Fighting the Flames
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During these long watches in the silent lobby, with the two men belted and booted on their tressels, the clock ticking gently by his side, like the soft quiet voice of a chatty but not tiresome friend, Frank read book after book with absorbing interest. History, poetry, travel, romance—all kinds were equally devoured. At the particular time of which we write, however, he read more of poetry than of anything else.
The consequence was that Frank, who was one of nature’s gentlemen, became a well-informed man, and might have moved in any circle of society with credit to himself, and profit as well as pleasure to others.
Frank was by nature grave, sedate, earnest, thoughtful. Emma was equally earnest—more so perhaps—but she was light-hearted (not light headed, observe) and volatile. The result was mutual attraction. Let philosophers account for the mutual attraction of these qualities as they best may, we simply record the fact. History records it; nature records it; experience—everything records it; who has the temerity, or folly, to deny it?
Emma and Frank felt it, and, in some mysterious way, Frank had come to know something or other about Emma’s feelings, which it is not our business to inquire into too particularly.
So, then, Frank also gazed—no, not at the moon; it would have required him to ascend three flights of stairs, and a ladder, besides passing through a trap to the roof of the station, to enable him to do that; but there was a lamp over the fireplace, with a tin reflector, which had quite a dazzling effect of its own—not a bad imitation of the moon in a small way—so he gazed at that, and thought it very bright indeed; brighter than usual.
We may as well put the reader out of suspense at once by saying that we do not intend to describe Miss Tippet’s evening with “a few friends.” Our own private opinion in regard to the matter is, that if they had been fewer than they were, and more worthy of the name of friends, the evening might have been worth recording, but it is sufficient to say that they all came; acted as usual, spoke as usual, felt as usual, “favoured the company” with songs, as usual, and—ah—yes—enjoyed themselves as usual till about half-past eleven o’clock, when they all took their leave, with the exception of Miss Deemas, who, in consideration of the coldness of the weather, had agreed to spend the night with her “dear friend.”
Miss Deemas was one of those unfortunates with whom it is impossible for any one to sleep. Besides being angular and hard, she had a habit of kicking in her slumbers, and, being powerful, was a dangerous bedfellow. She knew this herself, and therefore wisely preferred, when visiting her friends, to sleep alone. Hence it happened that Miss Tippet and Emma went to bed in the back room with the green hangings, while Miss Deemas retired to the front room with the blue paper.
There is a common fallacy in naval matters founded on poetical license, to the effect that the mariner is separated from death by a single plank; whereas, the unpoetical truth is, that the separation consists of many hundreds of planks, and a solid bulwark of timbers more than a foot thick, besides an inner “skin,” the whole being held together by innumerable iron and oaken bolts and trenails, and tightened with oakum and pitch. We had almost fallen into this error—or poetical laxity of expression—by saying that, on the night of which we write, little did Miss Tippet know that she was separated from, not death exactly, but from something very awful, by a single plank; at least, by the floor of her own residence, and the ceiling of the house below—as the sequel will show.
That same night, David Boone, gaunt, tall, and cadaverous as of old, sat in his back parlour, talking with his friend Gorman.
“Now, Boone,” said the latter, with an oath, “I’m not goin’ to hang off and on any longer. It’s more than seven years since we planned this business, the insurances have been effected, you’ve bin a prosperous man, yet here you are, deeper in my debt than ever.”
“Quite true,” replied Boone, whose face was so pale that he might have easily been mistaken for a ghost, “but you know I have paid up my premiums quite regular, and your interest too, besides clearin’ off some of the principal. Come, don’t be hard on me, Gorman. If it had not been that trade has got worse of late, I would have cleared off all I owe you, but indeed, indeed I have not been so successful of late, and I’m again in difficulties. If you will only wait—”
“No,” cried Gorman, “I’ll not wait. I have waited long enough. How long would you have me wait—eh? Moreover, I’m not hard on you. I show you an easy way to make a good thing of it, and you’re so chicken-hearted that you’re afraid to do it.”
“It’s such a mean thing to do,” said Boone.
“Mean! Why, what do you call the style of carrying on business that you started with seven years ago, and have practised more or less ever since?”
“That is mean, too,” said Boone; “I’m ashamed of it; sorry for it. It was for a time successful no doubt, and I have actually paid off all my creditors except yourself, but I don’t think it the less mean on that account, and I’m thoroughly ashamed of it.”
There was a good deal of firmness in Boone’s tone as he said this, and his companion was silent for a few minutes.
“I have arranged,” he said at last, “about your making over your policies of insurance to me as security for the debt you owe me. You won’t have to pay them next half-year, I’ll do that for you if necessary.” He laughed as he said this. “I have now come to ask you to set the house alight, and have the plan carried out, and the whole affair comfortably settled.”
Gorman said this in an encouraging voice, assuming that his dupe was ready to act.
“B–but it’s awful to think of,” said Boone; “suppose it’s found out?”
“How can it be found out?”
“Well, I don’t know. It’s wonderful how crime is discovered,” said Boone despondingly; “besides, think of the risk we run of burning the people who live above, as well as my two clerks who sleep in the room below us; that would be murder, you know. I’m sure I have tried my very best to get Miss Tippet to go from home for a short time, I’ve almost let the cat out of the bag in my anxiety, but she won’t take the hint.”
“Oho!” exclaimed Gorman, with a laugh.
“Well, have you made the arrangements as I directed you last night?”
“Yes, I’ve got a lot of tarry oakum scattered about, and there is a pile of shavings,” he added, pointing to a corner of the room; “the only thing I’m anxious about is that my young man Robert Roddy caught me pouring turpentine on the walls and floor of the shop. I pretended that it was water I had in the can, and that I was sprinkling it to lay the dust before sweeping up. Roddy is a slow, stupid youth; he always was, and, I daresay, did not notice the smell.”
Gorman was himself filled with anxiety on hearing the first part of this, but at the conclusion he appeared relieved.
“It’s lucky you turned it off so,” said he, “and Roddy is a stupid fellow. I daresay he has no suspicion. In fact, I am sure of it.”
“It’s not of much importance now, however,” said Boone, rising and confronting his friend with more firmness than he had ever before exhibited to him, “because I have resolved not to do it.”
Gorman lit his pipe at the fire, looking at the bowl of it with a scornful smile as he replied—
“Oh! you have made up your mind, have you?”
“Yes, decidedly. Nothing will move me. You may do your worst.”
“Very good,” remarked Gorman, advancing with the lighted paper towards the heap of shavings.
Boone sprang towards him, and, seizing his arms, grasped the light and crushed it out.
“What would you do, madman?” he cried. “You can only ruin me, but do you not know that I will have the power to denounce you as a fire-raiser?”
Gorman laughed, and returned to the fireplace, while Boone sat down on a chair almost overcome with terror.
“What! you dare to defy me?” said Gorman, with an air of assumed pity. “A pretty case you would have to make out of it. You fill your shop with combustibles, you warn your tenant upstairs to get out of the premises for a time in a way that must be quite unaccountable to her (until the fire accounts for it), and your own clerk sees you spilling turpentine about the place the day before the fire occurs, and yet you have the stupidity to suppose that people will believe you when you denounce me!”
Poor David Boone’s wits seemed to be sharpened by his despair, for he said suddenly, after a short pause—
“If the case is so bad it will tell against yourself, Gorman, for I shall be certainly convicted, and the insurance will not be paid to you.”
“Ay, but the case is not so bad as it looks,” said Gorman, “if you only have the sense to hold your tongue and do what you are told; for nobody knows all these things but you and me, and nobody can put them together except ourselves—d’ye see?”
“It matters not,” said Boone firmly; “I won’t do it—there!”
Both men leaped up. At the same moment there was a sound as of something falling in the shop. They looked at each other.
“Go see what it is,” said Gorman.
The other stepped to the door.
“It’s only two of my wax-dolls tumbled off the shelf,” he said on returning.
An exclamation of horror escaped him, for he saw that the heap of shavings had been set on fire during his momentary absence, and Gorman stood watching them with a demoniacal grin.
Boone was struck dumb. He could not move or speak. He made a feeble effort to stretch out his hands as if to extinguish the fire, but Gorman seized him in his powerful grasp and held him fast. In a few seconds the flames were leaping up the walls, and the room was so full of smoke that they were driven into the front shop.
“Now, then,” said Gorman in a fierce whisper, “your only chance is to act out your part as wisely as you can. Shout fire! now till you’re black in the face—fire! Fire!! Fire!!!”
David Boone obeyed with all his might, and, when Gorman released him, ran back into the parlour to try to extinguish the flames, but he was driven back again, scorched and half-choked, while Gorman ran off at full speed to the nearest station, gave the alarm, received the shilling reward for being first to give the call, and then went leisurely home to bed.
Chapter Twenty Eight
At the Post of Duty
Fire! There is something appalling in the cry to most ears; something deadly in the sound; something that tells of imminent danger and urgent haste. After David Boone’s first alarm was given, other voices took it up; passers-by became suddenly wild, darted about spasmodically and shouted it; late sitters-up flung open their windows and proclaimed it; sleepers awoke crying, “What! where?” and, huddling on their clothes, rushed out to look at it; little boys yelled it; frantic females screamed it, and in a few minutes the hubbub in Poorthing Lane swelled into a steady roar.
Among the sound sleepers in that region was Miss Deemas. The fair head of that lady reposed on its soft pillow all unconscious of the fact that she was even then being gently smoked before being roasted alive.
Miss Tippet, on the very first note of alarm, bounced out of bed with an emphatic “There!” which was meant to announce the triumphant fulfilment of an old prophecy which she had been in the habit of making for some time past; namely, that Matty Merryon would certainly set the house on fire if she did not take care!
The energy with which Miss Tippet sprang to the floor and exclaimed “There!” caused Emma Ward to open her eyes to the utmost possible extent, and exclaim, “Where?”
Without waiting for a reply she too bounded out of bed like an indiarubber ball, and seeing (for there was always a night-light in the room) that Miss Tippet’s face was as white as her night-dress, she attempted to shriek, but failed, owing to a lump of some kind that had got somehow into her throat, and which refused to be swallowed on any terms.
The repetition of the cry, “Fire! fire!” outside, induced both ladies at once to become insane. Miss Tippet, with a touch of method even in her madness, seized the counterpane, wrapped it round her, and rushed out of the room and downstairs. Emma followed her example with a blanket, and also fled, just as Matty Merryon, who slept in an attic room above, tumbled down her wooden staircase and burst into the room by another door, uttering a wild exclamation that was choked in the bud partly by terror, partly by smoke. Attempting in vain to wrap herself in a bolster, Matty followed her mistress. All three had utterly forgotten the existence of Miss Deemas. That strong-minded lady being, as we have hinted, a sound sleeper, was not awakened by the commotion in the street. In fact, she was above such weaknesses. Becoming aware of a crackling sound and a sensation of smoke, she smiled sweetly in her slumbers, and, turning gently on her other side, with a sigh, dreamed ardently of fried ham and eggs—her usual breakfast.
While these events were occurring the cry of fire had reached the ears of one of London’s guardians; our friend Samuel Forest. That stout-hearted man was seated at the time rapping the sides of his sentry-box with his head, in a useless struggle with sleep. He had just succumbed, and was snoring out his allegiance to the great conqueror, when the policeman on the beat dashed open his door and shouted “Fire!”
Sam was a calm, self-possessed man. He was no more flurried by this sudden, unexpected, and fierce shout of “Fire,” than he would have been if the policeman had in a mild voice made a statement of water. But, although self-possessed and cool, Sam was not slow. With one energetic effort he tripped up and floored the conqueror with one hand, as it were, while he put on his black helmet with the other, and in three minutes more the fire-escape was seen coming up the lane like a rampant monster of the antediluvian period.
It was received by the crowd with frantic cheers, because they had just become aware that a lady was asleep in one of the upper rooms, which were by that time unapproachable, owing to the lower part of the staircase having caught fire.
The fact was made known with a sudden look of horror by Miss Tippet, who, with Emma Ward, had been rescued from the first-floor window by a gallant policeman. This man, having procured a ladder, entered the house at considerable personal risk, and carried the ladies out in safety, one after the other; an event, we may remark in passing, which is not of rare occurrence at London fires, where the police are noted for their efficient services and for the daring of some of the members of the force, many of whom have received medals and other rewards for acts of personal daring in attempting to save life before the firemen had arrived on the ground.
Having put Miss Tippet and Emma in a place of security, the policeman was about to make a desperate attempt to reach the upper floor by rushing through the flames, when the escape came up and rendered it unnecessary.
Dozens of tongues and hundreds of voices directed Sam Forest to the right window. He pointed his escape towards it, but so vigorous was the uninvited assistance lent by the crowd that the head of the machine went crashing through it and dashed the frame into the middle of the room.
To say that Miss Deemas was horror-struck by such an awakening would be to use a mild expression. Her strong mind was not strong enough to prevent her strong body from trembling like an aspen leaf, as she lay for a few moments unable to cry or move. Suddenly she believed that she was dreaming, and that the instrument which had burst through her window was a nightmare or a guillotine, and she made dreadful efforts to pinch herself awake without success. Next moment a man’s head, looking very grim in the light of a bull’s-eye lamp, appeared at the top of the guillotine. So far this was in keeping with her idea; but when the head leapt into the room, followed by its relative body, and made a rush at her, Miss Deemas cast courage and philosophy to the dogs, gave herself over to abject fear, uttered a piercing shriek, dipped her head under the bedclothes, and, drawing her knees up to her mouth, clasped her hands over them in agony.
“Come, ma’am, don’t take on so; no time to lose; floor’s goin’ down!” said Sam. He coughed as he said it, for the smoke was getting thicker every moment.
Shriek upon shriek was the only answer vouchsafed by the terrified Eagle. A wild cheer from the mob outside seemed to be a reply of encouragement to her; but it was not so; it was called forth by the sudden appearance of a fire-engine dashing round the corner of the lane.
“Be quiet, my good lady,” said Sam Forest in a voice of tenderness; but if his voice was tender his actions were the reverse, for it was now a matter of life or death; so he grasped the Eagle, bedclothes and all, in his arms, and bore her to the window.
It is probable that this act revived in Miss Deemas some reminiscences of her childhood, for she suddenly straightened herself out and struggled violently, after the manner of those sweet little ones who won’t be made to sit on nurse’s knees. Being a tall, heavy woman, she struggled out of Sam’s grasp and fell to the floor; but her victory was short-lived. Another moment and that bold man had her round the waist, in a grasp from which she could not free herself. Sam was considerate, however, and polite even in this extremity. He begged pardon as he wrapped the bedclothes round his victim, and lifting her into the head of the escape, let her go.
No swoop that the Eagle ever made (mentally) down upon base, unworthy, arrogant man, was at all comparable to the descent which she made (physically) on that occasion into the arms of an expectant fireman! She held her breath, also the blankets, tightly, as she went down like a lightning-flash, and felt that she was about to be dashed to pieces, but to her surprise soft cushions received her, and she was immediately borne, by another of these desperate men in helmets, into an adjoining house, and left unhurt in the arms of her sympathetic friend Miss Tippet.
“Oh, my dear, dear Julia!” exclaimed Miss Tippet, shutting the door of the room into which they had been ushered, and assisting her friend to disentangle herself from the bedclothes. “Oh! what a mercy we’ve not all been roasted alive like beef steaks—or—oh! what a sight you are, my darling! You must have got it coming down that dreadful thing—the what’s-’is-name, you know. Shall I ring for water?”
“Tut, nonsense!” exclaimed the Eagle, panting as well from nervous excitement as exhaustion; “you are always so fussy, Emelina. Please assist me to tie this string, Miss Ward.”
“Yes, I know I’m fussy, dear Julia!” exclaimed Miss Tippet, bustling nervously about the room; “but I can’t help it, and I’m so thankful for—; but it was so bold in these noble fellows to risk their lives to—”
“Noble fellows!” shouted Miss Deemas, with flashing eyes, “d’you call it noble to pull me out of bed, and roll me in a blanket and shoot me down a—a—I don’t know what, like a sack of coals? Noble fellows, indeed! Brutes!”
Here Miss Deemas clasped her hands above her head in a passion of conflicting feelings, and, being unable to find words for utterance, burst into a flood of tears, dropped into a chair, and covered her face with both hands.
“Dear, dear, darling Julia!” said Miss Tippet soothingly.
“Don’t speak to me!” sobbed the Eagle passionately, and stamping her foot; “I can’t bear to think of it.”
“But you know, dear,” persevered her friend, “they could not help being—being—what d’you call it?—energetic, you know, for it was not rough. We should all have been roasted to death but for them, and I feel very, very grateful to them. I shall respect that policeman as long as I live.”
“Ah, sure an’ he is a dacent boy now,” said Matty Merryon, who entered the room just then; “the way he lifted you an’ Miss Emma up an’ flung ye over his showlder, as aisy as if ye was two bolsters, was beautiful to look at; indade it was. Shure it remimbered me o’ the purty pottery ye was readin’ just the other night, as was writ by O’Dood or O’Hood—”
“Hood,” suggested Miss Tippet.
“P’r’aps it was,” said Matty; “he’d be none the worse of an O before his name anyhow. But the pottery begood with— ‘Take her up tinderly, lift her with care,’ if I don’t misremimber.”
“Will you hold your tongue!” cried the Eagle, looking up suddenly and drying her eyes.
“Surely, miss,” said Matty, with a toss of her head; “anything to plaize ye.”
It is due to Matty to say that, while the policeman was descending the ladder with her mistress, she had faithfully remained to comfort and encourage Emma; and after Emma was rescued she had quietly descended the ladder without assistance, having previously found time to clothe herself in something a little more ample and appropriate than a bolster.
But where was David Boone all this time? Rather say, where was he not? Everywhere by turns, and nowhere long, was David to be seen, in the frenzy of his excitement. Conscience-smitten, for what he had done, or rather intended to do, he ran wildly about, making the most desperate efforts to extinguish the fire.
No one knows what he can do till he is tried. That is a proverb (at least if it is not it ought to be) which embraces much deep truth. The way in which David Boone set personal danger at defiance, and seemed to regard suffocation by smoke or roasting by fire as terminations of life worth courting, was astounding, and rendered his friends and neighbours dumb with amazement.
David was now on the staircase among the firemen, fighting his way up through fire and smoke, for the purpose of saving Miss Tippet, until he was hauled forcibly back by Dale or Baxmore—who were in the thick of it as usual. Anon, down in the basement, knee-deep in water, searching for the bodies of his two shopmen, both of whom were standing comfortably outside, looking on. Presently he was on the leads of the adjoining house, directing, commanding, exhorting, entreating, the firemen there to point their branch at the “blue bedroom.” Soon after he was in the street, tearing his hair, shouting that it was all his fault; that he did it, and that it would kill him.
Before the fire was put out, poor Boone’s eyelashes and whiskers were singed off; little hair was left on his head, and that little was short and frizzled. His clothes, of course, were completely soaked; in addition to which, they were torn almost to shreds, and some of his skin was in the same condition. At last he had to be forcibly taken in charge, and kept shut up in an adjoining house, from the window of which he watched the destruction of his property and his hopes.
Almost superhuman efforts had been made by the firemen to save the house. Many a house in London had they saved that year, partially or wholly; as, indeed, is the case every year, and many thousands of pounds’ worth of property had they rescued; but this case utterly defied them. So well had the plot been laid; so thoroughly had the combustibles been distributed and lubricated with inflammable liquids, that all the engines in the metropolis would have failed to extinguish that fire.
David Boone knew this, and he groaned in spirit. The firemen knew it not, and they worked like heroes.
There was a shout at last among the firemen to “look out!” It was feared one of the partition walls was coming down, so each man beat a hasty retreat. They swarmed out at the door like bees, and were all safe when the wall fell—all safe, but one, Joe Corney, who, being a reckless man, took things too leisurely, and was knocked down by the falling bricks.
Moxey and Williams ran back, and carried him out of danger. Then, seeing that he did not recover consciousness, although he breathed, they carried him at once to the hospital. The flames of the burning house sprang up, just then, as if they leaped in triumph over a fallen foe; but the polished surface of poor Joe’s helmet seemed to flash back defiance at the flames as they bore him away.
After the partition wall fell, the fire sank, and in the course of a few hours it was extinguished altogether. But nothing whatever was saved, and the firemen had only the satisfaction of knowing that they had done their best, and had preserved the adjoining houses, which would certainly have gone, but for their untiring energy.