay. The number of excursionists was about 1,200, mostly
children of both sexes, with a few parents. The first train, consisting
of 13 carriages and a brake-van, drawn by one engine, set off at 10
o'clock with 940 passengers. The officials at the station had been
rather sceptical of the adequacy of one engine to draw the train,
especially as there is a steep incline of 1 in 75, running along an
embankment 60 feet high, at Killooney, two miles from Armagh. The
driver, however, expressed absolute confidence in the capability of his
engine.
Shortly after the excursion had left Armagh, an ordinary passenger
train followed it from the same station at its scheduled time; but,
owing to the excursion being heavily laden and unable to proceed very
rapidly, the ordinary gained upon it, and was pulled up at Annaclare
Bridge, at the foot of the incline. Meanwhile the first train was
proceeding up the incline with great difficulty, and when halfway up
came to a dead stoppage, the load proving too heavy for the engine.
The traffic master of the line, who was travelling with the train,
knowing that the ordinary must be but a short distance behind,
rendering shunting back to Armagh for additional locomotive power
impossible, ordered the train to be divided, in spite of the objection
and remonstrances of the guard and some of the passengers. As a
precaution, he ordered stones to be placed under the wheels of the
last carriage of the detached section to prevent its running away. The
first part of the train, in starting, set back a trifle--not much, but
sufficient to give the second half, consisting of seven carriages,
crammed with its full complement of passengers, a start. The brakes
were immediately applied, but were absolutely ineffectual, and the
train, gathering momentum every minute, ran backwards towards Annaclare
Bridge. Who shall describe the feelings of the unfortunate passengers,
many of whom knew they were rushing to inevitable destruction, and yet
were unable to do anything to prevent it or to save themselves?
[Illustration: THE ARMAGH ACCIDENT IN WHICH 80 PERSONS WERE KILLED AND
400 INJURED.
_Hunter & Co., Armagh, Photo_]
After running a mile and a half, it dashed into the stationary train
with a frightful crash. The force of the impact was terrific, and,
although no one in the ordinary train was seriously hurt, the engine
was overturned, crushing four children beneath it. All the carriages in
the excursion train were wrecked. Some were smashed to atoms, scarcely
one timber being left joined to another; many were telescoped, and
formed a fearful pile, which in turn was mounted by one carriage almost
intact.
The scene that followed baffles description. There being few men among
the unfortunate party, and some of the officers accompanying the train
having been seriously injured, a terrible panic ensued. The agonising
cries of the wounded, and the frantic shrieks and exhortations for
help from the imprisoned children, were sufficient to make the boldest
shudder. But the teachers soon regained their presence of mind, and,
help having arrived from Armagh, the work of rescue was begun.
It was fraught with great difficulty, and attended with grave danger,
as the huge pieces of timber were poised in the most dangerous
positions, threatening to fall every minute, and bury both rescuers and
rescued beneath them.
Some fragments of the carriages and a few of the bodies had been thrown
promiscuously down the embankment by the force of the collision,
but the bulk of the wreck and the greater part of the unfortunate
victims were to be found within a limited area. Eighty persons were
killed, nearly all children, and about 400 were injured. The work of
extrication was horrible, many of the passengers being so crushed and
battered as to be absolutely unrecognisable, but they were eventually
laid out on the bank with care.
Great honour is due to the heroic conduct and intrepidity displayed
by a soldier--Private Cox, of the Royal Irish Fusiliers--who was in
the runaway train. When he realised that no human power could avert
the appalling disaster, he stepped out on to the foot-board, and,
with death staring him in the face, withdrew the frightened children
from the compartments as rapidly as he could, and dropped them on to
the bank, where they were afterwards discovered almost unhurt. Nor
did he desist until the trains had almost met, when he sprang off
just in the nick of time to save his own life, and worked arduously
in the extrication of the dead and injured. This was truly a splendid
exhibition of courage.
Norton Fitzwarren, a short distance from Taunton on the Great Western
Railway, was the scene of a calamitous catastrophe on November 11th,
1890, when the Cape Mail from Plymouth dashed into a stationary goods
train while hurtling along at 50 miles an hour. The 6.45 goods train
from Bristol had been shunted on to the up line at Norton Fitzwarren
to let the 9.55 express goods train from Bristol pass by. It was about
2 o'clock in the morning, and while the slow goods was thus waiting
on the up line, the signalman received warning of the approach of the
special express train carrying passengers from the Cape liner _Norham
Castle_, which had arrived at Plymouth the evening before, to London,
and, forgetting all about the goods train, signalled "all clear." The
result was a frightful collision.
[Illustration: A TERRIBLE EMBRACE--THE SMASH UP OF THE CAPE MAIL
EXPRESS.
_Petherick, Taunton, Photo_]
[Illustration: CARRIAGE WRECKED AT NORTON FITZWARREN, SHOWING INTERIOR
AND LUGGAGE ON THE RACK.
_Petherick, Taunton, Photo_]
Both engines were locked firmly together and completely wrecked; all
the exterior fittings, including the funnel on the boiler of the
express, were demolished and carried away, while the boiler itself
was torn open. The broken carriages, trucks, and other débris made an
awful pile about 30 feet in height. Neither the fireman nor driver
of the mail were killed, though they were terribly injured, owing to
the fact that the engine had a heavy coal tender, which telescoped
into the carriages immediately behind it, that bore the brunt of the
crash from the rear. The driver of this train certainly was not born
to be killed in a railway smash, having been in two serious accidents
anterior to the Norton disaster, narrowly escaping with his life each
time. A party of miners returning from the South African mines to the
North of England were travelling in the first carriage, and were nearly
all killed on the spot. So were also a party of card players in the
same coach, with the exception of one young fellow who, having suffered
great losses, had the good sense to give up playing and to leave the
compartment at Exeter for another one in the rear of the train, and
thus he probably saved his life. In one compartment the occupants,
including women and children, had a most marvellous escape, the glass
in the windows not even being broken, while that in every other
compartment was shivered to fragments.
Another frightful accident, due to the negligence of the signalman,
happened at Manor House Cabin, near Thirsk, on the North-Eastern
Railway, in a dense fog, on the night of November 2nd, 1892, by which
ten persons lost their lives. A goods train was standing in the station
on the main line. The signalman, being fatigued, dropped asleep at his
post. Presently he was awakened rather sharply by the ominous rumbling
of the Scotch express, which had left Edinburgh for London at 10.30,
and was now travelling at full speed. The signalman jumped to his feet,
and, forgetting all about the stationary goods train waiting in the
station on the same set of metals, signalled the approaching train.
[Illustration: THE DÉBRIS OF THE THIRSK DISASTER ON FIRE.
_Clarke, Thirsk, Photo_]
On came the express through the dense fog, and crashed into the goods
train with such force that the engines and all the carriages, with the
exception of a Pullman sleeping-car, were thrown off the line. The
carriages were all piled up, and the horrors of the catastrophe were
accentuated by the broken and splintered wreckage catching fire. In our
illustration the engine may be descried on the right, but a skeleton of
its former majestic self, surrounded by a heterogeneous mass of broken
wheels, iron joists, twisted and fashioned into the most fantastic
shapes by the joint agencies of the collision and fire.
[Illustration: THE PULLMAN CAR AND ENGINE AFTER THE THIRSK COLLISION.
_Clarke, Thirsk, Photo_]
The Pullman car, or rather the charred remains of it, presents a
most bizarre though painful object, being quite destitute of those
many sumptuous embellishments which characterised it but a few hours
previously. The Marquesses of Tweeddale and Huntly were travelling in
this car, but they fortunately escaped without injury.
Some commiseration should be extended to the signalman, however, as he
had been up at home since six o'clock that morning, his youngest child
having died the day before. When he went on duty at eight o'clock in
the evening he begged the stationmaster to excuse him under the painful
circumstances, but no substitute could be found, and he resumed his
duties in the ordinary course of things, with the result that Nature,
who would not be denied, caused the signalman to sleep. The railway
company were severely censured in the subsequent inquiry for the long
hours of duty inflicted upon signalmen.
January 3rd of this year recorded another deplorable disaster on the
Scottish extension of the Great Northern Railway, the North British
Railway, in which the East Coast express, which left King's Cross the
previous night, came to grief outside Dunbar station, not far from
Edinburgh. The night was foggy, and owing to this and other violent
inclemencies of the weather it arrived at the border town of Berwick
twenty-five minutes late. At Dunbar station a mineral train was being
shunted across the main line into a siding to allow this express to
pass by, when one of the waggons became derailed. It was into this
that the express dashed, completely knocking the obstacle into a
thousand pieces, but the force of the collision caused the first of the
two engines to leave the metals and plough through the sleepers and
permanent way for about thirty yards, when it fell over on to its side,
leaving the tender upright.
[Illustration: THE SCOTCH EXPRESS WHICH DASHED INTO A MINERAL TRAIN.
_W. Crooke, Edinburgh, Photo_]
The second engine, although it did not share the fate of its leader,
was greatly damaged. The carriage next to the engine was telescoped
by the heavier corridor coaches behind. By the force of the impact
many of the waggons fell upon a corridor coach, staving in the side
and smashing the framework and glass of the windows to atoms. In this
carriage the intercommunicating corridor extended longitudinally down
one side of the car, and fortunately it was this side that bore the
brunt of the violence of the collision.
Had it been otherwise the death roll would have been increased
terribly. As it was, one lady was killed. Curiously enough this
unfortunate lady, who was travelling with her sister, had only just
changed her seat with the latter. Had she retained her seat her sister,
in all probability, would have been killed instead.
A runaway goods-waggon was the cause of another very extraordinary
accident on the London and North-Western Railway at Chelford, near
Crewe, on Dec. 22nd four years ago, by which the Manchester mail was
completely wrecked. A violent gale was raging at the time, and a waggon
standing in a siding at Chelford station was blown on to the main line,
along which the mail was signalled to pass. The express, dashing along
at the rate of a mile a minute, struck the waggon with tremendous
force, literally jumping over it and then falling over.
The engine-driver had a most Providential escape, being hurled off
his engine over a hedge into a ploughed field, with no more serious
injuries than a few bruises. The truck was tossed on one side into the
air and struck the pillars of the station, ripping a portion out of
the side of a heavy coach during its aerial flight. It then rebounded
into a carriage in the centre of the train with direful effect. One
coach, as will be seen in the illustration, was utterly smashed, the
flooring, wheels, and interior being swept entirely away, while the
sides were torn out. All the remaining carriages in its rear were
completely wrecked.
[Illustration: THE CHELFORD ACCIDENT, CAUSED BY A SINGLE WAGGON.
_Leech, Macclesfield, Photo_]
Some were overturned on their sides, and one was so turned over as to
stand on end, while an eye-witness stated "that some of the carriages
were broken through by the carriage behind causing both sides of the
interior compartments to meet and demolish the fittings." All together
fourteen persons were killed and about forty or fifty injured, one lady
having both her legs cut off.
Abbots Ripton, near Huntingdon, on the Great Northern Railway, was
the scene of a terrible collision--or, rather, two collisions--on
January 21st, 1876. A coal train of 33 waggons and a brake-van left
Peterborough for London at 6 p.m. It was 18 minutes late in starting.
The weather was extremely boisterous and stormy, while the snow fell in
large flakes thickly and fast, seriously obscuring the outlook of the
driver and guard of the train. The latter had seen the signals at Holme
Station, and at the blocks at Conington and Wood Walton, which showed
"all clear."
[Illustration: BULLHOUSE BRIDGE DERAILMENT--CAUSED BY THE BREAKING OF
AN AXLE.
_Bamforth, Holmfirth, Photo_]
At Abbots Ripton the train slackened speed, as it was signalled to
cross into a siding to permit the Scotch express, which was due from
Edinburgh for London, to go by. The greater part of the goods train
had passed safely into the siding when the Scotch express dashed into
it at full speed with most disastrous results. By the force of the
collision the engine of the Scotch express jumped across the down line
on to the bank, where it fell on to its broadside, dragging with it the
tender and three or four succeeding carriages. Hunt, the guard of the
coal train, displayed great presence of mind. He asked the signalman
if he had blocked the down line, but the latter was so agitated by the
disaster--which had happened within a few yards of his box--that he
inadvertently declared he had.
[Illustration: THE SMASH AT NEW CROSS, IN WHICH THREE PEOPLE WERE
KILLED.
_Thiele, Photo_]
Hunt, feeling satisfied thereupon, left the box and rejoined his train,
but, as a further precaution, thrust some fog signals into his pocket,
which he placed on the rails of the down line. In less than ten minutes
after the collision the driver and guard of the coal train set off to
Huntingdon for assistance. They had not proceeded more than 800 yards
when the Leeds down express, which had started from London at 6 p.m.,
was discerned dashing at top speed through the blinding storm. The
driver of the coal train furiously sounded his whistle, while the guard
waved his red lamp frantically to arrest the express. But it was too
late, and it plunged into, and literally cut its way through, the wreck
of the Scotch train.
The scene was a terrible one. The howling storm, the heartrending
shrieks of the injured, the shouts of the rescuers and cries for help,
the lurid glare of the burning wreckage, produced a scene never to be
forgotten by those who witnessed it. All together fourteen persons were
killed.
[Illustration: THE SCENE OF THE HEATHFIELD DISASTER.
_Lancaster, Tunbridge Wells, Photo_]
The South-Eastern Railway has long enjoyed a remarkable immunity from
railway smashes, but this record was sadly marred a few months ago,
when three persons were killed in a stationary train while standing
outside St. John's station, near New Cross, by the Hastings express,
through the inadvertence of the signalman, crashing into it from
behind. Fortunately, owing to the dense fog prevalent, the express
was only travelling at about eight miles an hour; but even then the
concussion was sufficiently violent to telescope the guard's van into
the carriage immediately preceding it, smashing it to pieces as if it
were constructed of cardboard. It is wonderful that more lives were not
lost.
[Illustration:
BEYOND the SUNSET.]
I remember yet a window
Looking out across the sea,
Where I used to sit in childhood,
In the days that used to be;
And the crimson glow of sunset
Fell along the dark'ning bay,
As I watched the great ships sailing
Far away at close of day.
Then my heart would fill with wonder
As they passed across the foam.
To what countries were they sailing--
Would they ever more come home?
Were there hearts on board them aching,
For the loved ones left on shore?
Then the golden sunset hid them,
And I saw the ships no more!
I remember, too, a window,
Looking out across a lawn,
Where I oft at break of morning
Watched the first red gleam of dawn;
And I saw those great ships sailing,
All the pain and peril o'er,
Through the golden gates of morning,
Into harbour, safe once more!
And it seems, now I no longer
Am the child I used to be,
Like the lives of men and women
Were those ships upon the sea.
For the golden years have taught me,
As with joy and care they pass'd,
There is Dawn beyond the sunset,
And a Harbour fair, at last!
CLIFTON BINGHAM.
THE BEHAVIOUR OF WARRINGTON, V.C.:
(1) ON THE FIELD, AND (2) AT HOME.
BY PERCY E. REINGANUM.
_Illustrated by W. B. Wollen, R.I._
(1) ON THE FIELD.
A pitch-black night in a rocky valley of Afghanistan: a few stars in
the heavy, black, moonless sky only intensifying the almost palpable
darkness. A mile or two southwards, where the rocky valley swelled into
rocky heights, little flashes of light recurring at intervals, followed
by sharp little cracks, showed where the late skirmish and retreat was
fighting itself out round about the camp.
Where one of the innumerable broken ridges that seamed the valley made
a darker wall across the darkness, two figures were dimly discernible
(when you knew where to look for them), the one semi-recumbent, propped
against a boulder, the other tall and straight beside him.
[Illustration: "HE EMPTIED HIS REVOLVER INTO THE SILENCE OF THE NIGHT."]
"Clear out, Warrington--please go, sir," the voice came faintly from
the recumbent figure. "You can get back to camp and send 'em out for
me."
"Not likely, young 'un," observed the other. "What says the great R.K.:
"'When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan plains,
And the women come out--to cut up what remains--
Just----'"
"Don't!" said the wounded man, and almost succeeded in stopping a groan
between his clenched teeth.
"Poor old Vicary," said Warrington, bending over him. "Let me undo your
belt.... Now grab yourself with both hands."
"Fellows in books," said the weak voice, drowsily, "never get hit in
the tummy.... Always--head in a bandage--or--arm in sling.... Those
Johnnies that write books--ought to come out with us."
There was silence for a time: the far-off flashes grew more rare. The
wounded man shifted himself a little and spoke again.
"You're a brick, Warrington!" he said.
"Slightly different from Piccadilly and the Strand this, eh, Vic?"
"I wish the mater could see us now," said Vicary; "she's going to
bye-bye just about now. She'd stick you pretty high up in her prayers
if she knew."
"The next time you start talking nonsense," said Warrington, "I shall
consider you delirious and past hope; and I shall turn tail and make
tracks for camp."
A long silence.
"It's getting beastly cold," said Vicary, with a shiver; "I shall
never pull through to-night."
[Illustration: "A HOWLING HILLMAN STUMBLED OVER VICARY'S LEGS."]
"Cheer up, lad," said Warrington, and pulled at his moustache and
glared at the darkness; "only a few hours till daybreak.... Pity you're
six foot four in your boots and solid in proportion. I'm not equal to
two miles with you on my back, my dainty midget."
"Can't see how you got me this far.... Why don't you sheer off now and
get back, and----Oh, God! No! Warrington!... You're not going?"
"Another word like that, my son, and I leave you for Mr. and Mrs.
Pathan and all the little Pathans to play with."
"All right--all right, I won't.... Let me hold your boot--I can hardly
see you. Oh, Warry, what a funk I am; all the bit o' pluck I had's run
out of the leak in my tunic--and I am beastly cold."
Warrington knelt beside him and cursed beneath his breath, and felt his
head and hands. The former was very cold and damp, the latter were very
wet and warm.
"I must let them know they're wanted, Vic!" he muttered.
The latter did not hear him.
"It'll be in to-morrow's despatches," he murmured. "'Missing:
Lieutenant Beverley Warrington and Second Lieutenant Vicary of the
----' What's up, Warry?"
His companion had touched his forehead lightly with his lips, had risen
to his feet, and, with his arm raised above his head, had emptied his
revolver into the silence of the night.
"They'll know there's a British officer where that revolver is," he
said, cheerily.
"But--but, you fool--you dear old silly fool--so will those brown
devils!"
"Can't help that!" said Warrington, with a little laugh, "it's too
chilly to stop out late to-night." Then in a lower tone, "For the sake
of auld lang syne, Vic, my boy."
He reloaded his revolver. When the echoes had rattled away into deeper
silence they heard the distant shots suddenly recommence, and distant
shouts and howls came to them like whispers. From the invisible hills
facing them came dim and confused scuffling and scraping sounds as of
cats scrambling down rocks. A moving white blur appeared somewhere in
the thick darkness, then another, and another; and a suggestion of
low-toned guttural conversation reached Warrington's straining ears. He
shifted his revolver to his left hand and gently drew his sword. Then
from over there where he knew the camp lay came six revolver shots in
quick succession.
"That's Welby!" he said to himself.
Vicary's hand had been grasping the heel of his foot tightly. Now he
felt the grip relax; and in a moment more the wounded subaltern slipped
a little with a slight tinkle of steel on rock, and groaned.
In another moment a dozen howling hillmen were blazing away at random
towards the spot whence the groan seemed to have come. They aimed low
and erratically, and Warrington held his fire for a few interminable
seconds.
Then they closed in, and one stumbled over Vicary's outstretched legs
before they could realise that two British officers were within a yard
of them. Warrington felt the man grab at him as he fell, and fired with
the barrel of his revolver touching bare skin. After that he fired and
slashed very much at random, and the darkness around him shrieked and
howled and spat fire, and long graceful knives suggested themselves to
the imagination of the man who had seen them at work before.... For ten
long minutes Warrington was busy--wondering all the time what Vicary
was doing down there between his legs, and how he liked it, and which
of them would die first.
Then suddenly in a lull he heard faintly a sound that sent the blood
to his head with a rush--the scraping of many boots over rocks some
hundreds of yards away, and the dim echo of a word of command. He
shouted, and fired his last cartridge above his head that they might
see the flash, and flung the empty weapon at a white eyeball that was
too near to be pleasant, and cut and pointed and slashed away with
renewed vigour. Down the valley and over the rocks came a hoarse,
breathless cheer, and pith helmets gleamed faintly in the near
distance. He answered the cheer with a croak, and went on carving and
hacking as though his foes still confronted him. But they did not wait
to meet his friends. They left. All but five, to whom even British
troops were a matter of indifference now, as they stayed behind,
huddled into a grim semicircle round Lieut. Warrington and Second
Lieut. Vicary. When his men came up to him they found him with Vicary
in his arms leaning against the wall of rock, "looking," as Private
Billimore said, "as though 'e'd 'ad a nasty messy accident with the red
paint."
Vicary opened his eyes as he entered the camp feet foremost.
"Warrington, _V.C._," he said, and tried to cheer. But the others did
it for him.
(2) AT HOME.
An afternoon in early November: a cosy room, bright fire, big
armchairs, piano, pipes, photographs, and decanters: a male figure
extended to enormous length in one armchair, with feet stretched out on
the hearthrug: another male figure with back turned towards the room,
gazing out of window at the unceasing rain. Thick clouds of tobacco
smoke, and silence.
"Of all the brutal, filthy, miserably depressing days!" said the man at
the window, suddenly.
[Illustration: "'I'M IN AN AWFUL FUNK,' SAID WARRINGTON."]
"Weather seems to worry you, old man," said the gentleman by the fire,
settling down a little deeper into the depths of his armchair. "Third
time in twenty minutes you've got up to look at it--and talk about it."
"Sorry, Vic," said the other, and, turning, he came slowly towards the
fire. "I must be lively company to-day; but this weather seems to upset
one altogether."
"Not me," said Vicary, blowing a cloud. "I'm pretty comfy, thanks. I
prefer rain in St. James' to starlight in Chukundra."
The other did not answer, but stood nervously opening and shutting his
hands over the cheerful blaze.
"By George!" said Vicary, meditatively, "it seems almost like a dream
now--all but the souvenirs we carry--eh, Warry?"
Warrington's hand went up to the livid band that ran across forehead,
nose, and cheek, and almost bisected his strong face.
"One comfort," Vicary went on, "mine don't show. Not but what that has
its drawbacks," he added, with a chuckle; "no one seems to believe
they touched me--think I got my sick-leave on the bounce. And I can't
continually strip to prove it."
Still his senior was silent. Vicary edged round a little to look at his
face. Then his eyes opened and his voice changed.
"Warrington," he said, "d'you remember that very first dust up we had
the second day out from Kir Wallah?"
Warrington nodded.
"That was my first taste of the walk-up-and-down-as-a-target business,"
said Vicary, solemnly; "and I was in a blue funk. Couldn't help
it. Knees all flabby and face all twitchy when those bullets began
whispering and pattering."
Warrington laughed nervously.
"I gave you the right sort of a dressing down," he said.
"It pulled me through," said Vicary; then, leaning forward, and still
more solemnly, "I say, what did I look like?--all drawn up and ghastly?"
"A bit," admitted Warrington.
"Look in the glass now," said Vicary, in an awestruck voice, for
Warrington was senior officer and brother and Ajax and Wellington and
Lord Roberts all rolled into one, in the subaltern's estimation.
Warrington started, and looked not at the glass, but at Vicary.
"You're right, young 'un," he said in a moment, and dropped into the
other armchair. "I'm in an awful funk at this very moment."
[Illustration: "'I SHOULD ADVISE YOU TO HAVE IT OUT WITH HER.'"]
"Oh!" breathed Vicary, and allowed the amazing fact to sink into his
consciousness.
"Fact," said Warrington, and dragged at his moustache and gnawed the
end.
"In heaven's name," said Ensign Vicary, "what are _you_ frightened of?"
"Of one little girl I could pick up and carry under one arm," said
Lieutenant Warrington, V. C.
Vicary drew a long breath.
"You gave me quite a turn," he said.
"It's serious, boy," said the other man, bending his long, gaunt body
forward, his grey eyes all alight. "I haven't the pluck to face her."
"Name?" said Vicary, judicially.
"Rivers," said Warrington, with reverence; "Catherine Rivers."
"Pretty Kitty Rivers!" cried Vicary. "Old man, I congratulate you."
"Don't be a fool!" said Warrington, angrily, and walked to the window.
"On your good taste, of course," said Vicary, with a grin. "Is it a bad
case?"
"I shall--ask her to be my wife," said Warrington with a rush, "as soon
as I dare call--which I haven't done since we've been back--more than a
week."
Vicary whistled, rose, and strolled over to the piano.
"Well, I should advise you to go and have it out with her," he said,
twisting himself round on the music-stool. "Come back when it's over,
and sparkle up a bit."
"Shut up!" growled his senior.
Vicary shrugged his shoulders and struck a few aimless notes. This sort
of timidity was strange to him. In matters relating to the opposite sex
his senior was a child compared with that good-looking boy at the piano.
Suddenly Vicary grinned, struck a chord, and broke into a music-hall
song, accentuating the twang of Cockayne to exaggeration:
"'O-ownly _one_ gurl--_in_ the world fer me;
O-ownly _one_ gurl--_'as_ my sympathee;
She m'yn't be vairy pritty----'"
"Shakespeare" between the shoulder-blades cut his efforts short. He
twisted round, chuckling and rubbing himself.
[Illustration: "'HADN'T WE BETTER--ER--WALK?' SAID WARRINGTON,
NERVOUSLY."]
"Steady on, old chap! What's up?"
"I came here to-day for your help," said Warrington, and stopped short.
"Warry!" said Vicary, nervously. He had never seen him like this before.
"Vic, I'm longing to see her--to say it! I've been longing for months,
and now--I simply daren't call."
"Bulldog--heavy father--comic papers," murmured Vicary, quite
uncomprehending.
Warrington glared.
"If you're going to be a drivelling young idiot," he said, icily.
"No--no! Drive ahead," said Vicary.
"It's just _her_ I'm frightened of," said Warrington. "I'd rather go
through a week of Chukundras than speak; but I'd go through a lifetime
of them with her at the far end."
"But, Warrington," said Vicary, puzzled, "she's not such a Tartar."
"She's the best girl in the world," said Warrington, V.C.; "and the
only thing in it I'm afraid to face."
"Why, what would she do?" said Vicary.
"Do?" said Warrington, with both hands at his moustache. "Do? Why,
she'll drop her eyelashes, or she'll curl the corners of her mouth, or
she'll glance at me over her shoulder with her chin up, and then--and
then----"
"And then?" said Vicary, twinkling.
"Then I shall sweat like a coolie, and stand gaping like a stuck pig,"
said Warrington, savagely; "and my knees will go flabby and my face
twitchy, as you elegantly put it. Good-bye."
"Eh?"
"I'm going there now. I mean to go there now."
"Yes," said Vicary; "and directly you're outside you'll stand still
for a quarter of a hour, and then cut off home and spend the evening
practising profanity in solitude."
Warrington stood in front of his junior, and dared not contradict.
"Unless----" said Vicary, and stopped and grinned.
"Unless?" said Warrington, with painful eagerness.
"Unless," said Vicary, coolly, knocking his pipe out into the grate,
"unless I come with you."
Warrington drew a long breath.
"Thanks," he said, shortly, and watched Vicary putting on hat and
coat, and pulled his moustache violently.
As they left the room he slipped his hand through Vicary's arm.
"This is my Kir Wallah," he said, gravely.
Vicary laughed round at him.
"There's a whacking big balance on the Chukundra side," he said.
"Needn't say good-bye to the mater," he went on, as they descended the
stairs; "you'll come back to dine."
"To be cheered up," said Warrington, with pathos.
Vicary did not deign to reply to such an absurd remark. He hailed a
hansom.
"Hadn't we better--er--walk?" said Warrington, nervously.
"You jump in," said Vicary; "don't be frightened. I'm coming to hold
your hand."
He gave the address, and they bowled away through the grey wetness.
Warrington was trying to see the whole of his person at once in a
six-inch strip of looking-glass.
"Now, I ask you, Vic," he said, plaintively, "is it likely she'd have
an object like me?"
"Fishing!" said the subaltern. "You're not an Adonis, but a V.C. covers
a multitude of sins."
"Pooh! what does a girl care about that?" said Warrington; and Vicary
laughed aloud at him. To himself he said, "The girl that gets you
will get the bravest, cleanest, best gentleman that wears the Queen's
uniform; and the girl that will refuse you doesn't exist."
"Why, we're there," said Warrington, flushing and fidgeting; "how that
horse has been going!"
"Three doors down the square," said Vicary to the cabman through the
trap.
"Tell him to drive once round first," said Warrington, pulling a glove
off and then beginning to put it on again. "I--I've got something to
say to you----"
"It'll keep," said Vicary. "Out you get."
"No--I say--half a minute. Vicary! Is my tie straight? I ought to
have changed my collar. Hang it--all right, I'm coming. Wait for us,
cabby--we shan't be five minutes. Vicary, don't ring. I--I don't think
I'll call to-day, after all--it's a bit late, don't you think? You have
rung? Dash it! I--I--let me ask." The door was opened. "Is Mr. Rivers
in? No? Oh, thank you. It don't matter--I'll call again. Good----"
[Illustration: "'SAY LIEUTENANT BEVERLEY WARRINGTON WISHES TO SEE HER
ON MOST IMPORTANT BUSINESS.'"]
Vicary caught him as he turned and held him fast.
"Is Miss Rivers in?" he asked.
"Yessir," said the man, who knew him well.
"Say Lieutenant Beverley Warrington wishes to see her for a few
moments on most important--come here, you old idiot--on most important
business."
Inside the house Warrington mopped his face and rehearsed speeches in a
low monotone until the man reappeared.
"Will you walk up, sir, please?"
"Walk up," said Vicary, sternly, and marched him out of the room.
"Right half face! Quick march! Go on, you conquering hero, and good
luck attend you."
Warrington did not answer, but breathed stertorously and fingered the
balustrade.
"Up you go!" said Vicary. "There's no retreat. She's waiting for you."
"I--I wish you could come too," said Warrington in a loud, hoarse
whisper.
[Illustration: "HE FLEW UPSTAIRS AS FAST AS HIS WOUND WOULD ALLOW HIM."]
Vicary grinned, shaking with internal laughter. Warrington glared at
him, groaned, and went slowly upstairs, where the man stood patiently
waiting to announce him.
Vicary heard him say breathlessly, "Wait a minute"; but the man
preferred not to hear him, and opened the door with a most portentous
"Lieutenant Beverley Warrington."
Vicary waited in the library. He smoked one cigarette, and another, and
another. He tried to read, but gave it up. He tried to laugh at the
scene in which he had just taken part, but gave that up too. After all,
he was in no laughing mood where Warrington's happiness was concerned.
And at last, when the hands of the clock showed three-quarters of an
hour gone, Warrington's voice from upstairs called hoarsely, "Vicary!"
He paused a moment, breathless. Then another voice, far clearer and
sweeter, but with just a faint tremor in it, repeated, "Vicary!"
And then he flew upstairs as fast as his wound would allow him.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Lodge, photo_
PARTRIDGE'S NEST WITH THIRTEEN EGGS.]
TRAINING OUR FIRE BRIGADE HEROES.
DESCRIBED AT THE HEADQUARTERS OF THE LONDON BRIGADE.
BY ALFRED ARKAS.
[Illustration: THE LIFTING DRILL
Attention!]
[Illustration: Raising the body to the knees.]
The most fascinating of the multitudinous institutions with which
the Mother City of the Empire abounds is unquestionably that which
preserves her millions from the risk of fire. In these days, when we
have awakened to a sense of appreciation of the Navy, Army, and other
national institutions for our protection and well-being, it is to be
feared that we do not sufficiently recognise the vast debt we owe to
the Metropolitan Fire Brigade and those who rule its destinies.
[Illustration: Lifting the body to the feet.]
London is to all intents and purposes an impregnable city--impregnable,
that is to say, as regards an outside foe. The possibility of internal
destruction by fire, although by no means so great as in the days
of the Great Fire of London, still exists, in spite of fire-proof
buildings, stone walls, and wide streets. Although the possibility
exists, the risk of such a catastrophe will not be worth consideration
so long as the Metropolitan Fire Brigade maintains its present high
state of efficiency. It is to London what the Fleet is to the Empire,
and the analogy is appropriate in more respects than one. It may be
aptly described as the Navy of the Metropolis--the protecting genius
of six million people, and the richest city the world has seen. To
adequately realise its importance one has only to remember that the
destruction of London would be a calamity to the Empire.
[Illustration: Safely lifted on to the back.]
Every night its existence is threatened by the relentless fire demon.
Every night the Fire Brigade as certainly combats and disarms it.
Surely a strange, weird warfare, scarcely realised, since it is only on
occasions when the demon temporarily gets the upper hand that we are
reminded of its existence.
Opportunities for the display of heroism and conspicuous devotion to
duty are comparatively rare in the Army and Navy. So when they occur we
hear of them, and the heroes are received with acclaim. In the Fleet
that never goes to sea such matters are common incidents of the day's
work.
It is part of the ordinary duty of a London fireman to be a hero, and
he never fails when it is expected of him.
It is natural to think of the brigade as a miniature Navy. It smells of
the sea in every way. The captain is a naval man. Its crew of 1,009 are
seamen, and the work of the brigade is of a nature readily performed by
sailors, who are used to danger, and skilled in the art of hanging on
to the skyline by their teeth.
Even the apparatus is peculiarly adapted for the use of the
horny-handed sons of the sea.
It is therefore easy to understand how it is that these
well-disciplined, hard-nerved men are pressed into the service of the
brigade.
Many who have read of the marvellous rapidity with which the engines
are turned out to a fire, or those who have been fortunate enough to
see these splendid fellows at their work, may be interested in learning
how a London fireman is made.
By the kindness of Commander Wells, R.N.--one of the most popular
officers that ever donned the Queen's uniform--I have been able to
observe the whole process, and pick up a good deal of interesting
matter respecting the brigade into the bargain.
There is no objectionable formality about entering the brigade.
Provided a sailor possesses the initial qualifications--he must be over
21 and under 31 years of age; have been at sea for at least five years;
measure 37 inches round the chest; and be able to read and write--he
simply walks into the yard of the central station at Southwark and
inquires for the chief officer. The Commander examines his "discharges"
and testimonials as to character and general intelligence. If he be
a likely man, he is passed into the hands of the Brigade Doctor, who
certifies his soundness of wind and limb. If he emerges successfully
from this ordeal, he has yet a final and more trying one before
him--the test of strength.
[Illustration: TWO METHODS OF CARRYING--A WOMAN OR A MAN.]
Sheer physical strength is a desideratum in all branches of public
service, but especially so in the Fire Brigade, where lives and
property almost always depend upon nerve and muscle. Accordingly the
strength test is necessarily a heavy one. A fire escape is brought into
the yard, and is rested lengthwise on the flagstones. To a ring-bolt
in the stones a tackle is hooked, the other end being made fast to
the foot of the escape. The candidate is then requested to haul the
escape bodily from the ground into its normal vertical position. It is
an immensely trying pull of 240 lbs. If the candidate manages it, he
becomes a probationer at a salary of 24_s._ per week.
The Southwark instructors reckon that it takes three months' hard
work and unceasing drill before a man is competent to leave the yard,
even as a fireman of the fourth class. During this period he is not
permitted to attend a fire in any capacity.
No other sort of drill equals in fascination that which the embryo
M.F.B. man must go through. Unlike a soldier or sailor, he must
undertake many of the actual dangers of warfare during ordinary drill
on the parade-ground. The instruction, conducted by superintendents who
have gone through the mill themselves and know every detail of the
work, is divided into two parts--theoretical and practical.
The room in which most of the theory is taught is particularly
interesting. It contains a half section of every apparatus or device
used by or in connection with the brigade. There is a half section of
the boiler of the familiar steamer, a half section of a street lamp,
indicating the position of a hydrant, and half sections of hose,
nozzles, fire-plugs, flanges, and all the complicated machinery forming
parts of the various types of engines in use.
That very important part of instruction, the use of steam, is
undertaken in the yard, so that practical demonstration with a steamer
under way may accompany the lesson.
Hand in hand with theoretical instruction, a daily grounding goes on in
what may be termed emergency drill. To the layman, this is perhaps the
most interesting part of the work.
Everything must be rehearsed over and over again. Every movement, every
action must be practised again and again till it becomes automatic,
before a man can feel sure of doing the right thing at the right time
under circumstances of difficulty and danger. Most of us have seen a
fireman descend an escape, bearing on his back a human burden, possibly
heavier than himself; we wonder how it is done, but it does not occur
to us that this same evolution is practised every day at Southwark in
all its separate movements.
Our illustrations of this drill show how a fireman is taught to lift
and carry a human body. In the first picture, the men under instruction
are at "Attention." The second shows the first movement, the body
being lifted on to its knees. In the third it is raised to its feet.
In the final evolution the prostrate figure is bodily lifted on to the
rescuer's back. The whole operation scarcely occupies a moment of time.
By this method, the strain of lifting is reduced to a minimum, and the
position of the body across the shoulders leaves both hands free.