Personal Reminiscences in Book Making by Robert Michael Ballantyne (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) 📖

half mad with excitement.

"F-f-f-fire!" roared one.

"F-f-f-fire!" yelled the other.

"Where away?" asked a fireman as he quietly buckled his belt and put on his helmet.

"B-B-Brompton!"--"B-B-Bayswater!" burst from them both at the same moment. Then one cried, "I--I s-s-say Brompton," and the other shouted, "I--I s-say Bayswater."

"What street?" asked the fireman.

"W-W-Walton Street," cried one.

"N-No--P-P-orchester Terrace," roared the other, and at the word the Walton Street man hit the Porchester Terrace man between the eyes and knocked him down. A regular scuffle ensued, in the midst of which the firemen got out two engines--and, before the stutterers were separated, went off full swing, one to Brompton, the other to Bayswater, and found that, as they had guessed, there were in reality two fires!

One night's experience in the "lobby" will give a specimen of the fireman's work. I had spent the greater part of the night there without anything turning up. About three in the morning the two men on duty lay down on their trestle-beds to sleep, and I sat at the desk reading the reports of recent fires. The place was very quiet--the sounds of the great city were hushed--the night was calm, and nothing was heard but the soft breathing of the sleepers and the ticking of the clock as I sat there waiting for a fire. I often looked at the telegraph needles and, (I am half ashamed to say it), longed for them to move and give us "a call." At last, when I had begun to despair, the sharp little telegraph bell rang. Up I started in some excitement--up started one of the sleepers too, quite as quickly as I did, but without any excitement whatever--he was accustomed to alarms! Reading the telegraph with sleepy eyes he said, with a yawn, "it's only a stop for a chimbley." He lay down again to sleep, and I sat down again to read and wait. Soon after the foreman came down-stairs to have a smoke and a chat. Among the many anecdotes which he told me was one which had a little of the horrible in it. He said he was once called to a fire in a cemetery, where workmen had been employed in filling some of the vaults with sawdust and closing them up. They had been smoking down there and had set fire to the sawdust, which set light to the coffins, and when the firemen arrived these were burning fiercely, and the stench and smoke were almost overpowering--nevertheless one of the men ran down the stair of the vaults, but slipped his foot and fell. Next moment he rushed up with a face like a ghost, having fallen, he said, between two coffins! Quickly recovering from his fright he again descended with his comrades, and they soon managed to extinguish the fire.

The foreman went off to bed after relating this pleasant little incident and left me to meditate on it. Presently a sound of distant wheels struck my ear. On they came at a rattling pace. In a few minutes a cab dashed round the corner and drew up sharply at the door, which was severely kicked, while the bell was rung furiously. Up jumped the sleepers again and in rushed a cabman, backed by a policeman, with the usual shout of "fire." Then followed "question brief and quick reply"--"a fire in Great Portland Street close at hand."

"Get her out, Bill," was the order. Bill darted to the engine-shed and knocked up the driver in passing. He got out the horses while the other man ran from house to house of the neighbouring firemen giving a _double_ ring to their bells. Before the engine was horsed one and another and another of the men darted into the station, donned his helmet, and buckled on his axe; then they all sprang to their places, the whip cracked, and off we went at full gallop only eight minutes after the alarm-bell rang. We spun through the streets like a rocket with a tail of sparks behind us, for the fire of the engine had been lighted before starting.

On reaching the fire it was found to be only smouldering in the basement of the house, and the men of another engine were swarming through the place searching for the seat of it. I went in with our men, and the first thing I saw was a coffin lying ready for use! The foreman led me down into a vaulted cellar, and here, strange to say, I found myself in the midst of coffins! It seemed like the realisation of the story I had just heard. There were not fewer than thirty of them on the floor and ranged round the walls. Happily, however, they were not tenanted. In fact the fire had occurred in an undertaker's workshop, and, in looking through the premises, I came upon several coffins laid out ready for immediate use. Two of these impressed me much. They lay side by side. One was of plain black wood--a pauper's coffin evidently. The other was covered with fine cloth and gilt ornaments, and lined with padded white satin! I was making some moral reflections on the curious difference between the last resting-place of the rich man and the poor, when I was interrupted by the firemen who had discovered the fire and put it out, so we jumped on the engine once more, and galloped back to the station. Most of the men went off immediately to bed; the engine was housed; the horses were stabled; the men on guard hung up their helmets and lay down again on their trestle-beds; the foreman bade me "good-night," and I was left once more in a silence that was broken only by the deep breathing of the sleepers and the ticking of the clock--scarcely able to believe that the stirring events of the previous hour were other than a vivid dream.

All over London, at short distances apart, fire-escapes may be seen rearing their tall heads in recesses and corners formed by the angles in churches or other public buildings. Each night these are brought out to the streets, where they stand in readiness for instant use.

At the present time the escapes are in charge of the Fire Brigade. When I visited the firemen they were under direction of the Royal Society for the Protection of Life from Fire, and in charge of Conductors, who sat in sentry-boxes beside the escapes every night, summer and winter, ready for action.

These conductors were clad like the firemen--except that their helmets were made of black leather instead of brass. They were not very different from other mortals to look at, but they were picked men--every one--bold as lions; true as steel; ready each night, at a moment's notice, to place their lives in jeopardy in order to rescue their fellow-creatures from the flames. Of course they were paid for the work, but the pay was small when we consider that it was the price of indomitable courage, tremendous energy, great strength of limb, and untiring perseverance in the face of appalling danger.

Here is a specimen of the way in which the escapes were worked.

On the night of the 2nd March 1866, the premises of a blockmaker named George Milne caught fire. The flames spread with great rapidity, arousing Milne and his family, which consisted of his wife and seven children. All these sought refuge in the attics. At first Milne thought he could have saved himself, but with so many little children round him he found himself utterly helpless. Not far from the spot, Henry Douglas, a fire-escape conductor, sat in his sentry-box, reading a book, perchance, or meditating, mayhap, on the wife and little ones slumbering snugly at home, while he kept watch over the sleeping city. Soon the shout of fire reached his ears. At once his cloth-cap was exchanged for the black helmet, and, in a few seconds, the escape was flying along the streets, pushed by the willing hands of policemen and passers-by. The answer to the summons was very prompt on this occasion, but the fire was burning fiercely when Conductor Douglas arrived, and the whole of the lower part of the house was so enveloped in flames and smoke that the windows could not be seen at all. Douglas therefore pitched his escape, at a venture, on what he _thought_ would bring him to the second-floor windows, and up he went amid the cheers of the on-lookers. Entering a window, he tried to search the room, (and the cheers were hushed while the excited multitude gazed and listened with breathless anxiety--for they knew that the man was in a position of imminent danger). In a few moments he re-appeared on the escape, half suffocated. He had heard screams in the room above, and at once threw up the fly-ladder, by which he ascended to the parapet below the attic rooms. Here he discovered Milne and his family grouped together in helpless despair. We may conceive the gush of hope that must have thrilled their breasts when Conductor Douglas leaped through the smoke into the midst of them; but we can neither describe nor conceive, (unless we have heard it in similar circumstances), the _tone_ of the deafening cheers that greeted the brave man when he re-appeared on the ladders, and, (with the aid of a policeman named John Pead), bore the whole family, one by one, in safety to the ground! For this deed Conductor Douglas received the silver medal of the Society, and Pead, the policeman, received a written testimonial and a sovereign. Subsequently, in consequence of Conductor Douglas's serious illness,-- resulting from his efforts on this occasion--the Society voted him a gratuity of 5 pounds beyond his sick allowance to mark their strong approbation of his conduct. Now in this case it is obvious that but for the fire-escape, the blockmaker and his family must have perished.

Here is another case. I quote the conductor's own account of it, as given in the Fire Escape Society's annual report. The conductor's name was Shaw. He writes:--

"Upon my arrival from Aldersgate Street Station, the fire had gained
strong hold upon the lower portion of the building, and the smoke
issuing therefrom was so dense and suffocating as to render all escape
by the staircase quite impossible. Hearing cries for help from the
upper part of the house, I placed my Fire Escape, ascended to the
third floor, whence I rescued four persons--viz. Mrs Ferguson, her
two children, and a lodger named Gibson. They were all leaning
against the window-sill, almost overcome. I carried each down the
Escape, (a height of nearly fifty feet), in perfect safety; and
afterwards entered the back part of the premises, and took five young
children from a yard where they were exposed to great danger from the
fire."

There was a man in the London Brigade who deserves special notice--viz. Conductor Samuel Wood. Wood had been many years in the service, and had, in the course of his career, saved no fewer than 168 lives.

On one occasion he was called to a fire in Church Lane. He found a Mr Nathan in the first-floor unable to descend the staircase, as the ground floor was in flames.