THE summer had been hot and rainless, and the beginning of August found
the moorland of the forest drier than the oldest commoner had known it.
Boggy places which had formerly to be skirted with care were now firm
under foot. The tussock grass was white and sear, the fern orange and
brown, while the leaves of the oaks were eaten by myriads of
caterpillars into delicate lace-like filigree.
The blackberries withered without ripening, except where they grew in
the meadow bottoms, still green, though the streams dwindled, until in
the gravelly, quick-running parts, there was hardly enough water for the
troutlets to scuttle past into the deeper pools.
One midday, on the road between Southampton and Lymington, a tramping
sailor was resting by the roadside. He lit his pipe, and being a careful
man, blew at the match before he threw it down. Then he rose, and
continued his journey. But the end of the match still glowed, and the
dry grass in contact with it, fanned by the wind, began to smoke, and
then to ignite with a tiny flame, which crawled along the ground, until
it came to the dry stump of a fir, its base littered with bits of bark
and dead branches. These sputtered, and the fire began to spread. The
wayfarer had passed on unheeding, for he was facing the wind, and
therefore received no warning of what was happening behind him.
Down under the big trees the colt-hunter and his two boys were cutting
the fern for stable bedding. He had the right to get all he wanted,
though authority decreed that he was not to pick and choose, not to cut
only where the fern grew thick and tall. He must clear his way steadily,
even where it was sparse and stunted. This year it was pretty short
everywhere. The man used a scythe, the boys were armed with sickles. At
intervals they drew the fodder into small heaps for carting.
The father straightened himself and sniffed. “Seems like burning.
Another heath fire, I expect. Glad if it burnt up the gorse, but
sometimes it burns up other things.” “What things, dad?” asked the
younger boy. “Trees which we want for firewood, and barns, ricks, and
sometimes homes. Run up the hill, sonny, and see if you can make out
whereabouts the fire is.” The boy did not run; it was too hot. As he
walked away, a shrill whinny was heard, then repeated again and again.
“My word!” exclaimed the man; “that pony is some excited. Seems as if it
came from the farm. What’s a forest stallion doing there?” Just then in
the quiet air a prolonged whistle was heard. The father laid his scythe
at the foot of a tree. “Come on, Tom. Something’s the matter, or mother
wouldn’t have blown the whistle.” It was an agreed-on signal. Back the
two went, and the younger boy caught them up, saying he had seen a great
cloud of smoke, and it seemed right over the house.
“Nonsense,” said his father; “more like five miles away.” They walked
quickly along the forest avenue of gnarled oaks, tall beeches, and odds
and ends of hollies of no especial shape. “Look at all those ponies
outside the gate!” exclaimed Tom. There was a restless, pawing,
snorting, whinnying troop of mares and youngsters, but all with head
over or turned towards the closed gate. When the three reached the farm,
they saw Skewbald standing on the straw heap, surrounded by pigs,
poultry, and ducks. Mother was standing at the garden gate with the baby
in her arms. The skewbald whinnied when he saw the arrivals and stamped
impatiently. The man sniffed again and muttered: “That fire seems closer
than I thought. How’d he get in?” he called. “He jumped it,” his wife
replied. “I saw him.”
They opened the gate, and the ponies surged in after them. Tom ran to
slide back the big door, and had just time to flatten himself against
the wall, when Skewbald thundered past, followed by the herd, right
across the meadow to the ford, which they crossed. Then they turned,
faced the wind, and snuffed the air.
“Boys,” the father was saying, “this fire must be nearer than we want.
The smoke’s getting thicker every minute. Both of you get a broom, and
let’s get beyond the wood.”
The homestead was enclosed to the south-west by groves of hollies and a
plantation of firs. If these began to burn, sparks might set the
thatched roof and hayricks on fire. Beyond the wood was a level tract of
heather and gorse. The fire might not have caught this, and there might
yet be time to stop it spreading to the wood. When they got beyond the
trees, the gorse bushes at the far end of the open space were burning
with a loud crackling, and on the ground a line of smoke, with here and
there a sputter of flame, showed that the fire was crawling towards
them.
“Spread out, boys, and smack away at it,” was the order.
Then commenced a fight with the advancing enemy, in the face of sparks
and thick, pungent smoke. The boys worked bravely, but the wind fanned
the embers, and, often, after they had beaten down the flames they had
to run back, and put out a fresh outburst. Then, where the grass and
heather was longer, the fire began to burn more vigorously.
“Get back, boys; we’ll wait and fight it where it’s shorter,” said the
father. “Hooray!” Tom exclaimed; “here they come!” First a man on a
pony, then a boy on a bicycle, two more friendly helpers in a trap, all
coming to help as fast as they could; and later, a motor-car from the
big house on a hill miles away, and crammed with helpers, hooted its
arrival.
Some had brooms or beaters, and some took branches, but all fell to with
a will, yet as they worked, the cloud of smoke seemed to get blacker and
heavier. Instead of mounting into the sky like a pillar of cloud, it
hung about their heads until they could hardly breathe. The sky became
black, and still the fire defied their efforts.
A boy looked up and yelled, “Rain!” He had felt a drop on his face.
Someone felt another, but they were not leaving anything to chance, and
smacked steadily away at the smouldering herbage.
Then the rain began to come down steadily until everyone had a wet
shirt. When the danger was over the volunteers began to move off, saying
they must be going, in spite of entreaties to come back to the
farmstead. They knew that the wife with her baby would be sore put to it
to entertain so many. But one or two who lived farther off were
persuaded to come along, and to these the colt-hunter expatiated a dozen
times on the fortunate circumstance of the ponies running from the fire,
and taking the road through the wood to the farm. As Tom said, the
skewbald rang the firebell for them.
[Illustration]