THE FATE OF PORTSMOUTH DOCKYARD
On the night of Bank Holiday, Londoners did not lack illumination. Gas
and electric light had failed, but north and south, and east and west,
the lurid glare of burning buildings filled the sky. Cries of “Fire!
Fire!” in every quarter of the town brought pale, affrighted people
from their houses to the roadways or the roofs. This added terror of
wholesale arson stupefied the luckless householders. The fires--some
said there were forty, fifty, sixty--had free play, for the extreme
section of the Leaguers--now known as Raggett’s Men--by concerted
action, after dark, had rushed nearly all the stations of the Fire
Brigade and forcibly removed the horses. The most destructive of these
fires occurred in Bartholomew Close, where closely packed warehouses
in yards and tortuous streets gave free scope to the spreading flames.
At one time it was feared that the great hospital itself would be
involved, and the troops were ordered out to aid the civil power and
keep some order among the excited crowds.
Brave deeds were done that night; rescues effected in the face of
almost certain death; buildings pulled down and cut away to check
the spreading of the conflagration. But without means of utilising
the water supply, what had once been seized by fire burnt out to its
cindered end. Strong military guards were ordered by the general
commanding the Home District to the railway stations. Euston, St
Pancras, and King’s Cross remained intact. Paddington escaped with some
damage to the goods department. Both the hotels and stations at Charing
Cross and Cannon Street burst into flames almost simultaneously. The
royal palaces suffered no injury. Incendiaries were caught red-handed,
just in time, at the British Museum, and the better sort of people, now
roused to retaliatory fury by these malignant acts, almost tore the
offenders limb from limb.
London in its desperation found some courage. The quiet, orderly
inhabitants had borne almost as much as could be borne. They realised,
moreover, that yet worse things might happen unless the hydra-headed
monster of disorder could be crushed. London might starve. Meat,
milk, vegetables would fail; all the necessaries of daily life might
be cut off, if the railways should be blocked. Six millions, young and
old, would be the almost helpless victims of the Leaguers. Those who
had gone about the streets wearing the Spider as a talisman suddenly
found that it was a dangerous sign. Right and left were heard loud
curses on the League. Men began to see the full significance of the
long-tolerated movement--a growing canker at the heart of the nation,
which gave the nation’s enemies without the very opportunity they had
planned and watched and waited for. There was still some tough material
in Englishmen; and if the authorities could not help them, they would
help themselves. The tide began to turn. The giant was stirring. It had
needed a galvanic shock to rouse his brain; and verily, the shock had
come at last. It was, indeed, time to wake from sleep, and throw aside
“the drowsy syrups of the world.”
In that fiery, sleepless night, in many districts great numbers of the
younger men of the better class banded themselves together, beating
up recruits from house to house, and posting watchers to give warning
of incendiary attempts. Armed with whatever weapons they could find,
they systematically patrolled the streets. Shouts of “Down with the
Leaguers!” burst out from time to time, and women and children, peeping
and cowering behind the window-blinds, gathered hope and courage. At
last the men of London had been roused!
But the flames were still licking and curling round many a house
and public building. All night the wind was rising to a gale; the
cloud wrack flew across the reddened sky. As the tardy hour of dawn
drew near, strange pallid people with fantastic gestures--hatless,
oddly-clad--came wandering through the streets. Raggett had freed his
friends. The Leaguers had let loose hundreds of the lunatics of London!
Seventy miles away a yet more deadly wound was being inflicted on the
British nation. About five o’clock on the morning of Christmas Day
two terrific explosions in quick succession roused the inhabitants
of the little Hampshire town of Havant and the surrounding villages.
Great numbers of Portsmouth people also heard it, but, of course, more
faintly. When, later on, it became known that a fire had broken out in
the Royal dockyard it was assumed by many that the sounds of explosion
must have come from the same quarter. Every thought was concentrated on
this appalling catastrophe, the full extent of which was only to be
gradually realised. But, all the time, the great naval yard, Britain’s
pride and strong tower against the enemy, was fast becoming one
gigantic furnace. The grip of all-devouring fire grew deadlier every
hour. This many-acred hive of naval industry, the factory of the wooden
walls of England, dating from King John, and now the birthplace and the
nursery of the armoured giants of the deep, was crumbling into dust and
ashes. The docked ships, ships’ stores, and armament, that stood for
millions of the nation’s money, needed for national defence, roared
into flame and blackened into cinders.
The seven thousand dockyard men of course were keeping holiday. Many
of the high officials were away on leave, and those few guardians of
the yard who were supposed to be keeping watch and ward regarded their
duty as perfunctory. What was likely to happen there, or anywhere,
on Christmas Day? Perhaps some of those intelligent foreigners who
had been permitted to inspect the yard from time to time--intelligent
emulators of Jack the Painter--could have answered the question.
By-and-by, of course there would be a most strict and searching
Government inquiry--expert evidence, red tape, blue-books, and all the
rest of it. Meanwhile, the great fire burned on--freely and furiously.
Soon after the alarm was given the seamen from the Whale Island
Barracks, and many from the ships in harbour, with a strong force of
marines from Forton, came pouring into the dockyard, but only to make a
terrible discovery. Of what avail a thousand willing hands--of what use
all the activity and resource of British seamen, when the one element
with which the fire could be fought and conquered was not available?
The water supply had failed! At first, and, indeed, for some time,
the real reason was not understood, for the pumping station of the
Havant water-works was eight miles away. Then the appalling truth was
realised--the explosions explained; the great engines, those in use and
those in reserve, had been shattered by dynamite in the darkness of the
previous night. The Royal dockyard was left to the mercy of the flames.
All day, and all the night that followed, they raged and roared. Red
ruin and destruction--almost without restraint--spread on every side.
The Portsmouth Hard was packed with horrified spectators. The
townspeople in excited throngs ran to all the dockyard gates, and in
the poorer districts surrounding the great wall enclosing the extension
works, every roof was loaded with awe-stricken watchers of the
conflagration.
The church steeples of the town stood out to view in blended clouds
and smoke, illumined with a fiery glow; the gilded ship on the tower
of Portsmouth parish church seemed to be sailing in a sea of fire.
Disaster followed on the heels of horror. In the midst of the great
calamity a rending explosion took place in the vast powder magazine at
Priddy’s Hard,--on the Gosport side.
The harbour was now so unsafe for shipping that orders were given to
remove all ships as far as possible. Among the large vessels alongside
the dockyard jetty was the _Carisbrooke Castle_, a South-African
liner which had lately been chartered by the Admiralty to serve as an
auxiliary scout with a Flying Squadron then lying at Spithead. The
_Carisbrooke_ had been brought round from Southampton and was taking in
a quantity of stores; but the danger of her position made it advisable
to get her clear of the harbour without delay. Just when she was
abreast of Blockhouse Fort an explosion--accidental or designed, none
knew--occurred on board. The great ship, viewed by the flashlight from
the fort, was seen to heel over. In half an hour she had settled down,
blocking the fairway, and effectually bottling the harbour against all
craft of heavy tonnage.
On the Gosport side the shore was lined with lookers on. From this
side, indeed, looking across the water, the sight was exceptionally
striking, for the far-spread glow lit up the towering masts and rigging
of the _Victory_ and all the ships in port.
From the tower of the old Norman castle at Portchester, away beyond
the mudbanks of the harbour, and on the crumbling walls that flanked
its water-gate, the villagers gazed spellbound at the awesome sight.
Farther away, on the long ridge of Portsdown Hill, the rural population
of the district had a yet more impressive view of what was happening.
To them it seemed as if the whole town of Portsmouth must be wrapped in
flames.
Here, on the chalk down, stood a solitary pillar, erected long years
ago to the memory of Nelson. Grey, moss-grown, and mournful, it looked
down on scenes with which the great sea-captain once had been so
familiar.--Southsea Common, where a “blackguard horse” ran away with
him; the Sally Port, where his sailors always were coming or going; the
old nooks and alleys of “Point,” where the press-gang did its work;
the old George Inn, in which he breakfasted on the morning of his
last embarkation; the spot on the beach, marked by the anchor of the
_Victory_, where the people grasped his hand and, weeping, bade him a
final Godspeed; and there, in the light of the burning dockyard, rode
the brave old ship in which he died for England.
More than a hundred years had passed away, and now the Royal dockyard,
that had equipped so many fleets for the greatest of Britannia’s
admirals, lay engulfed and wrecked in a tremendous, rolling sea of
flame and smoke.
Portsmouth, for all purposes of naval warfare, was out of action.