A Thrilling Incident--The Burning House--The Tall Figure in the
Hall--Escape cut off--The only Way Out--The Street of Fire--
Walking on Coals--The Open Boat--The way to the Wharf--Terrible
Suffering--The Awful Death in the Street--Worn Out--The Escape
--Saved--The Firemen--How they Fought the Flames.
In olden times men who had performed deeds of bravery on the
battle-field were canonized as saints, and those who had shown daring in
other ways were revered as gods. There is a fascination about the
stories which come down to us through the long centuries of time, and
from the middle ages, and we are accustomed, almost from the cradle, to
revere the names of the great ones who have filled the world with the
splendour of their exploits in the defence of cities and the protection
of fair ladies. In the nursery we learn to lisp the names of stalwart
knights and doughty warriors, and the great deeds which they performed,
ages and ages ago, live again in the memory of all mankind. And it is
well that it should be so. It is well that the splendid actions of the
world's great men should be remembered for all time. Who is there who
does not feel the blood mantling his cheek when he thinks of a Clive and
of a Marlborough? Who can think of a Napier and a Wellington, and not
experience for a time a thousand emotions coursing and careering madly
through his breast? And Robert Bruce on his little palfrey giving battle
to the last of one of England's proudest and sternest knights, in full
view of Stirling Castle, the day before the great battle was fought, is
a story which every Scottish lad is taught before he is old enough to
read. And the lives of such men as Bonaparte, Turenne, Wolfe, the Great
Frederic, Von Moltke, and a hundred others, are undying records in the
histories of nations, the memory of whose deeds shall last when time
shall be no more.
In a young country like ours, whose territory has not often felt the
hostile tread of invading armies, and whose broad acres are almost
wholly unstained with the blood of battles, the heroes we have developed
have earned their reputation in another and nobler way. Halifax has had
her England, whose name will be remembered as long as ships sail the
seas; and in St. John, we have long learned to bless the name of a hero
in humble life, honest Tom Sloven. And now from the ashes of the fire
two names arise, which in after years, when their owners shall have
passed away, will live in the hearts of the people, and leave there an
imperishable record. We applaud success, and oftentimes let honest
effort and endeavour go unrewarded. We worship the rising sun, and when
a man works hard to achieve a certain success and fails, we are apt to
pass him by. And though the object, in the instance which we are about
to relate, was not successful in the end, let us never forget the deed
which was attempted at the imminent risk of the lives of the chief
actors. When the story of the fire is told at firesides in the years to
come, generations now unborn will listen with blanched cheeks and
curdling blood, to the great incident in the conflagration, when a
woman perished by the roadside, and two men escaped a dreadful death.
Mr. John E. Turnbull's sash factory, in Main Street, despite all
exertions, caught so quickly that the workmen narrowly escaped from the
ruins with their lives. Mr. Turnbull crossed the street to his
residence, which, like many others on that eventful day, he considered
impregnable. He had worked long at the factory, and had stored in his
house a large quantity of belting and tools of his workshop. He had
carefully gathered up everything of an inflammable character, and had
swept the yard clean, so that nothing could ignite and spread around the
fire, that but too readily devoured everything in its way. A vigorous
defence was inaugurated to save the house. Mr. Turnbull had good
assistants. His sons were there, working like beavers, and Mr. Walker
Frink in his department, stayed the flames for a long time. The
neighbours, believing like Mr. Turnbull, that nothing could harm this
house, had piled large quantities of furniture against its front, these
were lying before the windows of the cellar, and after a while took
fire. Mrs. Turnbull fearing that the house might after all be burned,
and at the request of her husband, made her escape by the back window,
and had to be lifted over the fence. It was well that she did go, for in
a few moments the house was threatened from a dozen quarters. The fence
in the rear was crackling, and Mr. Turnbull went down into the cellar
and began to shove off the blazing furniture from the windows. He worked
away at this for some time, never dreaming that the fire was so near
him, or that escape would soon be cut off. He had lost his hearing some
years before, and did not hear the roar of the fire nor feel its
approach. His son James was up-stairs battling with the fire, and Mr.
Frink was on the roof. James Turnbull, realizing in an instant the
condition of his father and his infirmity, and knowing well the
determined character of his nature, was about to rush into the cellar
and tell him how near the fire was, when he turned and beheld a dark
shadow in the doorway. It was coming towards him, and for a moment
struck terror into his soul. The tall figure of a woman, deeply robed in
black, holding up a long train in her hand, and with head-dress all
aflame, stood before him in the hall. He advanced towards her, as soon
as he could recover himself, and at once tore off the burning head-dress
and stamped it with his foot. He then brushed the kindling sparks from
her dress. She seemed demented and unable to understand the nature of
these proceedings. Indeed she remonstrated with him, and begged him not
to destroy her bonnet. _The fire had crazed her brain_, and after
escaping from her house she had wandered into Mr. Turnbull's blazing
residence, unheedful of the terrible burns she had received, and
notwithstanding that she was on fire herself in several places. James,
realizing the state of affairs at once, coaxed her to go with him to the
cellar to see his father, but she hung back and implored him to leave
her there. He was forced to drag her unwillingly along, and together
they both arrived at the place where the father was still labouring to
extinguish the fire that was coming from all sides. He knew nothing of
the great headway that had been made upstairs, and had not even begun to
realize the danger of his situation below. As soon as he saw the lady he
told his son to go and fetch a mat and throw it over her, and he would
be with them in a few minutes. This was done, but as often as this mat
was wrapped around her, it was thrown off again. Some moments passed,
and Mr. Turnbull finding that he could do no more, resolved to leave the
house. He and his son and the lady went upstairs where a sight that
would have appalled a heart of stone met his eyes. All hope of escape
through the alley in the rear was cut off. The house was on fire in the
back. The flames were melting the roof in a dozen places. On either side
the blaze was at its height, and not a moment was to be lost. Escape lay
in one direction only, and that was hazardous in the extreme. _They must
face the fire and escape by the front door_, or perish where they stood.
The position they were in was trying, but fortunately for them their
nerves were strong, and they were cool and collected. And now they began
preparing for the struggle. The warrior formerly buckled on his armour
of steel before venturing on the fray, but the armour of the
fire-fighters consisted of old coats and wet clothes. A coat was
fastened around the lady, who was still unknown to Mr. Turnbull, and her
head was covered. His son James enveloped in the same way, stood by her
side. Mr. Turnbull tied a wet handkerchief across his mouth, and after
putting a coat over his head, they began the memorable race for life.
James seized the lady, lifted her on his shoulders and followed his
father out of the door. She was heavy, very tall, and had passed in age
the allotted three score and ten. In addition to this, she was unwilling
to leave the house, and twice she had to be dragged away by main force
from the sofa. In no instance did she seem to comprehend what was being
done or how great her peril was. She was more concerned about her
parasol and head-dress than she appeared to be about her own personal
safety. James seemed endowed with superior strength, and he seized his
burden with a sort of death grip from which despite her struggles, she
could not escape. She afterwards became calmer, and while she made no
attempt to get off his back, he had her full dead weight to carry. The
three stepped into the street and walked into the furnace. The heat was
intense, and holding down their heads they hurried along. They ran over
blazing coals, and hands and feet burned to the very bone. They had not
proceeded twenty-five yards from the house, which was situate near the
corner of Main and Sydney Streets when they came upon a boat, thirty
feet long, which was lying directly across their path on its side. They
could not pass by the inside and had to go around by the bow. They were
hastening along to Charlotte Street, and intended going down that street
to the Ballast Wharf, and when the worst came the intention was to leap
into the sea. But the lady grew very violent just as the boat was passed
a few feet, and refused to go any further. She straightened herself up,
and slipping from James's shoulders, fell prone upon the ground. In
vain she was reasoned with, in vain she was asked to make an effort, in
vain she was appealed to, she would not move, but lay on her back
helplessly, saying, "O leave me alone, leave me here, I'm very, very
comfortable." The great fire, like a whirlwind, brushed against the
exposed flesh of the three human beings, and wore it to the bone. It was
like some invisible fiend. Before them they saw no flames, but a dead
white heat that was all the more terrible because it could not be seen.
Every time the covering was removed from their heads as they sought to
look out and see where they were going, this intense, imperceptible heat
burned their very eyeballs. The trees alongside were grasped by this
unseen power, and their trunks were twisted and turned in its cobra-like
embrace. Every thing in the road seemed charged with an element that
appeared to draw the flames on. Though Main Street is one hundred and
five feet wide, and the fire was for the most part confined to the
houses on the side of the road, a cat could not run the gauntlet that
night, and live. No one can realize the awful power of the heat, which
the Messrs. Turnbull and the lady they were striving to save experienced
on that thrilling march through the melting valley, without having
passed through a similar experience. It was a trial that can never be
blotted from their memories.
So much time was lost in trying to induce their charge to continue on
with them, that their chance of escape by Charlotte Street was cut off,
and the only hope that remained now, was to return by the terrible
route they had come. The battle had to be fought over again. The race
back had to be run once more. The boat must be crossed again, they must
go nearly two blocks forward, or die in their tracks. The street was
full of smoke now, and flying embers alighted on their shoulders and
burned their clothes, and the wild heat and the scorching flames were
madly tearing through to their faces. Their charge remained as helpless
as before, and there was something pitiable in her beseeching cries,
that almost tempted them to accede to her request and leave her there in
the street. But not a moment must now be lost, the fire-king was
trampling down all before him. The two men seized her. She struggled and
would not move. They dragged her to the boat, and she fell from their
now powerless arms. Weakened by the fire, and sick at heart at their ill
success, they could do no more, and could scarcely resist themselves the
desire to stay there by the upturned boat, and yield their lives back to
Him who gave them. The old lady fell back, and died with a smile upon
her lips. The men, too weak to carry her further, placed her close by
the boat, and shouted loudly for help. But the streets were bare of
people, and no sound could be heard but their own voices rising above
the crackling of the flames. They ran over the lava-like street,
stopping every now and then to catch breath. On, on they sped, the
youthful spirit of the one being roused when it lagged, by the inspiring
words of the wiry and vigorous elder. It was a terrible journey, fraught
by direful dangers on every side. Each foot of the way was gained by a
struggle, every yard was won by a battle. It was not until Carmarthen
Street was reached, that father and son could realize that they were
saved. They removed the covering from their heads, and looked back at
the road they had passed. A moment more in that fire would have been
their last. A figure was coming towards them, as they, arm in arm,
almost reeled up Carmarthen Street, and it proved to be the brother of
the woman Mr. Turnbull and his boy had tried to rescue. He was told that
his sister was left by the boat dead, and that no earthly power could
have saved her. One can imagine his agony when he learned these tidings.
The old lady proved to be Mrs. Reed, mother of Mr. T. M. Reed, a former
mayor of the city. At three o'clock the next morning, Mr. Turnbull went
back to Main Street, and on coming up to the unburned portion of the
boat, found close by it, the remains of Mrs. Reed. Mrs. Reed lost in the
fire two sisters--the Misses Clark, one of whom, it is thought, was
burned in her house, on the corner of Sydney and Main Streets. These
three ladies were highly respected and loved by all who knew them, and
their afflicted relatives meet with the sympathy of all.
Mr. Turnbull's loss is very heavy and foots up fully twenty-five
thousand dollars. He lost absolutely everything he possessed, and the
deeds and bank-notes which he had in his safe were all burned. He does
not despair now of being able to retrieve himself in some way. He was
the first man to erect a wooden shanty and send a flag flying from its
summit.
A large number of persons escaped from the resistless and giant-striding
flames by means of rafts and small boats. Others got a friendly sail to
Partridge Island in the tugs and steamers which approached the wharves
whenever it was safe to do so. Many of those who were on Reed's Point
Wharf and the Ballast Wharf got away in this manner.
The contingent of firemen from Portland worked with a will, and did much
to check the flames--as much, indeed, as mortal man could do in a fire
like this, with a high wind blowing a perfect gale all the time. The
city firemen performed, with their brethren of the adjacent town, signal
service. They drew lines round the burning buildings and tried again and
again to confine the fire to one place, and prevent its spread. But the
effort was futile. The flames broke down the lines, rose up in a hundred
new places, and drove the firemen and their engines away from the spot.
Some splendid work was performed in the vicinity of King Street East,
and down towards Pitt. Here they were partly successful, and did all
that could be done under the circumstances. Many of them are heavy
losers, having lost everything they had in their own houses, while they
were engaged in trying to save those of others. In a fire which never
ceased to rage at its height until it came to the water's brink, and
which poured an unceasing stream of flame for nine steady hours, and
which burned in fifteen sections of the city at once, it was a
difficult matter for them with only four engines, to do anything like
stopping the conflagration until it had spent itself, no matter how
efficient and perfect the organization might be. No one expected the
firemen to accomplish anything. There was something in the air which
seemed to breed a sort of contagion, and the fire paralyzed buildings in
a moment, and no one could tell how they caught. The fire struck men
down where they were standing, and an invisible heat bore to the earth
the trees on the sideways.