though he was not in it or near it. This was the burning of the Union
Square Theatre, New York, on the 28th February 1888. This theatre backed
on to the side of the Star Theatre where we were playing. The Morton
House beside it, at the corner of Broadway and Union Square, caught
fire. The theatre was quite burned out. When I saw it, which was quite
by chance, it was well alight. There was a great crowd held back by the
cordon of police. I managed to pass the guard, as I was concerned in the
Star Theatre, and inside saw the Fire Chief of that section—the
Thirteenth Street. He and I had become great friends in the process of
years. The American firemen are born to their work and they are all
splendid fellows. If they like you they drop the “Mr.” at once; and when
they call you by your Christian name that is, in their own way, the
highest honour they can pay you. I was “Bram” to Chief Bresnin and his
men. He said to me:
“Would you like to come into the theatre? It may be of use to you some
day to know what a theatre is like inside when it is burning!” I
acquiesced eagerly, and we hurried to the stage entrance. A policeman
stood there, and when I went to pass in barred the way. The Fire Chief
was surprised. “He is with me!” he said. The other answered gruffly:
“You can go in, of course; but I won’t let him! It’s murder to let him
go in there!” The chief was speechless with indignation. From his point
of view it was a gross affront to question any direction of his. By New
York rules the Fire Chief takes absolute command, and the police have to
obey his orders. Bresnin threw back the lappel of his uniform coat and
showed his badge as Fire Chief.
“Do you see that?” he asked. The other answered surlily:
“I see it!”
“Then if you say one word—even to apologise for your insolence—I shall
have you broke! Stand back! Come on, Bram!”
I wanted to go on. But even if I had wished to hang back, I could not do
so then. In we went.
The place was a veritable hell. It seemed to be alight in every part;
the roaring of the flames was terrific. The streams of water from some
twenty fire-engines seemed to be having no effect at all, they did not
make even steam, but seemed to simply dry up. The heat was of course
very great, but as the draught was coming behind us we did not feel it
much. It seemed to be all overhead. I was made aware of it by my silk
hat collapsing over my eyes, like a big tam-o’-shanter. The whole place
seemed moving and tumbling about; great beams were falling, and
brickwork rattled down like gigantic hail. We stood on the stage. Here
my own special knowledge of the safest place supplemented the fireman’s
general experience. It was by no means safe. Within a minute a huge
beam, all ablaze, came thundering down not far from us and drove end on
right through the stage, like a bullet through a sheet of paper. We kept
an eye on the door close to us, and when things got perilous we came
away.
I went back to the Brunswick Hotel where Irving and I were both staying.
I sent for his man, Walter, to tell him if the “Governor” had been
alarmed he had better go into his room where he was having his regular
afternoon nap and tell him that as yet the Star Theatre was all right,
and would probably escape as the ruins of the other theatre were falling
and the firemen would be able to deal with them. I had just come from
it. He answered me:
“It’s all right, sir! The Governor knows about the fire. Some one here
went up and woke him and told him that the Star was on fire! So he sent
for me.”
“What did he say?” I asked. He grinned as he replied:
“He said: ‘Is Fussy safe, Walter?’ So when I told him the dog had been
with me all the time, he said ‘All right!’ and went to sleep again!”
III
FLOODS
_a_
On Saturday night, 1st February 1896, we played in New Orleans, and as
we were to play in Memphis on Monday, arranged that our “special” should
leave as soon as possible after the play. We had all ready for a quick
start, and so far as our part was concerned had loaded up and were ready
to start at the time fixed, one o’clock. We did not start, however;
something was wrong on the line. It was two o’clock when we heard that
we should have to go by a different route, the Valley section, as there
had been a “wash-out” on the course destined for us. In New Orleans the
heat had been intense, almost unendurable, and higher up the Mississippi
valley there had been terrific rain-storms. It was three o’clock before
we started. All went well till the forenoon of next day when we came to
a creek called Bayou Pierre. This was a wide valley seemingly miles
across—it was really between one and two miles. Here the line was
carried on a long trestle-bridge. But the flood was out and the whole
great valley was a turgid river whose yellow, muddy water rushing past
swirled in places like little whirlpools. It had risen some four feet
over the top of the bridge, so that no one could say whether the track
remained or had been swept away. There was a short and hurried
conference between our train master and the local engineer and they
determined to “take the chances.” And so we started.
It was necessary to go very slowly, for in that alluvial soil the
running water weakens any support; the motion and vibration of a heavy
train might shake down the structure. Moreover, the water level was
almost up to the level of the floor of the carriages. Any wave, however
little, might drown out the fires. It was a most remarkable journey; the
whole broad surface of the stream was starred with wreckage of all
sorts: hayricks, logs, fences, trees with parts of the roots sticking up
in the air; now and again, the roof of a barn or wooden shanty of some
kind. Several times the floating masses carried snakes!
Our own little group took the experience calmly. Indeed we enjoyed its
novelty. Of course things might have turned out very badly. It was on
the cards that any moment we might find that the bridge had been swept
away—there could be no possible indication to warn us; or the passage of
our long train might cause a collapse. In either case our engine would
dive head foremost, and the shock of its blowing up would throw the rest
of the train into the flooded bayou. Irving sat quietly smoking all the
time and looking out of the windows on either side as some interesting
matter “swam into his ken.”
In the other cars the same calm did not reign. There were a good many of
the company who were quite filled with fear. So fearful were they that,
as I was told later, they got reckless and in their panic _confessed
their sins_. I never heard the details of these confessions, and I did
not want to. But from the light manner in which they were held by the
more sturdy members I take it that either the calendar of their sins was
of attenuated or mean proportions; or else that the expression of them
was curtailed by a proper sense of prudence or decorum. Anyhow, we never
heard of any serious breach or unhappiness resulting from them.
We crossed Bayou Pierre at last in safety, and kept on our way. Ours by
the way was the last train that crossed the bayou till the flood was
over. We heard next day that one section of the bridge close to the bank
had gone down ten minutes after we had crossed. It had been an anxious
time for the officials of the line. We could see them from both banks
perpetually signalling to our driver, who was signalling in reply. It
made the wide waste of water seem wider and more dangerous still. The
only really bad result to us was that we arrived in Memphis too late to
get anything to eat.
In those days the rules governing hours in the South-Western Hotels were
very fixed, especially on Sundays. Up to nine o’clock you could get what
you wanted. But after nine the kitchen was closed and money would not
induce them to open it. Irving and Ellen Terry had of course ordered
each their own dinner, and these, cold, waited them in their rooms; but
the rest of us were hungry and wanted food of some kind. So I tried
strategy with the “boy” who attended me, a huge, burly nigger with a
good-humoured face and a twelve-inch smile. I said:
“What is your name?”
“George, sah! George Washington.”
“George!” I said, as I handed him half a dollar—“George, you are an
uncommonly good-looking fellow!”
“Yah! Yah! Yah!” pealed George’s homeric laughter. Then he said:
“What can I do for you, sah!”
“George, your cook is a very stout lady, is she not?”
“Yes, sah, almighty stout, wide as a barrel. Yah! Yah! Yah!”
“Exactly, George. Now I want you to go right up to her, put your arms
around her—tight, and give her a kiss—a big one!”
“’Fore Gad, sah, if I did, she’d open my head wid de cleaver!”
“Not so, George! Not with a good-looking fellow like you.”
“An’ what then, sah?”
“Then, George, you tell her that there is a stranger here who is
perishing for some food. He is sorry to disturb so pretty a woman, who
he is told is the belle of Memphis; but _necessitas non habet leges_.
Explain that to her, won’t you, like a good fellow? Make me out tall and
thin and aristocratic-looking, with a white thin face and a hectic spot
on each cheek-bone, a black, melting and yearning eye, and a large black
moustache—don’t forget the moustache. Ask her if she will of her
gracious kindness break the iron rule of discipline that governs the
house, and send me some food, _anything_ that is least troublesome. A
slice of cold meat, some bread and a pitcher of milk, and if she has any
cold vegetables of any sort, and the cruet, I can make a salad!”
George laughed wildly and hurried out. I could hear his cachinnation
dying away down the long passage. Presently I heard it swelling up again
as he drew near. The heavy footfall drew closer, and the door was kicked
in after the manner of negro waiters—in hotels there is an iron or brass
plate at the base of the dining-room door for the purpose. George
Washington bore an enormous tray, resting on an open palm spread back
over his shoulder. When he laid it down its weight made the table shake.
That episode was worth a whole silver dollar to George. It was divided,
I presume, with the adipose cook; for there was no external appearance
of his head having been “opened wid de cleaver.” For the remaining days
of our stay he followed me when opportunity served like a shadow. A very
substantial shadow; quite a Demogorgon of a shadow!
_b_
We had had a somewhat similar experience of a flood some years before,
though of nothing like so dangerous a nature. This was on 3rd February
1884, on our journey from Cincinnati to Columbus. The thaw had come on
suddenly on the southern watershed of the northern hills when the ground
through a long rigorous winter was frozen to a depth of several feet. Of
course, the water, unable to sink into the ground, ran into the streams,
and the Ohio River was flooded. As we left we could see that it was up
to the top of the levée. Later on it rose some _forty feet_ higher. It
was a record flood. We went by the Panhandle route of the Pennsylvania
Railway. As we went, whole tracts of country were flooded; in places we
ran where the roads were under water, and a mighty splash our engine
sent ahead of her. We went very fast, “rushing” all the bridges,
especially the small ones of which there were many. In a stopping time I
had a chat with the driver—one whom the depôt-master of Cincinnati had
told me he had put on specially because he was a bold driver who did not
mind taking a risk. I asked him why he went so fast over the bridges, as
I had heard it was much safer to go slow.
“Not in a flood like this!” he answered. “You see, the water has been
out some time and the brickwork is all sapped and sodden with wet.
Mayhap we may shake a bridge down now and then, but I like them to fall
_behind_ me, and not whilst we’re crossing. The depôt-master told me I
was to get you folks in; and, by the Almighty, I mean to do it if I
shake down all the bridges in the Panhandle. Anyhow, this is the last
train that will run over the section till the floods are over.”
IV
TRAIN ACCIDENTS
_a_
At a rough computation the railroad journeys of Irving’s tours ran over
fifty thousand miles—more than twice round the Equator. The journeys
were nearly always taken in special trains running at all sorts of
hours, and almost invariably in the bad seasons of the year. It is not
to be wondered at, therefore, that we had a certain percentage of
accidents. That some of these accidents did not entail loss of life is
the source of wonder. Several times we have had the train on fire; once
so badly that the danger was very great. It was only by the chance of it
being discovered just as we were coming into a station that the whole
train was not lost. As it was, the Insurance Company had to liquidate
damages to our goods to the extent of £500.
Three times the bolt-head of the engine has been blown out, once
entailing a delay of six hours, until not only another engine but
another driver who knew the road as well as the engine, could be found.
_b_
Once in February 1900 when on our way from Indianapolis to Louisville
some accident or explosion took place which seemed to shatter the whole
engine into scrap-iron. But no one was hurt.
_c_
On 17th January 1904 we went from Pittsburg to Buffalo. The cold was
intense. There were ten feet of snow lying on the hills, and down the
serpentine valley our driving-wheel got “frosted” and flew to pieces.
Fortunately we were on a stretch of level ground. Down the valley are
here and there the remains of train wrecks on the bank of the river. Our
engine was a very powerful one, a great Pennsylvania fast hauler; the
great wheel was so thick that I could not lift a seemingly small
fragment of it from the ground.
_d_
The very next week, Sunday, 24th January, when going from Albany to
Montreal, we met with another accident. I had been most careful about a
good engine, and the agent of the New York Central had given us the
spare engine used in case of need for the New York and Chicago “Flyer.”
The cold was again intense and the snow thicker than ever. Up high
amongst the Adirondack Mountains, where the wind roared over hill and
through valley, the snowdrifts piled up in places to great heights. That
was an exceptionally severe winter and railroading was hard. We climbed
all right to the top of a pass amongst the hills and were going along
steadily when there was a sharp explosion. Then in a few seconds the
train drew up with a jerk. Our saloon was at the end of the train, so it
took me some little time to reach the engine, as I had gone outside
instead of passing through the train. The road just there was running on
an embankment, and the snow-plough had swept the track, only leaving the
snow piled at the sides so that to pass the carriages was difficult
leg-deep in the snow. On the sloping embankment the snow lay many feet
deep; and as the whole place was intersected with storm rivulets there
were great holes like caverns in the snowdrift. The other men had also
tumbled out of their carriages in much concern. We came across the train
crew working in frantic haste. They told us that both the driver and the
fireman were missing, and they feared that they had been blown off into
one of the watercourse cavities. In such case either or both might die
before we could find them, for these cavities were secret—they were
honeycombed out beneath the blanket of snow. Very shortly we found the
fireman. He had been on the outside of the engine when the explosion had
occurred and was blown into the snowdrift head down. He was nearly
choked when he was taken out.
But there was no sign of the driver, and the search went on. Immediately
after the accident the brakesman had run back on the track to flag
“Danger” lest any other train should come down upon us. This is the
imperative rule in such cases. When he had done this duty he was to run
along the track to the last station we had passed about a mile back, and
bring help.
I was back on the line about a quarter of a mile when an engine piled
with men came up at a furious pace. As it drew near the men began to
call.
“Has he been found?” I shook my head.
Close to our train they stopped and the men leaping from the engine
spread themselves along the slopes of the embankment beginning a
systematic search. Presently one of the crew of our train came along
leaping through the deep snow calling out that the driver was found and
was on the engine. We rushed back and found him there smearing his
burns, which were pretty bad, with oil. The explosion had set his
clothes on fire, but he had not lost his head. He had waited to turn the
steam off, and then had taken a header into the deep snow wherein he had
rolled himself till he had put the fire out. When he had managed to
crawl out of his burrow the others of the crew, seeing the engine empty,
had gone back to make search for him. He, not knowing that he was
missed, had climbed quietly back into his cab.
When Irving heard of the man’s gallantry in stopping whilst all on fire
to turn off steam before thinking of himself he said it was a thing that
should be rewarded in a marked way. He was quite willing to give the
reward himself, but he thought that the company would like to, and ought
to, join in it. So we got up a subscription which he headed. We handed
to the injured men a little purse of sixty-one dollars. They declared
that they would like to take their injuries over again any time for half
the money or a quarter of the kindness.
_e_
The occasions when we were delayed by minor accidents to the train—hot
boxes, breaking steam-pipes, freezing steam-brakes, snows-up,
washes-out, broken bridges—were never ending. Many of them were not
matters for much concern, but they were all causes of delay; and in
touring, delay is often disastrous.
V
STORMS AT SEA
_a_
Irving was across the Atlantic eighteen times, of which one, in 1886,
was for a summer holiday trip. Of course there were many times when
there was bad weather; but on one crossing in 1899 we encountered a
terrific storm. The waves were greater by far than any I had ever seen,
even when I crossed in the _Germanic_ in the February of the same year
during the week of the worst weather ever recorded. On this occasion we
were on board the Atlantic transport ss. _Marquette_. The weather had
been nice for three days from our leaving London. But in the afternoon
of the fourth day, 18th October, we ran into the track of a hurricane.
As we went on, the seas got bigger and bigger till at last they were
mountainous. When we were down in the trough the waves seemed to stand
up higher than our masts. The wind was blowing furiously, something like
a hundred miles an hour, but there was no rain. The moon came out early,
a splendid bright moon still in its second quarter, so that when night
fell the scene was sublimely grand. We forged on as long as we could,
but the screw raced so furiously as the waves swept past us that we had
perforce to lie by for six hours; it was not safe to go on as we might
lose our screw-head. The tossing in that frightful sea was awful. Most
of those on board were dreadfully frightened. Irving came out for a
while and stood on the bridge holding on like grim death, for the
shaking was like an earthquake. He seemed to really enjoy it. He stayed
as long as he could and only went in when he began to feel the chill.
Ellen Terry came out with me and was so enraptured with the scene that
she stayed there for hours. I had to hold her against the rail, for at
times we rolled so that our feet shot off the deck. I showed her how to
look into the wind without feeling it: to hold the eyes just above the
bulwark—or the “dodger” if you are on the bridge—and a few inches away
from it. The wind strikes below you and makes a clear section of a
circle right over and round your head, you remaining in the calm. To
test the force of the wind I asked her to put out her hand, palm out so
as to make a fair resistance; but she could not hold it for an instant.
Neither could I; my hand was driven back as though struck with a hammer.
In the companion-way of the _Marquette_ several trunks too large for the
adjacent cabin had been placed. They had been carefully lashed to the
hand-rail, but in that wild sea they strained at their lashings rising
right off the ground the way a chained dog does when he raises himself
on his hind legs. One of the trunks belonging to Irving, a great leather
one, full of books and papers, was lashed by its own straps. In the
companion-way had gathered nearly all the passengers, huddled together
for comfort—especially the women, who were mostly in a panic. In such
cases the only real comfort a poor woman can have is to hold on to a
man. I happen to be a big one, and therefore of extra desirability in
such cases of stress. I was sitting on a trunk on the other side of the
companion-way from Irving’s trunk, surrounded by as many of the
womenkind as could catch hold of me, when in a roll of extra magnitude
the leather straps gave way and the trunk seemed to hurl itself at us. I
shoved the women away right and left, but missed clearing its course
myself by the fraction of a second. The corner of it caught me on the
calf sideways, fortunately just clearing the bone. Another half-inch and
I should certainly have lost my leg. I was lifted into the music saloon,
which was close at hand, and my trouser leg cut open. We had three
American footballers on board and these at once began to rub and knead
the injured muscle; quite the best thing to do. Then it seemed as if
every soul on board, man, woman, and child, had each a separate bottle
of embrocation or liniment. These were all produced at once—and used.
Before a minute was over the skin of the wounded spot and for inches
around it was completely rubbed off! The pain was excruciating—like an
acre of toothache; but I suppose it did me good. In the morning my foot
was quite black, but by degrees this passed away. I limped for a week or
two and then got all right.
The women had a sore time of it that night. They nearly all refused
absolutely to go to their cabins, and, producing rugs and pillows,
camped in the music saloon which was on deck.
One young man, who spent most of his time leaning on the counter of the
bar, gained instant notoriety by christening the saloon: “_the Geeser’s
Doss-house_!”
_b_
On Saturday, 5th October 1901, we left the Thames for New York on the
Atlantic transport ss. _Minnehaha_. In the river the wind began to blow,
and by the time we rounded the South Foreland a whole gale was on. Our
boat was a large one, so that we on board did not mind; but it was a bad
time for the pilot whom we had to shed at Dover. The row-boat to take
him off had come out to us in the comparative shelter of the Goodwins
and had trailed beside us on the starboard quarter, nearly swamped in
the rough sea. When we slowed down off Dover the sea seemed to get worse
than ever. To look at it in the darkness of the night, each black slope
crested with white as the lighthouse lit up its savage power, one could
not believe that a little boat could live in it. It took the men on
board all their time to keep her baled. A number of us men had gone down
on the afterdeck to see the pilot depart. He was a huge man; tall as he
was, the breadth of his shoulders seemed prodigious. When he descended
the rope ladder and debarked, which was a deed requiring skill and
nerve, he seemed to overweight the little boat, he so towered over the
two men in it. When a few strokes took them out of the shelter of our
good ship, the boat, as she caught the gale, lurched sideways so much
that it looked as though she were heeling over. My own heart was in my
mouth. I heard a sudden loud laugh behind me, and turning round saw one
of the passengers, a stranger to me. I cried out with angry indignation:
“What the devil are you laughing at? Is it to see splendid fellows like
that in danger of their lives? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. The
men could actually hear you!” For a few seconds he continued laughing
wildly; then turning to me said quite heartily:
“Sorry! It’s a shame I know; but I could not help laughing!” Despite
myself and my indignation I could not help smiling.
“What at?” I said again. “There’s nothing to laugh at there?”
“Well, my dear fellow,” he gasped out, “I was laughing just to think
that I’m not a pilot!” And once again his wild laughter pealed out.
VI
FALLING SCENERY
In the great mass of scenery in a theatre and its many appliances, some
of considerable weight, resting overhead there are certain elements of
danger to those on the stage. Things have to be shifted so often and so
hastily that there is always room for accident, no matter what care may
be exercised. For instance, in Abbey’s theatre in New York—afterwards
“The Knickerbocker”—on the first night of Irving’s playing _Macbeth_,
one of the limelight men, who was perched on a high platform behind the
proscenium O.P., fell on the stage together with the heavy gas cylinder
beside him. The play was then over and Irving was making a speech in
front of the curtain. Happily the cylinder did not explode. The man did
not seem at the moment to be much injured, but he died on his way to
hospital. Had any one been waiting underneath in the wing, as is nearly
always the case all through a play, that falling weight must have
brought certain death.