The house on fire was, as we have said, an elegant mansion--one of those
imposing edifices, with fresh paint outside, and splendid furniture
within, which impress the beholder with the idea of a family in
luxurious circumstances.
No one could tell how the fire originated. In the daily "report" of
fires, made next day by the chief of the Red Brigade, wherein nine fires
were set down as having occurred within the twenty-four hours, the cause
of this fire in Ladbroke Square was reported "unknown." Of the other
eight, the supposed causes were, in one case, "escape of gas," in
another, "paraffin-lamp upset," in another "intoxication," in another,
"spark from fire," in another, "candle," in another, "children playing
with matches," and so on; but in this mansion none of these causes were
deemed probable. The master of the house turned off the gas regularly
every night before going to bed, therefore it could not have been caused
by escape of gas. Paraffin-lamps were not used in the house. Candles
were; but they were always carefully handled and guarded. As to
intoxication, the most suspicious of mortals could not have dreamed of
such a cause in so highly respectable a family. The fires were
invariably put out at night, and guards put on in every room, therefore,
no spark could have been so audacious as to have leaped into being and
on to the floor. There were, indeed, "matches" in the house, but there
were no children, except one old lady, who, having reached her second
childhood, might perhaps have been regarded as a child. It is true
there was a certain Betty, a housemaid, whose fingers were reported by
the cook to be "all thumbs," and who had an awkward and incurable
tendency to spill, and break, and drop, and fall over things, on whom
suspicion fastened very keenly at first; but Betty, who was young and
rather pretty, asserted so earnestly that she had been unusually happy
that night in having done nothing whatever of a condemnable nature, and
backed her asseverations with such floods of tears, that she was
exonerated, and, as we have said, the cause was reported "unknown."
It was not, however, so completely unknown as was at first supposed.
There was a certain grave, retiring, modest individual who knew the
gentleman of the house and his doings a little more thoroughly than was
agreeable to the said gentleman, and who had become aware, in some
unaccountable way, which it is impossible to explain, that he, the said
gentleman, had very recently furnished the house in a sumptuous style,
and had insured it much beyond its value. The said individual's
knowledge ultimately resulted in the said gentleman being convicted and
transported for arson!
But with all this we have nothing to do. Whatever the uncertainty that
afterwards arose as to the cause of the fire, there could be no
uncertainty as to the fire itself at the time. It blazed and roared so
furiously, that the inside of the house resembled a white-hot furnace.
Flames spouted from the windows and chimneys, glaring fiercely on the
spectators, who assembled rapidly from all quarters, as if defying them
all, and daring the firemen to do their worst. Sparks enough to have
shamed all the Roman candles ever made in or out of Rome were vomited
forth continuously, and whirled away with volumes of dense black smoke
into the wintry sky.
"It's well alight," observed a chimney-sweep to a policeman.
The policeman made no reply, although it did seem as if it would have
been quite safe, even for a policeman, to admit that the sweep was
thoroughly correct. It _was_ "well alight," so well, that it seemed
absolutely ridiculous to suppose that the firemen could make any
impression on it at all.
But the firemen did not appear to think the attempt ridiculous. "Never
give in" was, or might have been, their motto. It was their maxim to
attack the enemy with promptitude and vigour, no matter what his
strength might be. When he crept out like a sneaking burglar from under
a hearth-stone, or through an over-heated flue, they would "have at him"
with the hand-pumps and quench him at once. When he came forth like a
dashing party of skirmishers, to devastate a wood-yard, or light up a
music-hall with unusual brilliancy, they sent an engine or two against
him without delay, and put him down in an hour or two. When he attacked
"in force," they despatched engine after engine--manuals and steamers--
to the front, until he was quelled, and if the prey already seized could
not be wrenched from his grasp, they, at all events, killed him before
he could destroy more. When he boldly and openly declared war,
attacking the great combustible warehouses of Tooley Street, threatening
a descent on the shipping, and almost setting the Thames on fire, they
sent out the whole available army from every quarter of the metropolis
with all their engines of war--manuals, steamers, and floating
batteries, or spouteries, and fought him tooth and nail, till he gave
in. They might be terribly over-matched--as in the case of the great
fire when the gallant Braidwood fell--they might lose men, and might
have to fight day and night for weeks, but they would "never say die,"
until the enemy had died and left them, tired and torn, but still tough
and triumphant victors on the field of battle.
Before the engine from Regent Street came on the ground, two manual
engines from Kensington and Notting Hill had arrived, and opened water
on the foe. At first their shot fell harmlessly on the roaring furnace;
but by the time the "steamer" had got ready for action, some little
effect was beginning to be produced. When this great gun, so to speak,
began to play, and sent a thick continuous stream through the windows,
like an inexhaustible water mitrailleuse, clouds of white steam mingled
with the black smoke, and varied the aspect of the fire, but did not
appear to lessen its fury in any degree. Just then another manual
engine dashed into the square at full gallop, and formed up. Before it
had well taken a position, another "steamer," with three horses, came
swinging round the corner, and fell into the ranks. The panting steeds
were unharnessed, the bold charioteers leaped down, the suction-pipe was
dipped into the water-trough, and the hose attached. As two engines
cannot "drink" at the same plug, a canvas trough with an iron frame is
put over the plug, having a hole in its bottom, which fits tightly round
the plug. It quietly fills, and thus two or more engines may do their
work convivially--dip in their suction-pipes, and "drink" simultaneously
at the same fountain.
"Down with her!" shouted the man who held the "branch," or nozzle, at
the end of the hose.
A steam whistle gives a shrill, short reply; the engine quivers under
the power of man's greatest servant, and another battery opens on the
foe.
But London firemen are not content to play at long bowls. While the
artillery goes thus vigorously into action, the helmets of the men are
seen gleaming and glancing everywhere amid the smoke, searching for weak
points, turning the enemy's flanks, and taking him in rear. Hose are
dragged through neighbouring houses, trailing their black coils like
horrid water snakes, through places were such things were never meant to
be. If too short, additional lengths are added, again and again, till
the men who hold the branches gain points of vantage on adjoining roofs
or outhouses, until, at last from below, above, in front, and behind,
cataracts of water dash into the glowing furnace.
The fire-escape had been first to reach the ground after the alarm was
given, this being the instrument nearest to the scene of conflagration.
It happened that night to be in charge of David Clazie, a brother of
Comrade Bob. Being a smart young fellow, David, had--with the
assistance of two early risers who chanced to be at hand, and the
policeman on the beat--run up his escape, and put it in position before
the fire had gained its full force. The gentleman of the house had
already got out, and fled in his night garments; but the fire had
rendered the staircase impassable, so that the cook, the many-thumbed
Betty, and the old lady, who was the gentleman's mother, were imprisoned
in the upper floor.
David Clazie did not learn this from the gentleman, however. That
amiable character had received such a fright, that he had taken himself
off, no one--except the individual aforementioned--knew whither.
Fortunately, Betty announced the fact of her existence by rushing to a
window and shrieking. David ran his escape towards the window, mounted
the ladder, carried the damsel down, bore her, kicking, into a
neighbouring house, and left her in fits. Meanwhile the cook rushed to
the same window, shrieked, and fell back half-suffocated with the smoke
which just then surrounded her. A policeman gallantly ran up the
escape, jumped into the room, gathered up the cook with great
difficulty--for she was unusually fat and the smoke very suffocating--
carried her down, bore her to the same house where Betty lay, and left
her there in violent hysterics.
As neither of them could answer questions, it could not be ascertained
whether there were any more people in the burning house. David
therefore explored it as far as was possible in the circumstances, and
much more than was safe for himself, but found no one. After nearly
choking himself, therefore, he drew aside the escape to prevent its
being burned.
When the engines came up, however, it was again brought into play, to
enable the firemen to get up with their "branches" to the upper windows.
"Try that window, Dashwood," said the officer of the station to which
Joe belonged, pointing to a window on the second floor. "There ain't
much smoke coming out."
Before he had done speaking, Joe and a comrade had pushed the escape
towards the window in question. He ascended and leaped into the room,
but could scarcely see for the smoke. Knowing that the air in a burning
house is clearer near the floor, he stooped as low as possible, and went
round the room guiding himself by the walls. Coming to a door he seized
the handle and tried to open it, but found it locked, and the handle so
hot that he was forced to let go abruptly. He seized a chair, tried to
burst it open with a blow, and shivered the chair to atoms, but did not
force the door. A powerful effort with his foot also failed. Rushing
to the window he got out on the escape, and shouted:--
"The axe, lads, look sharp and pass up the hose. We'll get at it here."
A large heavy axe was handed up by one fireman, while another let down a
rope, to which the end of the hose was attached and hauled up.
Joe seized the axe, returned to the door, and, with one blow, dashed it
open.
Flames leaped upon him, as if they had been eagerly awaiting the
opportunity, licked hungrily round his legs, and kissed his whiskers--of
which, by the way, he was rather proud; and with good reason, for they
were very handsome whiskers. But Joe cared no more for them at that
moment than he did for his boots. He was forced to retreat, however, to
the window, where Bob Clazie had already presented his branch and
commenced a telling discharge on the fire.
"That's the way to do it," muttered Bob, as he directed the branch and
turned aside his head to avoid, as much as possible, the full volume of
the smoke.
"Let's get a breath o' fresh air," gasped Joe Dashwood, endeavouring to
squeeze past his comrade through the window.
At that moment a faint cry was heard. It appeared to come from an inner
room.
"Some one there, Joe," said Bob Clazie in a grave tone, but without
diverting his attention for an instant, from the duty in which he was
engaged.
Joe made no reply, but at once leaped back into the room, and, a second
time, felt his way round the walls. He came on another door. One blow
of the ponderous axe dashed it in, and revealed a bed-room not quite so
densely filled with smoke as the outer room. Observing a bed looming
through the smoke, he ran towards it, and struck his head against one of
the posts so violently that he staggered. Recovering he made a grasp at
the clothes, and felt that there was a human being wrapped tightly up in
them like a bundle. A female shriek followed. Joe Dashwood was not the
man to stand on ceremony in such circumstances. He seized the bundle,
straightened it out a little, so as to make it more portable, and
throwing it over his shoulder, made a rush towards the window by which
he had entered. All this the young fireman did with considerable energy
and haste, because the density of the smoke was increasing, and his
retreat might be cut off by the flames at any moment.
"Clear the way there!" he gasped, on reaching the window.
"All right," replied Bob Clazie, who was still presenting his branch
with untiring energy at the flames.
Joe passed out, got on the head of the escape, and, holding the bundle
on his shoulder with one hand, grasped the rounds of the ladder with the
other. He descended amid the cheers of the vast multitude, which had by
this time assembled to witness the fire.
As Joe hurried towards the open door of the nearest house, Betty, with
the thumbs, rushed frantically out, screaming, "Missis! oh! my! she'll
be burnt alive! gracious! help! fire! back room! first floor! oh, my!"
"Be easy, lass," cried Joe, catching the flying domestic firmly by the
arm, and detaining her despite her struggles.
"Let me go; missis! I forgot her!"
"Here she is," cried Joe, interrupting, "all safe. You come and attend
to her."
The reaction on poor Betty's feelings was so great that she went into
fits a second time, and was carried with her mistress into the house,
where the cook still lay in violent hysterics.
Joe laid the bundle gently on the bed, and looked quickly at the
bystanders. Observing several cool and collected females among them, he
pointed to the bundle, which had begun to exhibit symptoms of life, and
said briefly, "She's all right, look after her," and vanished like a
wreath of that smoke into which in another moment he plunged.
He was not a moment too soon, for he found Bob Clazie, despite his
fortitude and resolution, on the point of abandoning the window, where
the smoke had increased to such a degree as to render suffocation
imminent.
"Can't stand it," gasped Bob, scrambling a few paces down the ladder.
"Give us the branch, Bob, I saw where it was in fetchin' out the old
woman," said Joe in a stifled voice.
He grasped the copper tube from which the water spouted with such force
as to cause it to quiver and recoil like a living thing, so that, being
difficult to hold, it slipped aside and nearly fell. The misdirected
water-spout went straight at the helmet of a policeman, which it knocked
off with the apparent force of a cannon shot; plunged into the bosom of
a stout collier, whom it washed whiter than he had ever been since the
days of infancy, and scattered the multitude like chaff before the wind.
Seeing this, the foreman ordered "Number 3" engine, (which supplied the
particular branch in question), to cease pumping.
Joe recovered the erratic branch in a moment, and dragged it up the
escape, Bob, who was now in a breatheable atmosphere, helping to pass up
the hose. The foreman, who seemed to have acquired the power of being
in several places at one and the same moment of time, and whose watchful
eye was apparently everywhere, ordered Bob's brother David and another
man named Ned Crashington, to go up and look after Joe Dashwood.
Meanwhile Joe shouted, "Down with Number 3;" by which he meant, "up with
as much water as possible from Number 3, and as fast as you can!" and
sprang into the room from which he had just rescued the old woman. In
passing out with her he had observed a glimmer of flame through the door
which he had first broken open, and which, he reflected while descending
the escape, was just out of range of Bob Clazie's branch. It was the
thought of this that had induced him to hurry back so promptly; in time,
as we have seen, to relieve his comrade. He now pointed the branch at
the precise spot, and hit that part of the fire right in its heart. The
result was that clouds of steam mingled with the smoke. But Joe was
human after all. The atmosphere, or, rather, the want of atmosphere,
was too much for him. He was on the point of dropping the branch, and
rushing to the window for his life, when Ned Crashington, feeling his
way into the room, tumbled over him.
Speech was not required in the circumstances. Ned knew exactly what to
do, and Joe knew that he had been sent to relieve him. He therefore
delivered the branch to Ned, and at once sprang out on the escape, where
he encountered David Clazie.
"Go in, Davy, he can't stand it long," gasped Joe.
"No fears of 'im," replied Davy, with a smile, as he prepared to enter
the window; "Ned can stand hanythink a'most. But, I say, send up some
more 'ands. It takes two on us to 'old _that_ 'ere branch, you know."
The brass helmets of more hands coming up the escape were observed as he
spoke, for the foreman saw that this was a point of danger, and, like a
wise general, had his reserves up in time.
David Clazie found Ned standing manfully to the branch. Ned was noted
in the Red Brigade as a man who could "stand a'most anything," and who
appeared to cherish a martyr-like desire to die by roasting or
suffocation. This was the more surprising that he was not a boastful or
excitable fellow, but a silent, melancholy, and stern man, who, except
when in action, usually seemed to wish to avoid observation. Most of
his comrades were puzzled by this compound of character, but some of
them hinted that Crashington's wife could have thrown some light on the
subject. Be this as it may, whenever the chief or the foreman of the
Brigade wanted a man for any desperate work, they invariably turned to
Ned Crashington. Not that Ned was one whit more courageous or willing
to risk his life than any of the other men, _all_ of whom, it must be
remembered, were picked for courage and capacity for their special work;
but he combined the greatest amount of coolness with the utmost possible
recklessness, besides being unusually powerful, so that he could be
depended on for wise as well as desperate action. Joe Dashwood was
thought to be almost equal to Ned--indeed, in personal activity he was
superior; but there was nothing desperate in Joe's character. He was
ever ready to dare anything with a sort of jovial alacrity, but he did
not appear, like Ned, to court martyrdom.
While Ned and David subdued the flames above, Joe descended the escape,
and being by that time almost exhausted, sat down to rest with several
comrades who had endured the first shock of battle, while fresh men were
sent to continue the fight.
"Have a glass, Joe?" said one of the firemen, coming round with a bottle
of brandy.
"No, thank 'ee," said Joe, "I don't require it."
"Hand it here," said a man who stood leaning against the rails beside
him, "my constitution is good, like the British one, but it's none the
worse for a drop o' brandy after such tough work."
There was probably truth in what the man said. Desperate work sometimes
necessitates a stimulant; nevertheless, there were men in the Red
Brigade who did their desperate work on nothing stronger than water, and
Joe was one of these.
In three hours the fire was subdued, and before noon of that day it was
extinguished. The "report" of it, as published by the chief of the
Fire-Brigade next morning, recorded that a house in Ladbroke Square,
occupied by Mr Blank, a gentleman whose business was "private"--in
other words, unknown--had been set on fire by some "unknown cause," that
the whole tenement had been "burnt out" and "the roof off," and that the
contents of the building were "insured in the Phoenix."
Some of the firemen were sent home about daybreak, when the flames first
began to be mastered.
Joe was among these. He found Mary ready with a cup of hot coffee, and
the rosebud, who had just awakened, ready with a kiss. Joe accepted the
second, swallowed the first, stretched his huge frame with a sigh of
weariness, remarked to Mary that he would turn in, and in five minutes
thereafter was snoring profoundly.