Author Unknown
I don't know who built Merriton-street, Lambeth; but, whoever it was, must have been a sharp fellow, and meant to make money. By the look of the houses, I should say that they were built about the days of William IV., and they were well built, too—even to this day looking better and more substantial than plenty of your suburban rows of villas that have not been up ten years. But then, as I said, the man who built them meant to make money, and the way to do that, in the long run, was to put in good work.
His cunning consisted in the number of houses that he contrived to run up on the narrow strips of land on each side of the road. For there they stood—two rows of very tall, very narrow houses, with deep areas and high pitched, sharply-sloping slate roofs.
There was something wrong with one of these houses—a great crack in the front through the giving way of a large drain—so the owner had it pulled down and rebuilt; but when it was down we all laughed to see what a tiny bit of passage the space seemed to be upon which it had stood.
To make up for the narrowness of these houses they were run up high, and the rooms were lofty. Then, though they were getting old, the owner took great pride in them. They were painted and papered regularly, roofs kept in order, and no sooner was anything out of repair than down came the jobbing-hand our landlord kept, and put it right, for he was one of those handy men who could do anything, from plastering a roof to potting in a pane of glass.
We all had to pay for it, of course, for the rents were pretty stiff. I don't mean for single houses, mind you, but for single or double rooms; for there were several families in each house, and when one night I set to with a pencil and totted up what our landlord must have made a week of that bit of property, I was astonished.
For, mind you, it was good property. He kept it in such nice order, and was so particular about the class of people he let the apartments to—he never called them rooms or lodgings, they were always apartments, and you were a tenant, with your name entered in a red collecting-book with a clasp—I say he was so particular about whom he had there, and so careful in weeding out bad tenants, that the place got quite a name, and the landlord used to have a string of people down in his books, of applicants for apartments waiting for a vacancy.
Of course, that gave him the opportunity of picking and choosing. Every one had to find references and tell their occupation, number of children, and the like; and then, when there was a vacancy, a couple without children would be selected. The consequence was that what would have been a rookery swarming with children under some managements, was a quiet, clean, genteel street, and the lodgers were better class mechanics and clerks, and men employed in the city and borough warehouses, compositors, and the like.
After no end of knocking about in wretched lodgings, where the doorsteps, pavements, and staircases were swarming with children—poor little things!—for they must have somewhere to play, it was quite a happy relief to find ourselves settled snugly down at 49 Merriton street, on the second floor; to find nice, respectable people above and below us—quite genteel, some of them; and that it was the rule for the landlord to find every house a big doormat, and for the tenants to put down carpets to the stairs belonging to each floor. But we had hardly placed everything in order, and were sitting down comfortably one night at supper, before the wife suddenly knocked the whole affair over by exclaiming:
"William, dear, I shall never he happy in this place."
"Well, that's cool!" I exclaimed, "after having one's name down in the book for eighteen months, and then getting the place as a favor because we have no children."
"I can't help it, dear," she said, in her quiet, decisive way, for she is a regular little tyrant, and keeps me in order. "I shall never be happy here."
"Well," I said, rubbing one of my ears and speaking drily, "Buckingham Palace is empty now, and the Queen seldom uses it. Shall I ask for a suite of apartments there? Don't say you'd prefer Hampton Court, my dear, because it is so inconvenient for me."
"Now, it's no use for you to talk nonsense, William," she said. "I know what I am saying; and I tell you I shall never be happy here."
"Why not?"
"Because I shall never go to bed of a night without thinking about fire."
"Stuff and nonsense!" I said, testily. "Why, there's fire-engines in plenty, and—yes, to be sure, there's a fire-escape not a quarter of a mile away. Jolly things, my dear; you can go into 'em head first, and ride down just as if you were in a long stocking."
"You can laugh as much as you please," she said, quietly; "but I've been thinking all about it, and I want to know what we are to do if there's a fire anywhere downstairs."
"Make one upstairs," I said, "and cook your husband's dinner."
"Now, it's of no use for you to try to be funny, William," she said, sharply; "because, whenever you do try, you only make yourself a dear old stupid. You know well enough what I mean. If there happened to be a clothes-horse fall against the fire, or somebody downstairs upset a paraffin lamp, we should be burned to death."
"If we stopped in," I said, quietly now, since my jokes didn't tell; "but we'd get out."
"Where?" she said, sharply. "We couldn't go down that narrow staircase with the flames roaring up like as if it was a chimney."
"Jump out o' window."
"On to those horrible spikes atop of the area railings."
"Go upstairs, and get out on the roof."
"Now you know, William," she cried, "that there's no way out. Nothing but a fly or a spider could walk up that slope of slates."
She pointed out to the houses opposite, where the glimmer of the gas-lamp below shone on the slates, for the third floors of these houses were not like attics, the windows standing out of a slate slope that was very little out of the perpendicular, and there was no parapet in front.
"Well, my dear," I said, "let's make ourselves as happy as we can, and I'll go downstairs every night twice an hour, and smell all over the place right through the night."
"You'll do nothing of the sort," she said, huffily. "And it's no use to talk to you, William, when you are in one of your teasing fits. I suppose you want your poor wife to be roasted to death."
"My dear Kitty," I said, "'pon my word I don't; but, if you were, you really are such a nice little woman that I believe I should eat you."
"Go along with your nonsense," she said, laughing; and no more was said about it, though, on thinking the matter over to myself, it did seem that if the house happened to catch fire, we should have a very poor chance. But I put it aside then, and next time she brought up the subject I got into trouble by saying:
"Well, my dear, I think you might make yourself happy, for we are nearly as well off as Miss Trotwood."
"Miss Trotwood? Who was she?"
"The lady who liked lodgings in the Adelphi."
"In the Adelphi? Why?"
"Because it was near the river, in case of fire."
"I declare, William," she exclaimed, pettishly, "the whole street may be burned down, and I won't say another word."
"Thankye, my dear," I said; and there the matter ended.
The next thing that took my wife's attention was the two pretty little children at the third floor opposite, a couple of as sweet little things as you'd wish to see. The eldest was about six or seven—a regular little golden-haired, old-fashioned angel, who used to often stand at the window taking care of the other, a handsome little boy. There were a lot or plants always at that window, and we used to call the little things the blossoms; and their happy little silvery voices used to come down to our window sometimes like music.
We did not often see their mother, but when we did.we used to notice that she was rather a superior-looking body, very quiet and reserved, and evidently very proud of her little ones.
"I haven't patience with men," said my wife one day, when I was at home to dinner.
"Haven't you, dear," I said, smiling up at the severe-looking little woman, of whom I always pretended to be very much afraid. "Why, what's the matter now?"
"Matter?" she said sharply. "I only wish he was my husband."
"Well?" I exclaimed and I put down my knife and fork, and stared.
"No, no, Will; I don't mean that," she cried, bursting out laughing.
"Then what do you mean?" I asked.
"I mean, if he was my husband he shouldn't behave so long."
"Perhaps you'll give me another potato, and tell me what you mean," I said.
"Mean? Why that wicked wretch over the way, neglecting his poor wife and those two dear children as he does. I'd teach him to come creeping home at three o'clock in the morning, as he often does, and that poor dear leaving a light burning and a fire for him. Oh! I haven't patience with such ways."
"A wretch!" I exclaimed.
"Yes, isn't it too bad, Will? and she's as nice and quiet-looking a little body as a man could have."
"And such an example to set to his children," I said.
"Yes, dear. I can't think how a man can behave so."
"Ah, he belongs to a bad lot," I said, seriously. "They meet of a night at a place close by the Strand, and get playing a game with little square bits of metal hour after hour."
"For money, of course, dear?"
"Yes; they get so much a thousand."
"Thousand? You don't mean to say that wretched man gambles for thousands?"
"Oh, dear no, my dear," I said seriously; "he's paid so much a thousand for setting the type. He's a compositor on a daily paper."
"Now, William, how can you go on teasing like that? Why couldn't you say at once that the poor man was engaged upon night work?"
"Now, Kitty," I said, quietly, "why can't you go on revolving on your own pleasant little axis, minding your own business, and letting other people's alone."
"How stupid of me!" she exclaimed.
"Very, my dear," I replied. " Good-bye. Give 's a kiss; time's up."
I was at home in good time that night, but very tired, and after a snug supper we went to bed, and I was in one of those sound, dreamless sleeps, when I woke up with a start, as I heard my wife spring up in bed.
"What's that, Will?" she exclaimed.
"Fire!" I cried, excitedly, as I sprang out of bed, feeling for a moment that horrible kind of panic that will seize the strongest of us sometimes.
For down below in the street there was a knocker going, and a man's voice shouting "Fire!"
"Will!" shrieked my wife, "I knew it, I knew it. God have mercy on us; we shall be burnt to death!"
"Hush! Be quiet, little woman," I cried, hoarsely, as I slipped on my things. "Be calm, and I'll save you—or we'll be burnt together," I thought to myself.
The next moment I was through into the front room, and had thrown up the window.
"It's all right, Kitty," I shouted back; "it's not here."
All right for us; but, even as I uttered the selfish words, there were windows opening right, left, and opposite, and the street was being filled with screams.
All right for us—but for the poor creatures in the house directly opposite!
There, my heart seems to stand still now, as it comes back—the noise and confusion, the trampling of feet, the dull, red glow that shone upon our faces, the rolling clouds of smoke, the breaking of glass, and the horrible feeling of knowing that that house opposite was full of people, and that the kitchens were in a blaze, and roaring like a furnace.
"Oh, Will!" cried my wife, excitedly, "those poor bairns upstairs, and their father away!"
These words roused me, and, darting from the window, I dragged on a jacket, but only to have Kitty's arms round me directly.
"No! no! You shan't go," cried she. "You'll be hurt."
"Let go, Kitty," I said, struggling with her, as the top window opposite was dashed open. and there came out on the night air, thrilling us where we stood, such a cry as I pray Heaven I may never hear again."
"Help! My children! Oh help! Help!"
"And their father not at home!" I cried, hoarsely, as I pointed to where there was a ghostly-looking figure clutching a couple of children in her arms.
Kitty dropped from me on to her knees, and I dashed downstairs, not knowing what I was going to do, to form one of a crowd—not a large one—gathering in the street, for it was about one in the morning.
There were three policemen, and they had dashed in the front door, where they heard some one beating at it, and dragged out several half-suffocated creatures. Then people were bringing out carpets, and trying to hold them for the people at the upper windows to jump into, after a couple of mattresses had been hung over the spikes; and so, in a horrible state of confusion, first one poor creature and then another was got out more dead than alive, several jumping, and getting more or less hurt.
"Where's the engines?" "Where's the escape?" "Where's the water?" "Where's the turn-cock?" Every one was shouting, every one adding to the confusion, but no one hardly, but the policemen, doing any good. Right and left of the burning house, the people had their heads out of the windows, and were shrieking, while others made the confusion worse by throwing their furniture out of the rooms; and all the while the flames kept sending a ruddy glow over the upturned faces, and fluttered and roared, as they poured forth now from window to window.
Twice over the policemen went in at that open door, and we got out somebody who had managed to escape by the stairs. But the last time we were beaten back, and stood panting in the street, just as, in the midst of the screams and cries, there was the distant rattle of wheels, that familiar "Hi-hi-hi!" the trampling of horses at full gallop, the gleam of light on the glistening helmets, and, with a train of sparks pouring out behind, the first engine came tearing up, with the crowd, as they parted left and right, uttering a loud "Hurrah!"
It was like magic to see those men get to work so readily. Horses were out, hose laid, glistening branch ready, and the steam panting, as there was another "Hurrah!" and a second engine, a manual, came tearing in at the end of our flaming street.
Again there was the rapid movement, and the men were ready; but in spite of the impatient cries of the gathering crowd, they did not begin to play, and then there ran a murmur through all like a thrill that the turn-cock could not be found.
At the same moment, though, a policeman came running with a figure in shirt and trousers, with the bright iron key over his shoulder, and a yell of delight burst forth as the man ran straight to a plug-hole close to the burning house. The policemen kept a space for him, and in a very short time he had screwed out a plug ready for the water to pour forth in a gushing fount.
There was cheer after cheer as the man, with the sweat shining on his face in the ruddy glow, tore at the plug, and then there was a wild, despairing groan, for as he drew it out—
There was no water in the main!
And all this time, at the upper window, stood that poor woman, with her children in her arms, silent now, and with the fire gathering fast below her. She had left off shrieking, and only stood clasping her poor little ones, gazing wildly down for the help that did not come.
The police had been up to the top of the houses right and left, and I had seen them at the windows, but they could not reach her; people below and opposite, as great wafts of flame and smoke rose towards the group, shrieked to her to jump, but the police shouted to her to stay, while, mad with horror, she seemed to hear nothing.
I had tried, with the policemen, to get up the stairs; not that I am a brave man, for I never before knew how great a coward I was, but we saw that there were no stairs—no thing but a blazing mass of wood.
Just then there was a buzz of excitement, and a hatless man came running, to force his way through the crowd.
"Leap! Jump down!" someone cried, just in the midst of a horrible pause, during which the roaring and crackling of the flames seemed to thrill one to the very marrow.
"No, no!" cried the man. "Stop, stop! No, no! Ann—stand fast!"
She heard the voice, and uttered another shriek, and then there rang out from amongst a cloud of smoke—
"Jack! Jack! Help!" and then, in the midst of a shuddering moan that burst from the crowd, there was a little silvery voice heard, as plainly as if it had been a peal of thunder—
"Father! Father! We shall be burnt!"
The man made a frantic rush to get into the burning house, but the firemen held him back, and, meanwhile, another engine had dashed up, and a tall, thin man had leaped off, and was stamping about with rage, as he seemed to rave at the turn-cock, who shook his head.
"Hurrah!"
At last. Right and left the people parted, a space had been left clear, and the tall, red fire-escape had come.
"Too late—too late!" groaned the crowd; but brave men don't believe those words.
In less time than it takes to tell it, the tall escape was reared, the fly-ladder dragged up, the firemen closing round to keep back the eager crowd, who would have hindered, and, in the midst of the fire and smoke that hid the top of the ladder, we saw the man in charge run up. A fireman was following, axe in hand; but he was thrust aside, and that furious, hatless man leaped up the ladder more than ran.
A breathless silence followed as we saw them go right into the flames, and then, as a puff of of wind wafted the smoke aside, the crowd cheered, for they were above the blaze; but directly after there was a yell of horror—the poor woman, with the children, had disappeared! There was smoke coming out of the window where they had stood, and the escape-ladder was on fire.
Two more lives lost, I thought, as I clung to the railings opposite, paralysed, for I could not help, and was obliged to gaze on, though my heart seemed to stand still.
But no! Not yet! We saw the escape-man grasp the window and climb in, and the father—for he it was—reach the sill and climb in afterwards. Then the escape-man appeared directly after with the children in his arms, and a hoarse murmur arose, for the people were too much excited to cheer.
He put one leg out to the ladder, sitting crosswise on the sill, and one of the firemen—no, it was the tall, thin man—shouted to him to take care, when there was a rumble, a roar, and an awful rush of sparks and flame from the windows as the second and first floors fell, showing the house now as a burning, fiery furnace, in which none but those we read of in parables could have lived; but then, as the firemen who had been driven back returned, the tall, thin, red fly-ladder fell, burned through, and the top of the escape was seen to be in a blaze.
Just then a little feeble bubbling of water began to be seen at the plug-hole, but too little yet to be of use; and the murmur of horror increased, for the top window was empty now, and we felt that there was another brave fireman gone to his rest.
Water, at last, but the house was ablaze from area to roof. Slates were falling off in flakes, the beams crackled, and it was evidently only a matter of moments before the roof would fall in; and, sick at heart, my mouth dry, my eyes staring and stinging with the smoke and my hands smarting, for they were badly burnt, I was going to try and get in home, when there was a shout to the right of the burning house, and then, drowning the panting and clanking of the engines, the hiss of the water, and roaring of the burning house, there went up to heaven such a cheer as I never expect to hear again.
It was deafening, maddening, and it made a man's hands go up in the air, as if he were throwing his heart to the ruddy sky in his joy. I believe I was mad for the moment, as I yelled and cheered. For, up there, on the ledge of the next house, standing like a group of golden figures, and clinging to a stack of chimneys, was the escape-man, with the two children, and the father, with his arm round his half-fainting wife.
It was a sight to see; and no wonder that dense crowd below sent up cheer after cheer, every one of which was a heart-wrung thanksgiving prayer.
It was only a matter of time, and another fire-escape, to get them down—not even singed; for the brave fireman had mounted a table when the ladder was burnt, and cut his way with his axe through the ceiling, and on to the roof, unseen by us for the smoke; but, I tell you I would rather have been that brave fellow than the greatest general that ever drew the breath of life. And as for the company who supply the water to those mains—
There, the recollection of it all makes me feel sick, and my heart begins to throb, and I may be saying more, perhaps, than would be just.
Warragul Guardian, Thursday 14 July 1881, supplement page 2
