Life in the Red Brigade: London Fire Brigade by R. M. Ballantyne (best ereader for academics .txt) 📕

the flames. A deep groan, or cry of horror, arose from the crowd, and wild shouts of “fetch a ladder,” “bring up the escape,” were heard, while poor Martha got out on the window-sill to avoid the flames, which were rapidly drawing towards and almost scorching her.

Just then a man was seen to dash furiously through the crowd, he fought his way madly—knocking down all who opposed him. Gaining the door of the burning house he sprang in.

“I say,” whispered Little Jim, in an excited voice, “it’s Phil Sparks!”

“I’m glad to hear it,” observed a quiet, broad-shouldered man, who stood near two policemen, to whom he winked knowingly.

The Bloater attempted to move off, but one of the policemen detained him. The other detained Little Jim.

Meanwhile the crowd looked for Phil’s reappearance on the beam from which poor Ned Crashington had fallen, but Phil knew the house better than Ned. He gained the upper floor by a back stair, which was not quite impassable; seized Martha in his arms, just as she was about to leap into the street, and dragged her back into the smoke and flames. It appeared almost certain that both must have perished; but in a few seconds the man was seen to descend the lower stair with the woman in his arms, and in another moment a wild enthusiastic cheer burst from the vast multitude as he leaped into the street.

Laying Martha gently down on a doorstep, Sparks bent over her, and whispered in her ear. She appeared to have swooned, but opened her eyes, and gazed earnestly in the face of her deliverer.

“The Lord must have sent you to save me, Phil; He will save you also, if you will trust Him.”

“Forgive me, Martha, I was hard on you, but—”

“God bless you, Phil—”

“Clear the way there,” cried a commanding voice; “here, doctor, this way.”

The crowd opened. A medical man came forward and examined Martha, and pronounced her to be only slightly injured. Several men then raised her and carried her towards a neighbouring house. Phil Sparks was about to follow, but the quiet man with the broad shoulders touched him gently on the arm, and said that he was “wanted.”

“Sorry to interrupt you in such a good work, but it can’t be helped. Other people can take care of her now, you know; come along.”

Sparks’ first impulse was to knock the quiet man down and fly, but he felt a restraining power on his other arm, and, looking round, observed a tall policeman at his side. As if by magic, another tall policeman appeared in front of him, and a third behind him. He suddenly bent down his head and suffered himself to be led away. Seeing this, the Bloater and Little Jim wrenched themselves from the grasp of their respective captors, dived between the legs of the bystanders, as eels might do among sedges, and vanished, to their own inexpressible delight and the total discomfiture of the “bobbies.” They met a few minutes later at a well-known rendezvous.

“I wish ’e ’adn’t bin took,” said the Bloater with a look of regret on his expressive though dirty countenance.

“Poor Martha!” said Little Jim, almost crying as he thought of her. “’Ow much d’you think ’e’ll get, Bloater?”

“Twenty years at least; p’r’aps go for life; you see it’s an aggrawated case. I’ve bin makin’ partikler inquiries, and I finds ’e’s bin raisin’ no end o’ fires doorin’ the last six months—kep’ the Red Brigade trottin’ about quite in a surprisin’ way. I rather fear that ’e’ll be let in for ever an’ a day.”

The Bloater was not quite correct in his guess. When the trial came on, to the surprise of all, especially of his “pals,” Phil Sparks pleaded guilty! Partly in consideration of this, and partly on account of his last courageous act in saving the girl, he was let off with fifteen years penal servitude.

But, to return from this episode. The great fire at the docks, after gutting several warehouses, was finally subdued. And what of the loss? A hundred thousand pounds did not cover it, and every insurance office in London suffered! In addition to this, several persons lost their lives, while the Red Brigade, besides having some of their number more or less severely injured, lost one of its best and bravest men.

Gallant Ned Crashington’s fighting days were over. His mangled remains were gathered up next morning, and, a few days later, were conveyed by his comrades to their last resting-place.

It is no easy matter to move the heart of London. That vast nation-in-a-city has too many diverse interests to permit of the eyes of all being turned, even for a moment, upon one thing. Nevertheless the fireman’s funeral seemed to cause the great cord to vibrate for a little. Hundreds of thousands of people turned out to witness the cortège. Ned’s coffin was drawn, military fashion, on one of the engines peculiar to his profession, with his helmet and hatchet placed upon the lid. The whole of the force of the brigade that could be spared followed him in uniform, headed by their chief, and accompanied by a large detachment of the police force. The procession was imposing, and the notices that appeared next day in all the papers were a touching tribute of respect to the self-sacrificing fireman, who, as one of these papers said, “left a widow and son, in poor circumstances, to mourn his early death.”

Ah, these things were soon forgotten in the rush of the world’s business by all save that widow and son, and one or two bosom friends. Even the men of the Red Brigade appeared to forget the fallen hero very soon. We say “appeared,” because there were some among them who mourned Ned as a dear brother, chief among whom was Joe Dashwood. But whatever the feelings of the firemen might have been, theirs was a warfare that allowed no time for the undue indulgence or exhibition of grief. The regular “calls” and duties went on steadily, sternly, as if nothing had occurred, and before Ned’s remains had lain a night in their last resting-place, many of his old comrades were out again doing fierce battle with the restless and untameable flames.