On the night of Thursday, 25th April, 1886, the cry rang through Union
Street, Borough, that the shop of Chandler, the oilman, was in flames.
So rapid was the progress of the fire that, by the time the escapes
reached the house, tongues of flame were shooting out from the
windows, and it was impossible to place the ladders in position. The
gunpowder had exploded with great violence, and casks of oil were
burning with an indescribable fury.
As the people rushed together to the exciting scene they were
horrified to find at one of the upper windows a girl, clad only in her
night-dress, bearing in her arms a child, and crying for help.
It was Alice Ayres, who, finding there was no way of escape by the
staircase, was seeking for some means of preserving the lives of the
children in her charge. The frantic crowd gathered below shouted for
her to save herself; but that was not her first aim. Darting back into
the blinding smoke, she fetched a feather-bed and forced it through
the window. This the crowd held whilst she carefully threw down to
them one of the children, which alighted safe on the bed.
Again the people in the street called on her to save her own life; but
her only answer was to go back into the fierce flames and stifling
smoke, and bring out another child, which was safely transferred to
the crowd below.
Once again they frantically entreated her to jump down herself; and
once again she staggered back blinded and choking into the fiery
furnace; and for the third time emerged, bearing the last of her
charges, whose life also was saved.
Then, at length, she was free to think of herself. But, alas! her head
was dizzy and confused, and she was no longer able to act as surely as
she had hitherto done. She jumped--but, to the horror of that anxious
admiring throng below, her body struck against the projecting
shop-sign, and rebounded, falling with terrific force on to the hard
pavement below.
Her spine was so badly injured that although everything possible was
done for her at Guy's Hospital, whither she was removed, she died on
the following Sunday.
Beautiful windows have been erected at Red Cross Hall, Southwark, to
commemorate her heroism; but the best memorial is her own expression:
"I tried to do my best"--for this will live in the hearts of all who
read of her self-devotion. She had tried to do her best _always_. Her
loving tenderness to the children committed to her care and her pure
gentle life were remarked by those around her before there was any
thought of her dying a heroic death. So, when the great trial came,
she was prepared; and what seems to us Divine unselfishness appeared
to her but simple duty.