There are few lives, we should think, more trying or more full of
curious adventure and thrilling incident than that of a London fireman.
He must always be on the alert. No hour of the day or night can he ever
count on as being his own, unless on those occasions when he obtains
leave of absence, which I suppose are not frequent. If he does not
absolutely sleep in his clothes, he sleeps beside them--arranged in such
a way that he can jump into them at a moment's notice.
When the summons comes there must be no preliminary yawning; no soft
transition from the land of dreams to the world of reality. He jumps
into his boots which stand invitingly ready, pulls on his trousers,
buttons his braces while descending to the street, and must be
brass-helmeted on the engine and away like a fiery dragon-gone-mad
within three minutes of "the call," or thereabouts, if he is to escape a
fine.
Moreover, the London fireman must be prepared to face death at any
moment. When the call comes he never knows whether he is turning out to
something not much more serious than "a chimney," or to one of those
devastating conflagrations on the river-side in which many thousand
pounds worth of property are swept away, and his life may go along with
them. Far more frequently than the soldier or sailor is he liable to be
ordered on a duty which shall turn out to be a forlorn hope, and not
less pluckily does he obey.
There is no respite for him. The field which the London Brigade covers
is so vast that the liability to be sent into action is continuous--
chiefly, of course, at night. At one moment he may be calmly polishing
up the "brasses" of his engine, or skylarking with his comrades, or
sedately reading a book, or snoozing in bed, and the next he may be
battling fiercely with the flames. Unlike the lifeboat heroes, who may
sleep when the world of waters is calm, he must be ever on the watch;
for his enemy is a lurking foe--like the Red Indian who pounces on you
when you least expect him, and does not utter his warwhoop until he
deems his victory secure. The little spark smoulders while the fireman
on guard, booted and belted, keeps watch at his station. It creeps
while he waits, and not until its energies have gained considerable
force does it burst forth with a grand roar and bid him fierce defiance.
Even when conquered in one quarter it often leaps up in another, so that
the fireman sometimes returns from the field twice or thrice in the same
night to find that the enemy is in force elsewhere and that the fight
must be resumed.
In the spring of 1867 I went to London to gather material for my book
_Fighting the Flames_, and was kindly permitted by Captain Shaw--then
Chief of the Fire Brigade--to spend a couple of weeks at one of the
principal west-end stations, and accompany the men to fires.
My first experience was somewhat stirring.
My plan was to go to the station late in the evening and remain up all
night with the men on guard waiting for fires.
One day, in the afternoon, when it was growing dusk, and before I had
made my first visit to the station, a broad-shouldered jovial-looking
fellow in blue coat, belted, and with a sailor's cap, called on me and
asked if I should like to "see a 'ouse as 'ad bin blowed up with gas."
Of course I was only too glad to follow him. He conducted me to an
elegant mansion in Bayswater, and chatted pleasantly as we went along in
somewhat nautical tones, for he had been a man-of-war's man. His name
was Flaxmore.
I may remark here that the men of the London brigade were, and still
are, I believe, chosen from among seamen.
"You see, sir," said Flaxmore, in explanation of this fact, "sailors are
found to be most suitable for the brigade because they're accustomed to
strict discipline,--to turn out suddenly at all hours, in all weathers,
and to climbing in dangerous circumstances."
Arrived at the mansion, we found that the outside looked all right
except that most of the windows were broken. The interior, however,
presented a sad and curious appearance. The house had been recently
done up in the most expensive style, and its gilded cornices, painted
pilasters and other ornaments, with the lath and plaster of walls and
ceilings had been blown into the rooms in dire confusion.
"Bin a pretty considerable smash here, sir," said Flaxmore, with a
genial smile on his broad countenance. I admitted the fact, and asked
how it happened.
"Well, sir, you see," said he, "there was an 'orrid smell of gas in the
'ouse, an' the missus she sent for a gas man to find out where it was,
and, _would_ _you believe it_, sir, they went to look for it _with a
candle_! Sure enough they found it too, in a small cupboard. The gas
had been escapin', it had, but couldn't git out o' that there cupboard,
'cause the door was a tight fit, so it had made its way all over the
'ouse between the lath and plaster and the walls. As soon as ever it
caught light, sir, it blowed the whole place into smash--as you see. It
blowed the gas man flat on his back; (an' sarved him right!) it blowed
the missus through the doorway, an' it blowed the cook--(as was on the
landin' outside)--right down the kitchen stairs, it did;--but there was
none of 'em much hurt, sir, they wasn't, beyond a bruise or two!"
After examining this house, Flaxmore proposed that I should go and see
his engine. He was proud of his engine, evidently, and spoke of it as a
man might speak of his wife!