THE FIRE AT BINFIELD TOWERS
The fight stopped even more suddenly than it had begun, and the two
combatants stood away from each other, with hanging heads but with
fists still clenched.
Fairburn took a glance around on the destruction, a thing he was able
to do by the glare from some burning wreckage which had now got well
into a blaze. Then his eyes wandered down to the two boys with their
bruised and bleeding countenances, and finally up into Mr. Blackett's
face.
"So this is the kind of thing your Tory and your Jacobite is capable
of!" he remarked with stinging scorn to his richer rival.
"Don't you think, Mr. Fairburn," answered the Squire with dignified
calmness, restraining himself marvellously well, "don't you think that
instead of vilifying a cause as far above your comprehension as the
majority of its advocates are above you in breeding, in education, in
station, it would be more sensible to give me your help in attending
to these poor misguided fellows lying wounded on all sides?"
Fairburn winced; his rival had certainly the advantage in the
controversy, and none knew it better than the two boys. George did not
fail to observe the little flush of satisfaction that for an instant
lit up his antagonist's countenance, and, like his father, he too
winced.
However, not another needless word was said, while the two men and
their sons, with the help of some of the Fairburn colliers who were
still on the spot, gave attention to the wounded and extinguished the
burning rubbish. Then the Blacketts, father and son, raising their
hats to the Fairburns, took their departure.
It may well be supposed that this series of unhappy incidents did not
tend to narrow the breach between the two colliery owners and their
people. Fairburn, unlike his old self, was greatly incensed, and
talked much of prosecutions and so forth. But nothing came of it, the
man's sound native sense presently leading him to adopt George's
opinion. Said the boy, "Where would be the good, father? Their side
got most of the broken heads anyhow, and that's enough for us." It was
a youngster's view of the case, but it had its merits.
So Fairburn grumbled and rebuilt his few wrecked sheds, his grumblings
dying out as the work proceeded. George's own thoughts were bitter
enough, however, so far as Matthew Blackett was concerned. He could
not get it out of his head that the young squire, as the folks around
styled Matthew, was at the bottom of the riot and indeed secretly its
ringleader.
A month or two passed away, and spring came. One day the elder
Fairburn, on his return from London in his collier, made a great
announcement.
"I've got you a grand place, my lad," he said. "It is in the office of
Mr. Allan, one of the finest shipping-merchants in London. 'Tis a very
great favour, and will be the making of you, if you prove to be the
lad I take you to be. You are now fifteen, and it is time you went
from home to try your fortune; in fact, you'll be all the better away
from here--for certain reasons I need not go into. You are a lucky
lad, George,--I wish I had had half your chance when I was in my
teens."
The son knew very well from his father's tone and manner that it was
useless to argue the matter with him. To London he would have to go,
and he prepared to face the unwelcome prospect like a man.
Yet, to add to his chagrin and disappointment, there came to him just
at that time the news that young Blackett was proposing to enter the
army as soon as he was old enough. The Squire was anxious that his son
should have a commission, and as he was wealthy, and his party was now
decidedly winning in the political race, there would not only be no
difficulties in Matthew's way, but a fine prospect of advancement for
the youth.
"Who would have thought that that lanky weakling would choose a
soldier's trade!" George Fairburn said to himself. "I had quite
expected him to go to Oxford and become either a barrister or a
bishop. He's a lucky fellow! And I--I am--well, never mind; it's silly
to go on in this way. I don't like Blackett, but I am bound to confess
he's got good fighting stuff in him."
When William III was on his deathbed he is reported to have said, "I
see another scene, and could wish to live a little longer." His keen
political foresight was soon confirmed. It was in March, 1702, he
died; in the May of the same year war was proclaimed, the combination
of powers known as the Grand Alliance on the one side, Louis XIV, the
Grand Monarque, on the other. The nations belonging to the Grand
Alliance were at first England, Holland, and the Empire; at later
dates Sweden, Denmark, and most of the States of Germany came in, a
strong league. But it was needed. Louis was the most powerful
sovereign in Europe, and France the richest nation. To its resources
were added those of Spain and her dependencies; for the most part, at
any rate, for there were portions even of Spain which would have
preferred the Archduke Charles to Philip of France, and it was the
cause of Charles that England and the other members of the Alliance
were espousing. Thus began the war known in history as the War of the
Spanish Succession, which for several years gave work to some of the
most remarkable generals in European story.
Of these great soldiers, John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough, or
rather, as he was at the outbreak of the war, the Earl of Marlborough,
was at once the most gifted with military genius and the most
successful. He was now fifty-two years of age, and one of the leading
men at the Court of Queen Anne. He had seen a fair amount of military
service, and had earned the praise of William III, a judge of the
first order in such matters. But the England of that day could not be
blamed if it failed to foresee the brilliancy of fame with which its
general would ere long surround himself.
[Illustration: Map Of Western Europe In The Time Of Queen Anne. The
shading represents the dominions of Louis XIV.]
He was known as a brave and an able officer, not much more, except
that he was known also to be a great miser. His wife, Sarah Jennings,
now the Countess of Marlborough, was in high favour with the new
Queen; indeed, she was at that time the most influential subject in
the kingdom.
To Marlborough, then, was given the command of the combined English
and Dutch forces.
It needs no telling that the declaration of war, a war in which the
greater part of Europe would most likely be involved, caused no small
consternation among those whose business was with the sea and with
shipping. Fairburn's business necessitated that his single brig should
be constantly running to and from London, and it was early rumoured
that French cruisers and privateers were prowling about the North Sea
and the Channel. A schooner of considerable size, belonging to Squire
Blackett, had, indeed, been chased, off the Norfolk coast, and had
escaped only by the fact that it was lightly laden--it was returning
in ballast to the Tyne--and by its superior sailing qualities. Such
things brought home to every collier the realities of the situation.
George's mother grew alarmed.
"Who knows," said the good woman, "whether the same Frenchman may not
still be on the watch, and seize the _Ouseburn Lassie_ and her cargo;
and, worse than all, my dear boy on board of her?"
Her husband was not without his fears either, but George laughed at
the notion of capture by a French vessel.
"I'll go and have a talk with old Abbott, the skipper," he said, "and
see what he thinks about it."
"Well, George, my lad," the old salt said when the boy questioned him
on the point, "it's like this. It's not impossible we may get a
Frenchy down on us. But we shan't strike our colours if there's the
least chance of doing anything by a bit of fighting. The master's a
man of peace, but between you and me"--the old fellow sank his voice
to a whisper--"I've got stowed away, unbeknown to him, four tidy
little guns; real beauties they are, if small. You shall help me to
use 'em on the Mounseers, if they won't leave us alone."
To a lad of George Fairburn's stamp such a prospect was glorious.
"I'm quite ready to go, mother," he announced, "on the brig's very next
trip." Mother and father made no reply, but the former turned away to
hide her tears. The lad must go and begin his new life. For a few days
all was bustle and preparation, George in the seventh heaven of
delight. The long voyage in a grimy and uncomfortable collier had no
terrors for him; he was too much accustomed to coal dust for that. And
was there not a chance that before the Thames was reached he might see
a brush with a Frenchman?
The last evening at home for him came, and he took a stroll to get a
final look at the familiar surroundings. It was now the very heart of
summer, the weather glorious: could any boy be sad at such a time,
even though there was before him the parting from home, from an
indulgent and much-loved mother, from a just and honourable as well as
affectionate father? George whistled and sang as he wandered across
the fields, careless whither his footsteps led him.
As fate would have it, he was proceeding generally in the direction of
Mr. Blackett's great house, Binfield Towers, a mansion almost entirely
hidden by thick woods from the public gaze. George knew these woods
well, with their acres of bluebells and their breadths of primroses in
the Spring, and their wealth of dogroses in June. He turned into the
footpath that crossed the plantations, and presently found himself
gazing at the mansion a hundred yards away. The place was almost new,
the style that was known in later days as Queen Anne's. But George
knew nothing of architectural styles, and was idly counting the
multitude of windows when he was startled by a cracked old voice
calling to him from the other side of the fence that separated the
wood from the grassplots in front of the house.
"For God's sake, come along and help, my good lad," cried an old man
in livery, beckoning him frantically.
"What's the matter?" George asked quickly.
"The house is on fire," was the reply, "and there's nobody at home but
the women folk, except old Reuben, and he's just about as much use as
me, and that's none at all, I reckon."
"Where's Mr. Blackett?" the lad asked as he cleared the fence at a
bound, and stood by the old man's side on the lawn.
"Gone off to a party, and young Master Matthew with him. Run and do
what you can, for Heaven's sake, and I'll follow."
George bounded across the grass like a hare, and bolted into the house
without ceremony, for he now perceived smoke issuing from several of
the front windows. In the hall he found old Reuben, the aged butler,
whom Mr. Blackett still provided with a home, doing what he could to
stay the progress of the flames, by throwing upon the burning
staircase little pailfuls of water brought by the maid servants. But,
in truth most of the women were screaming, and those who were not were
fainting.
"I'm almost moidered with it all," the old fellow cried helplessly, to
which the superannuated gardener, who now came wheezing in, added,
"Aye, we're both on us moidered."
George glanced at the futile old couple, then cast his eye upwards, to
the various stretches of the grand staircase which could be seen from
the well below. Almost every length of the banisters was blazing, and
the cracked and broken skylight above caused a fierce upward draught.
"It's at the top the water should be poured down," George cried,
taking in the situation in an instant. "I'll see if I can get up." And
in spite of the shouts of the old fellows, and the redoubled shrieks
of the maids, the lad skipped up two or three of the flights that
zigzagged up the staircase well.
At the second floor, however, he was almost overwhelmed by a great
mass of smoke mingled with flame that shot suddenly out of the long
corridor running right and left. Blinded, choked, scorched, George
staggered back, tripped, and with a clatter fell down the six or eight
steps he had mounted of that flight, and lay for a moment on the broad
carpeted landing half-dazed. But speedily recovering himself, he
perceived that the portion of the stairs from which he had just fallen
was now blazing fiercely.
"It is useless!" he cried to himself, as he turned to descend to the
servants below.
Then, before he had made two steps agonizing shrieks rang out from
somewhere above, and he stopped dead, almost appalled.
"Miss Mary and Mrs. Maynard!" he heard the old men shout from below,
and the cries of the women servants grew frantic, as the little band
gazed terror-stricken upwards. George, too, cast his eyes aloft, and
there, to his utter dismay, were dimly seen through the smoke a couple
of female forms peeping from the topmost corridor.
He knew well enough by sight Mr. Blackett's little daughter of eleven
and her governess, a stately old lady, said to be an impoverished
relative of the Squire himself. The little pony chaise in which the
two were wont to drive about the neighbourhood was, indeed, familiar
to every soul in the district.
"We had forgotten them, we had forgotten them!" came a voice just
below him, and there stood old Reuben, who had pulled himself up the
steps a little way. "They are lost!" the aged servant moaned. "Oh
dear, oh dear!" And the poor old fellow blundered down the steps
again, weeping like a child.
"Is there any other staircase up to the top of the house?" the boy
called after him.
"Only that in the servants' wing," was the reply, "and that is gone
already. God help us all!"
"Any long ladders about? And the stablemen, where are they all?"
"Coachman with the Squire, the grooms gone off to the town for an hour
or two." Reuben shook his head sorrowfully.
George waited no longer. With a bound he darted up the stairs again,
and in a moment had reached the spot where the fire was fiercest.
Without hesitation he dashed on, watching his chance after a big gust
of smoke and flame had surged across the well. Through the fire he
rushed, protecting his face with his arms, and stumbling blindly on.
The worst was soon passed, and the next instant he had gained the top
of the staircase.
"Save her--_her_!" Mrs. Maynard cried piteously, "leave _me_, and see
to _her_, for mercy's sake!"
George caught the girl in his arms and prepared to make a dash down
the staircase. But he drew back in dismay. A big piece of the burning
banister below them fell with a crash and a shower of sparks to the
bottom of the well.
"It is impossible!" he cried. "Let us see what can be done from one of
the windows." And the three ran to the end of the corridor farthest
away from the fire. Into a room George dashed, and threw up the
window. It was Mary's playroom, and it was in this place that she and
her governess had been till now too much frightened by the flames and
smoke to make a dash for safety.
Alas! there was no way of escape. The height from the ground was too
great; to leap meant certain death. George gazed frantically down and
around, to see if any help was arriving. Not a soul was to be seen.
Smoke was pouring from almost every window. The ladies were speechless
with alarm when they saw the look of despair on the boy's face.
"Don't leave us!" Mary pleaded piteously.
"No, no!" cried George. "We'll find a way yet." But cheerfully as he
spoke, in his heart he almost despaired.
It was but a few seconds the three had been in the playroom, but when
they looked out into the corridor again, to their horror they found it
blazing, the flames leaping towards them with astonishing bounds,
carried along by the evening breeze that had sprung up. The sight
seemed to drive Mrs. Maynard demented. With a shriek she darted away,
sped along the burning passage, and before the boy and girl could
realize the situation, she had dashed down the blazing staircase. The
sound of a crash and a fearful scream reached their ears, telling
their own tale. The girl clung to George, her head sank, and she
fainted.
Desperate now, the lad placed her on the floor, and, thrusting his
head from the window, perceived that he could clamber up the two or
three feet of rain spout that ran close by, and gain a position on the
roof just overhead. If he could gain that, he thought he might run to
a further wing of the building that seemed at present untouched by the
fire. But the girl, what of her? He cast his eyes about and descried
two or three skipping ropes in a corner. Hastily he tied them end to
end, fastened a portion round Mary's waist, his movements hastened by
the burst of flame that just then shot into the room. Then clambering
desperately to the roof, the rope in his teeth, he got a footing on
the parapet, and began to haul up the fainting girl.
Hand over hand he hauled up the cord and its burden. The child was
dangling between earth and sky when suddenly a great shout came from
below. George glanced down, and there, running with up-turned
horror-stricken face, was Matthew Blackett. Help at last! But had it
come too late?