Several months passed away. During this period Phil Sparks kept in
close hiding, because, although the Bloater, true to his promise,
refrained from giving information against him, there were others who
knew and suspected him, and who had no visions of an imploring Martha to
restrain them in their efforts to deliver him into the hands of justice.
During this period, also, Ned Crashington recovered his wonted health
and vigour, while his wife, to some extent, recovered her senses, and,
instead of acting as an irritant blister on her husband, began really to
aim at unanimity. The result was, that Ned's love for her, which had
only been smothered a little, burst forth with renewed energy, and
Maggie found that in peace there is prosperity. It is not to be
supposed that Maggie was cured all at once. She was not an angel--only
an energetic and self-willed woman. She therefore broke out now and
then in her old style; but, on the whole, she was much improved, and the
stalwart fireman no longer sought martyrdom in the flames.
During this period, too, the men of the Red Brigade held on the even
tenor of their furious fiery way; not, indeed, scatheless, but with a
much smaller amount of damage to life and limb than might have been
expected in a service where the numerical strength was so low--only
about 380 men--and where the duty, night and day, was so severe and
hazardous.
About this time, their Chief's "Report" for the past year was issued,
and it revealed a few facts which are worthy of record. It stated that
there had been altogether 1946 fires in London during the past twelve
months; that is, an average of a little more than five fires every
twenty-four hours. Of these 1670 had been slight, while 276 were
serious. In these fires 186 persons had been seriously endangered, of
whom 153 were rescued by the men of the Red Brigade, while 33 perished,
despite the most gallant efforts to save them. The Report showed,
further, that there were in London at that time, (and it is much the
same still), 50 fire-engine stations, 25 land steam fire-engines, 85
manual fire-engines, 2 floating steam fire-engines on the Thames, and
104 fire-escapes. The number of journeys made by the fire-engines
during the year was 8127, and the total distance run was 21,914 miles.
This, the reader will observe, implies an enormous amount of labour
performed by the 380 heroes who constitute the Red Brigade, and who,
although thus heavily overtaxed, were never heard to murmur or complain.
That they suffered pretty frequently and severely might have been
expected. In truth, it is a marvel that they did not suffer more. The
Report showed that, among them all in the course of the year, they had
received 36 contusions, dislocations, fractures, and such like injuries;
22 incised, lacerated, and punctured wounds; 18 injuries to eyes, head,
and arms; 2 internal injuries; 22 sprains, and, strange to say, only 4
burns and scalds, making 104 injuries altogether, but no deaths.
Things being in this condition, the brigade lay on its oars, so to
speak, awaiting "a call," one bleak evening in November, when everything
in London looked so wet, and cold, and wretched, that some people went
the length of saying that a good rousing fire would be quite a cheering
sight for the eyes to rest upon.
In the West-End station, to which we have directed attention more than
once in this tale, Joe Dashwood, and Ned Crashington, and Bob Clazie,
with his brother David, and some more of the men, were seated in the
inner lobby, discussing the news of the day, and settling the affairs of
the nation to their own entire satisfaction. The Bloater and Little Jim
were also there, hanging about the door. These fire-eating youths had
become so fond of the locality and of the men, that they had taken to
sweeping a crossing in the neighbourhood, and were wont to cheer their
spirits, during intervals of labour, by listening to, or chaffing, the
firemen, and following them, when possible, to fires.
Suddenly the rattle of the telegraphic bell roused the men. This was so
common an occurrence, that it scarcely called forth a passing remark.
One of them, however, rose with alacrity, and, replying to the signal,
read off the message. We cannot give the precise words of the telegram,
but it was to the effect that a fire had broken out at Saint Katharine's
Docks, and that all available force was to be sent out at once.
On hearing this there was unusual promptitude in the movements of the
firemen. At all times they are bound, on pain of a heavy fine, to turn
out in three minutes after receiving the call to a fire. Sometimes they
succeed in turning out in less. It was so on the present occasion.
Mention of a fire anywhere near the docks has much the same effect on
the Red Brigade as the order to march to the field of Waterloo had on
the British army. The extreme danger; the inflammable nature of the
goods contained in the huge and densely-packed warehouses; the proximity
to the shipping; the probability of a pitched battle with the flames;
the awful loss of property, and perhaps of life, if the fire should gain
the mastery, and the urgent need there is for hurrying all the
disposable force in London to the spot without delay, if the victory is
to be gained--all these circumstances and considerations act as an
unusually sharp spur to men, who, however, being already willing at all
times to do their utmost, can only force themselves to gain a few
additional moments of time by their most strenuous exertions.
In less than three minutes, then, our West-End engine sprang off, like a
rocket, at full gallop, with a crack of the whip, a snort from the
steeds, a shout from the men to clear the way, and a cheer from the
bystanders.
Two of these bystanders started off alongside of the engine, with
glittering eyes and flushed cheeks. The Bloater and Little Jim had
heard the telegraph read off, had caught the words, "Fire--Saint
Katharine's Docks," and knew well what that implied. They resolved to
witness the fight, and ran as if their lives depended on the race. It
need scarcely be said that the engine quickly left them out of sight
behind, not only because the horses were fleet, but also because various
pedestrians, into whose bosoms the boys plunged in their blind haste,
treated them rather roughly, and retarded their progress a good deal.
But nothing short of a knock-down blow could have put a full stop to the
career of those imps of the broom. After innumerable hair-breadth
escapes from "bobbies" and others, by agile bounds and desperate plunges
among horses' legs and carriage-wheels, they reached the scene of action
not _very_ long after the engine with which they had set out.
It was night. The fire had been raging for some time with terrible
fury, and had already got full possession of two large warehouses, each
five or six floors in height, all connected by means of double iron
folding-doors, and stored from basement to roof with spirits, tallow,
palm-oil, cotton, flax, jute, and other merchandise, to the extent of
upwards of two millions sterling in value. The dock fire-engines had
been brought to bear on the flames a few minutes after the fire was
discovered. The two floating-engines were paddled at once to the spot,
and their powerful hydrants poured continuous streams on the flames;
while, every few minutes, another and another of the land-engines came
rattling up, until all the available force of the Red Brigade was on the
spot, each man straining, like the hero of a forlorn hope, regardless of
life and limb, to conquer the terrible foe. The Brompton and Chelsea
volunteer fire-brigade, and several private engines, also came up to
lend a helping hand. But all these engines, brave hearts, and vigorous
proceedings, appeared at first of no avail, for the greedy flames shot
out their tongues, hissed through water and steam, and licked up the
rich fuel with a deep continuous roar, as if they gloated over their
unusually splendid banquet, and meant to enjoy it to the full, despite
man's utmost efforts to oppose them.
The excitement at this time was tremendous. Every available spot of
ground or building from which the most limited view of the fire could be
obtained, was crowded to excess by human beings, whose upturned faces
were lighted more or less ruddily according to their distance from the
fire.
No doubt the greater proportion of the vast multitude beheld the waste
of so much property with anxiety and regret. Doubtless, also, many
thoughtless ones were there who merely enjoyed the excitement, and
looked on it as a pyrotechnic display of unwonted splendour. But there
was yet another class of men, aye, and women, whose view of the matter
was fitted to cause anxiety in the breasts of those who talk of
"elevating the masses," and this was by far the largest class. The
greater part of them belonged to the lowest class of labourers, men
willing to work for their living, but who got little to do. Amongst
these not one expression of regret was to be heard, though the women
sometimes asked anxiously whether any one was likely to be hurt. But
let a few of these speak for themselves.
"Ah," said an old woman, with an unintellectual style of countenance,
"now there will be plenty of work for poor men."
"Yes," responded a rough, with a black eye, "that's true. My blissin',
as Paddy says, on a fire; it warms the cockles o' yer heart an' kapes
yer hands busy."
"They've much need to be kep' busy, sure enough," remarked another man,
"for mine have been pretty idle for more than a week."
"I wish," exclaimed another, with a bitter curse on mankind in general,
"that the whole Thames would go a-fire, from Westminster to Gravesend."
The energy with which this was said caused a general laugh and a good
deal of chaff, but there was no humour in the man who spoke. He was one
of those of whom it is said by a periodical which ought to know, that
hundreds of such may be seen day by day, year by year, waiting at the
different gates of the docks, in stolid weariness, for the chance of a
day's work--the wage of which is half-a-crown. When a foreman comes to
a gate to take on a few such hands, the press of men, and the faces,
hungry and eager beyond description, make one of the saddest of the sad
sights to be seen even at the east end of London.
In another part of the crowd, where the street was narrow, a scene of a
most fearful kind was being enacted. All scoundreldom appeared to have
collected in that spot. For two or three hours robbery and violence
reigned unchecked in the very face of the police, who, reduced to
inaction by the density of the crowd, could render little or no
assistance to the sufferers. Scarcely one respectably dressed person
was unmolested. Hats were indiscriminately smashed over the brows of
their wearers, coats were torn off their backs, and watches and purses
violently wrested from their owners. In many cases there was no attempt
at secrecy, men were knocked down and plundered with all the coolness
and deliberation, with which we commonly pursue our lawful calling.
By degrees the perseverance and heroism of the firemen were rewarded.
The fire began to succumb to the copious floods with which it was
deluged, and, towards midnight, there was a perceptible diminution in
the violence of the flames. There were, however, several temporary
outbursts from time to time, which called for the utmost watchfulness
and promptitude on the part of the Brigade.
During one of these a block of private dwellings nearest to the
conflagration was set on fire. So intent was every one on the _great_
fire that this incidental one was not observed until it had gained
considerable headway. The buildings were very old and dry, so that,
before an engine could be detached from the warehouses, it was in a
complete blaze. Most of the inhabitants escaped by the chief staircase
before it became impassable, and one or two leaped from the lower
windows.
It chanced that Joe Dashwood's engine was nearest to this house at the
time, and was run up to it.
"Now then, lads, look alive," said Joe, as the men affixed the hose and
suction-pipe.
"Out o' the way!" cried Ned Crashington to two boys who appeared to be
rather curious about the operations of the firemen.
"I say," exclaimed the Bloater in great excitement, "why--that's the
'ouse w'ere _Martha_ lives!"
"Who's Martha?" asked Ned, without interrupting his operation of
screwing on an additional length of hose.
"W'y, the friend o' Joe Dashwood's wife--Martha--Martha Reading, you
know."
"Eh!" exclaimed Ned, looking up.
At that moment Martha herself appeared at a window in the upper storey,
waving her arms and shrieking wildly for help. Men were seen
endeavouring to bring forward a fire-escape, but the crowd was so dense
as to render this an unusually difficult and slow operation.
Without uttering a word, Ned Crashington dashed up the blazing
staircase. For a moment he was lost to view, but quickly reappeared,
attempting to cross a half-charred beam which overhung a yawning gulf of
fire where the first and second floors had just fallen in. Suddenly a
dense mass of smoke surrounded him. He staggered, threw up his arms,
and was seen to fall headlong into the flames. A deep groan, or cry of
horror, arose from the crowd, and wild shouts of "fetch a ladder,"
"bring up the escape," were heard, while poor Martha got out on the
window-sill to avoid the flames, which were rapidly drawing towards and
almost scorching her.
Just then a man was seen to dash furiously through the crowd, he fought
his way madly--knocking down all who opposed him. Gaining the door of
the burning house he sprang in.
"I say," whispered Little Jim, in an excited voice, "it's Phil Sparks!"
"I'm glad to hear it," observed a quiet, broad-shouldered man, who stood
near two policemen, to whom he winked knowingly.
The Bloater attempted to move off, but one of the policemen detained
him. The other detained Little Jim.
Meanwhile the crowd looked for Phil's reappearance on the beam from
which poor Ned Crashington had fallen, but Phil knew the house better
than Ned. He gained the upper floor by a back stair, which was not
quite impassable; seized Martha in his arms, just as she was about to
leap into the street, and dragged her back into the smoke and flames.
It appeared almost certain that both must have perished; but in a few
seconds the man was seen to descend the lower stair with the woman in
his arms, and in another moment a wild enthusiastic cheer burst from the
vast multitude as he leaped into the street.
Laying Martha gently down on a doorstep, Sparks bent over her, and
whispered in her ear. She appeared to have swooned, but opened her
eyes, and gazed earnestly in the face of her deliverer.
"The Lord must have sent you to save me, Phil; He will save _you_ also,
if you will trust Him."
"Forgive me, Martha, I was hard on you, but--"
"God bless you, Phil--"
"Clear the way there," cried a commanding voice; "here, doctor, this
way."
The crowd opened. A medical man came forward and examined Martha, and
pronounced her to be only slightly injured. Several men then raised her
and carried her towards a neighbouring house. Phil Sparks was about to
follow, but the quiet man with the broad shoulders touched him gently on
the arm, and said that he was "wanted."
"Sorry to interrupt you in such a good work, but it can't be helped.
Other people can take care of her now, you know; come along."
Sparks' first impulse was to knock the quiet man down and fly, but he
felt a restraining power on his other arm, and, looking round, observed
a tall policeman at his side. As if by magic, another tall policeman
appeared in front of him, and a third behind him. He suddenly bent down
his head and suffered himself to be led away. Seeing this, the Bloater
and Little Jim wrenched themselves from the grasp of their respective
captors, dived between the legs of the bystanders, as eels might do
among sedges, and vanished, to their own inexpressible delight and the
total discomfiture of the "bobbies." They met a few minutes later at a
well-known rendezvous.
"I wish 'e 'adn't bin took," said the Bloater with a look of regret on
his expressive though dirty countenance.
"Poor Martha!" said Little Jim, almost crying as he thought of her.
"'Ow much d'you think 'e'll get, Bloater?"
"Twenty years at least; p'r'aps go for life; you see it's an aggrawated
case. I've bin makin' partikler inquiries, and I finds 'e's bin raisin'
no end o' fires doorin' the last six months--kep' the Red Brigade
trottin' about quite in a surprisin' way. I rather fear that 'e'll be
let in for ever an' a day."
The Bloater was not quite correct in his guess. When the trial came on,
to the surprise of all, especially of his "pals," Phil Sparks pleaded
_guilty_! Partly in consideration of this, and partly on account of his
last courageous act in saving the girl, he was let off with fifteen
years penal servitude.
But, to return from this episode. The great fire at the docks, after
gutting several warehouses, was finally subdued. And what of the loss?
A hundred thousand pounds did not cover it, and every insurance office
in London suffered! In addition to this, several persons lost their
lives, while the Red Brigade, besides having some of their number more
or less severely injured, lost one of its best and bravest men.
Gallant Ned Crashington's fighting days were over. His mangled remains
were gathered up next morning, and, a few days later, were conveyed by
his comrades to their last resting-place.
It is no easy matter to move the heart of London. That vast
nation-in-a-city has too many diverse interests to permit of the eyes of
all being turned, even for a moment, upon one thing. Nevertheless the
fireman's funeral seemed to cause the great cord to vibrate for a
little. Hundreds of thousands of people turned out to witness the
cortege. Ned's coffin was drawn, military fashion, on one of the
engines peculiar to his profession, with his helmet and hatchet placed
upon the lid. The whole of the force of the brigade that could be
spared followed him in uniform, headed by their chief, and accompanied
by a large detachment of the police force. The procession was imposing,
and the notices that appeared next day in all the papers were a touching
tribute of respect to the self-sacrificing fireman, who, as one of these
papers said, "left a widow and son, in poor circumstances, to mourn his
early death."
Ah, these things were soon forgotten in the rush of the world's business
by all save that widow and son, and one or two bosom friends. Even the
men of the Red Brigade _appeared_ to forget the fallen hero very soon.
We say "appeared," because there were some among them who mourned Ned as
a dear brother, chief among whom was Joe Dashwood. But whatever the
feelings of the firemen might have been, theirs was a warfare that
allowed no time for the undue indulgence or exhibition of grief. The
regular "calls" and duties went on steadily, sternly, as if nothing had
occurred, and before Ned's remains had lain a night in their last
resting-place, many of his old comrades were out again doing fierce
battle with the restless and untameable flames.