Fighting the Flames by R. M. Ballantyne (rooftoppers .TXT) 📖

bonfire or a pyrotechnic display on the grandest conceivable scale.

Little wonder, then, that the firemen of Watling Street turned out all their engines, including two of Shand and Mason’s new land-steam fire-engines, which had at that time just been brought into action. Little wonder that the usual request for a man from each station was changed into an urgent demand for every man that could possibly be spared.

The fire began in the extensive wharves and warehouses known as Cotton’s Wharf, near London Bridge, and was first observed in a warehouse over a counting-room by some workmen, who at once gave the alarm, and attempted to extinguish it with some buckets of water. They were quickly driven back, however, by the suffocating smoke, which soon filled the various floors so densely that no one could approach the seat of the fire.

Mr Braidwood, who was early on the spot, saw at a glance that a pitched battle was about to be fought, and, like a wise general, concentrated all the force at his command. Expresses were sent for the more distant brigade engines, and these came dashing up, one after another, at full speed. The two powerful steam floating-engines which guard the Thames from fire were moored off the wharf, two lengths of hose attached to them, and led on shore and brought to bear on the fire. A number of land-engines took up a position in Tooley Street, ready for action, but these were compelled to remain idle for nearly an hour before water was obtainable from the fire-plugs. O London! with all your wealth and wisdom, how strange that such words can be truly written of you!

The vessels which were lying at the wharf discharging and loading were hauled out of danger into the stream.

In course of time the engines were in full play, but the warehouse burst into flames from basement to roof in spite of them, and ere long eight of the great storehouses were burning furiously. The flames made rapid work of it, progressing towards the line of warehouses facing the river, and to the lofty building which adjoined on the Tooley Street side.

Dale and his men were quickly on the scene of action, and had their engine soon at work. Before long, Frank Willders joined them. They were playing in at the windows of a large store, which was burning so furiously that the interior appeared to be red-hot.

“Relieve Corney, lad,” said Dale, as Frank came forward.

“Och, it’s time!” cried Corney, delivering up the branch to Frank and Moxey; “sure Baxmore and me are melted intirely.”

Frank made no reply. He and Moxey directed the branch which the others resigned, turning their backs as much as possible on the glowing fire, and glancing at it over their shoulders; for it was too hot to be faced.

Just then the Chief of the brigade came up.

“It’s of no use, sir,” said Dale; “we can’t save these.”

“True, Dale, true,” said Mr Braidwood, in a quick, but quiet tone; “this block is doomed. Take your lads round to the nor’-east corner; we must try to prevent it spreading.”

As he surveyed the progress of the fire, with a cool, practical eye, and hurried off to another part of the battle-field to post his men to best advantage, little did the leader of the forces think that he was to be the first to fall that day!

Engines were now playing on the buildings in all directions; but the flames were so fierce that they made no visible impression on them, and even in the efforts made to check their spreading, little success appeared to attend them at first. Warehouse after warehouse ignited.

To make matters worse, a fresh breeze sprang up, and fanned the flames into redoubled fury; so that they quickly caught hold of vast portions of the premises occupied by the firm of Scovell and Company.

“There’s not a chance,” said Frank to Dale, while he wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and sat down for a few seconds to recover breath; for he had just issued from a burning building, driven back by heat and smoke—

“There’s not a chance of saving that block; all the iron doors that were meant to keep the fire from spreading have been left open by the workmen!”

“Chance or no chance, we must do our best,” said Dale. “Come, lad, with me; I think we may get at a door inside the next warehouse, through which we might bring the branch to bear. Are you able?”

“All right,” exclaimed Frank, leaping up, and following his leader through the smoke.

“Have a care!” cried Frank, pausing as a tremendous explosion caused the ground to tremble under their feet.

“It’s sulphur or saltpetre,” said Dale, pushing on; “there are tons upon tons of that stuff in the cellars all round.”

This was indeed the case. It was said that upwards of 2,000 tons of saltpetre were in the vaults at the time; and several explosions had already taken place, though fortunately, without doing injury to any one.

Dale had already partially examined the warehouse, into which he now led Frank; and, therefore, although it was full of smoke, he moved rapidly along the narrow and intricate passages between the bales of goods, until he reached an iron door.

“Here it is; we’ll open this and have a look,” he said, grasping the handle and swinging the heavy door open.

Instantly, a volume of black smoke drove both the men back, almost suffocating them. They could not speak; but each knew that the re-closing of that iron door was all-important, for the fire had got nearer to it than Dale had imagined.

They both darted forward; but were again driven back, and had to rush to the open air for breath. Frank recovered before his comrade, in consequence of the latter having made a more strenuous and prolonged effort to close the door which he had so unfortunately opened.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he sprang into the warehouse again; regained and partially closed the door, when the stifling smoke choked him, and he fell to the ground. A few seconds later, Dale followed him, and found him there. Applying his great strength with almost superhuman energy to the door, it shut with a crash, and the communication between the buildings was cut off! Dale then seized Frank by the collar, and dragged him into the open air, when he himself almost sank to the ground. Fresh air, however, soon restored them both, and in a few minutes they were actively engaged at another part of the building.

Bravely and perseveringly though this was done, it availed not, for nothing could withstand the fury of the fire. The warehouse caught, and was soon a glowing mass like the others, while the flames raged with such violence that their roaring drowned the shouting of men, and the more distant roar of the innumerable multitude that densely covered London Bridge, and clustered on every eminence from which a safe view of the great fire could be obtained.

The floating fire-engines had now been at work for some time, and the men in charge of their branches were suffering greatly from the intense heat. About this time, nearly seven o’clock in the evening, Mr Braidwood went to these men to give them a word of encouragement. He proceeded down one of the approaches to the river from Tooley Street, and stopped when nearly half way to give some directions, when a sudden and tremendous explosion, took place, shaking the already tottering walls, which at this place were of great height. A cry was raised, “Run! the wall is falling!” Every one sprang away at the word. The wall bulged out at the same time; and one of the firemen, seeing that Mr Braidwood was in imminent danger, made a grasp at him as he was springing from the spot; but the heavy masses of brick-work dashed him away, and, in another moment, the gallant chief of the Fire Brigade lay buried under at least fifteen feet of burning ruin.

Any attempt at rescue would have been impossible as well as unavailing, for death must have been instantaneous. The hero’s warfare with the flames, which had lasted for upwards of thirty-eight years, was ended; and his brave spirit returned to God Who gave it.

That a man of no ordinary note had fallen was proved, before many hours had passed, by the deep and earnest feeling of sorrow and sympathy which was manifested by all classes in London, from Queen Victoria downwards, as well as by the public funeral which took place a few days afterwards, at which were present the Duke of Sutherland, the Earl of Caithness, the Reverend Doctor Cumming, and many gentlemen connected with the insurance offices; the committee and men of the London Fire Brigade; also those of various private and local brigades; the secretary and conductors of the Royal Society for the Protection of Life from Fire; the mounted Metropolitan and City police; the London Rifle Brigade (of which Mr Braidwood’s three sons were members); the superintendents and men of the various water companies; and a long string of private and mourning carriages: to witness the progress of which hundreds of thousands of people densely crowded the streets and clustered in the windows and on every available eminence along the route; while in Cheapside almost all the shops were shut and business was suspended; and in the neighbourhood of Shoreditch toiling thousands of artisans came forth from factory and workshop to “see the last of Braidwood,” whose name had been so long familiar to them as a “household word.” The whole heart of London seemed to have been moved by one feeling, and the thousands who thronged the streets “had” (in the language of one of the papers of the day) “gathered together to witness the funeral, not of a dead monarch, not of a great warrior, not of a distinguished statesman, not even of a man famous in art, in literature, or in science, but simply of James Braidwood, late superintendent of the London Fire-Engine Establishment”—a true hero, and one who was said, by those who knew him best, to be an earnest Christian man.

But at the moment of his fall his men were engaged in the thick of battle. Crushing though the news of his death was, there was no breathing time to realise it.

The fierce heat had not only driven back the firemen on shore, but had compelled the floating fire-engines to haul off, in consequence of the flaming matter which poured over the wharf wall and covered the surface of the river the entire length of the burning warehouses; while the whole of the carriageway of Tooley Street was ankle deep in hot oil and tallow. After the fall of their Chief, Messrs Henderson and Fogo, two of the principal officers of the brigade, did their utmost to direct the energies of the men.

Night closed in, and the flames continued to rage in all their fury and magnificence. News of this great fire spread with the utmost rapidity over the metropolis. Indeed, it was visible at Hampstead while it was yet daylight. When darkness set in, one of the most extraordinary scenes that London ever produced was witnessed. From all quarters the people came pouring in, on foot, in omnibus, cab, pleasure-van, cart, and waggon—all converging to London Bridge. At nine o’clock the bridge and its approaches presented all the appearance of the Epsom Road on the Derby Day. Cabs and ’buses plied backwards and forwards on the bridge all night, carrying an unlimited number of passengers at 2 pence and 3 pence each, and thousands of persons spent the night in thus passing to and fro. The railway terminus, Billingsgate Market, the roof of the Coal Exchange, the Monument, the quays, the windows, the house-tops, the steeples, and the chimney-stalks—all were crowded with human beings, whose eager upturned faces were rendered intensely bright against the surrounding darkness by the fierce glare of the fire. But the Thames presented