Fighting the Flames, R. M. Ballantyne [spiritual books to read .TXT] 📗

the most singular appearance of all—now reflecting on its bosom the inky black clouds of smoke; anon the red flames, as fresh fuel was licked up by the devouring element, and, occasionally, sheets of silver light that flashed through the chaos when sulphur and saltpetre explosions occurred. Mountains of flame frequently burst away from the mass of burning buildings and floated upward for a few moments, and the tallow and tar which flowed out of the warehouses floated away blazing with the tide and set the shipping on fire, so that land and water alike seemed to be involved in one huge terrific conflagration.

The utmost consternation prevailed on board the numerous craft on the river in the vicinity of the fire, for thick showers of sparks and burning materials fell incessantly. Gusts of wind acted on the ruins now and then, and at such moments the gaunt walls, cracked and riven out of shape, stood up, glowing with intense white heat in the midst of a sea of fire from which red flames and dark clouds of smoke were vomited, as from the crater of some mighty volcano, with a roar that mingled with the shouts of excited thousands, and drowned even the dull incessant thumpings of the engines that worked in all directions.

Moored alongside of Chamberlain’s Wharf was a small sloop. Little blue blisters of light broke out on her rigging; soon these increased in size, and in a few minutes she was on fire from stem to stern. Immediately after, there came a barge with flowing sails, borne on the rising tide. She passed too near to the conflagration. Her crew of three men became panic-stricken and lost control of her. At sight of this a great shout was raised, and a boat put off and rescued the crew; but almost before they were landed their barge was alight from stem to stern. The tremendous cheer that burst from the excited multitude at sight of this rescue rose for a moment above the roaring of the conflagration. Then another barge was set on fire by the blazing tallow which floated out to her, but she was saved by being scuttled.

In the midst of such a scene it was to be expected that there would be damage to life and limb. The firemen, besides being exposed to intense heat for hours, were almost blinded and choked by the smoke emitted from the burning pepper—more especially the cayenne—of which there was a large quantity in the warehouses. Some of the men who were working the engines fell into the river and were drowned. A gentleman who was assisting the firemen had his hand impaled on an iron spike. A poor Irishman had his neck broken by the chain of the floating-engine, and several of the police force and others were carried to hospital badly burned and otherwise injured.

Some of the casualties occurred in places where only a few persons were there to witness them, but others were enacted on the river, and on spots which were in full view of the vast multitudes on London Bridge. A boat containing five men put off to collect the tallow which floated on the water, but it got surrounded by tallow which had caught fire, and the whole of its occupants were either burned to death or drowned. Later in the night a small skiff rowed by a single man was drawn by the tide into the vortex of the fire. Another boat ran out and saved the man, but a second boat which was pulled off by a single rower for the same purpose was drawn too near the fire, and its brave occupant perished. So eager were the multitude on the bridge to witness these scenes that some of themselves were forced over the parapet into the river and drowned.

Comical incidents were strangely mingled with these awful scenes, although it is but justice to say the prevailing tone of the crowd was one of solemnity. Itinerant vendors of ginger-beer, fruit, cakes, and coffee ranged themselves along the pavements and carried on a brisk trade—especially after the public-houses were closed, many of which, however, taking advantage of the occasion, kept open door all night.

Among these last was the “Angel,” belonging to Gorman.

That worthy was peculiarly active on this occasion. He never neglected an opportunity of turning an honest penny, and, accordingly, had been engaged from an early hour in his boat collecting tallow; of which plunder a considerable amount had been already conveyed to his abode.

Besides Gorman, several of the other personages of our tale found their way to the great centre of attraction, London Bridge, on that night. Among them was John Barret, who, on hearing of the fire, had left his snug little villa and pretty little wife to witness it.

He had already made one or two cheap trips on one of the omnibuses, and, about midnight, got down and forced his way to a position near the south side of the bridge. Here he was attracted to a ginger-beer barrow which an unusually adventurous man had pushed through the crowd into a sheltered corner. He forced his way to it, and, to his amazement, found the owner to be his former friend Ned Hooper.

“Hallo! Barret.”

“Why, Ned!” were the exclamations that burst simultaneously from their lips.

“This is a strange occupation,” said Barret with a smile.

“Ah, it may seem strange to you, no doubt, but it’s familiar enough to me,” replied Ned, with a grin.

The demand for beer was so great at this time that Ned could not continue the conversation.

“Here, boy,” he said to an urchin who stood near, “you draw corks as fast as you can and pour out the beer, and I’ll give you a copper or two and a swig into the bargain.”

The boy accepted the post of salesman with alacrity, and Ned turned to his friend and seized his hand.

“Barret,” said he, in a low, earnest voice, “if I succeed in holding out, I own my salvation, under God, to you. I’ve tasted nothing but ginger-beer for many a long day, and I really believe that I have got my enemy down at last. It’s not a lucrative business, as you may see,” he added with a sad smile, glancing at his threadbare garments, “nor a very aristocratic one.”

“My dear Ned,” cried Barret, interrupting, and suddenly thrusting his hand into his pocket.

“No, Barret, no,” said Ned firmly, as he laid his hand on the other’s, arm; “I don’t want money; I’ve given up begging. You gave me your advice once, and I have taken that—it has been of more value to me than all the wealth that is being melted into thin air, John, by yonder fire—”

Ned was interrupted at this point by a burst of laughter from the crowd. The cause of their mirth was the appearance of a tall, thin, and very lugubrious-looking man who had come on the bridge to see the fire. He had got so excited that he had almost fallen over the parapet, and a policeman had kindly offered to escort him to a place of safety.

“Why, what d’ye mean?—what d’ye take me for?” cried the tall man angrily; “I’m an honest man; my name is David Boone; I’ve only come to see the fire; you’ve no occasion to lay hold o’ me!”

“I know that,” said the policeman; “I only want to get you out of danger. Come along now.”

Just then a thickset man with a red handkerchief tied round his head came forward to the stall and demanded a glass of beer. The moment his eyes encountered those of Boone he became pale as death and staggered back as if he had received a deadly blow.

“Is that you, Gorman?” cried David, in a voice and with an expression of amazement.

Gorman did not reply, but gazed at his former friend with a look of intense horror, while his chest heaved and he breathed laboriously. Suddenly he uttered a loud cry and rushed towards the river.

Part of the crowd sprang after him, as if with a view to arrest him, or to see what he meant to do. In the rush Barret and Boone were carried away.

A few moments later a deep murmur of surprise rose from the thousands of spectators on the bridge, for a boat was seen to dash suddenly from the shore and sweep out on the river. It was propelled by a single rower—a man with a red kerchief tied round his head. The murmur of the crowd suddenly increased to a shout of alarm, for the man was rowing, his boat straight towards a mass of tallow which floated and burned on the water.

“Hold on!” “Lookout ahead!” shouted several voices, while others screamed “Too late!” “He’s gone!” and then there arose a wild cry, for the man rowed straight into the centre of the burning mass and was enveloped in the flames. For one moment he was seen to rise and swing his arms in the air—then he fell backwards over the gunwale of his boat and disappeared in the blazing flood.

Fiercer and fiercer raged the fire. The night passed—the day came and went, and night again set in—yet still the flames leaped and roared in resistless fury, and still the firemen fought them valiantly. And thus they fought, day and night, hand to hand, for more than a fortnight, before the battle was thoroughly ended and the victory gained.

How the firemen continued to do their desperate work, day and night, almost without rest, it is impossible to tell. Frank Willders said that, after the first night, he went about his work like a man in a dream. He scarcely knew when, or how, or where he rested or ate. He had an indistinct remembrance of one or two brief intervals of oblivion when he supposed he must have been asleep, but the only memory that remained strong and clear within him was that of constant, determined fighting with the flames. And Willie Willders followed him like his shadow! clad in a coat and helmet borrowed from a friend in the Salvage Corps. Willie fought in that great fight as if he had been a trained fireman.

On the fourth day, towards evening, Frank was ordered down into a cellar where some tar-barrels were burning. He seized the branch, and was about to leap down the stair when Dale stopped him.

“Fasten the rope to your belt,” he said.

Frank obeyed without speaking and then sprang forward, while Dale himself followed, ordering Corney, Baxmore, and one or two others, to hold on to the ropes. Willie Willders also ran in, but was met by such a dense cloud of smoke that he was almost choked. Rushing back, he shouted, “Haul on the ropes!”

The men were already hauling them in, and in a few seconds Dale and Frank were dragged by their waist-belts into the open air, the former nearly, and the latter quite, insensible.

In a few minutes they both recovered, and another attempt was made to reach the fire in the cellar, but without success.

The public did not witness this incident. The firemen were almost surrounded by burning ruins, and none but comrades were there.

Indeed, the public seldom see the greatest dangers to which the fireman is exposed. It is not when he makes his appearance on some giddy height on a burning and tottering house, and is cheered enthusiastically by the crowd, that his courage is most severely tried. It is when he has to creep on hands and knees through dense smoke, and hold the branch in the face of withering heat, while beams are cracking over his head, and burning rubbish is dropping around, and threatening to overwhelm him—it is in such circumstances, when the public know nothing of what is going on, and when no eye sees him save that of the solitary comrade who shares his toil and danger, that the fireman’s nerve and endurance are tested to the uttermost.

After leaving the cellar, Dale