Fighting the Flames by R. M. Ballantyne (ebook reader that looks like a book .TXT) 📕

“very near seein’ wan two or three times,” and he lived in perpetual expectation and dread of meeting one face to face before he died. Joe was as brave as a lion, and faced danger, and sometimes even what appeared to be certain death, with as much unflinching courage as the bravest of his comrades. Once, in particular, he had walked with the branch in his hands along the burning roof of a tottering warehouse, near the docks, in order to gain a point from which he could play on the flames so as to prevent them spreading to the next warehouse, and so check a fire which might have easily become one of the “great fires of London.”

Joe was therefore a man who could not be easily frightened; yet Joe trembled in his shoes when he had the most distant prospect of meeting with a ghost!

There was no help for it, however. He had been appointed to watch the ruin; and, being a man who cherished a strong sense of duty, he set himself doggedly to make the most of his circumstances.

It was past one o’clock when the fire was finally extinguished. A few night-birds and late revellers still hung about it, as if in the hope that it would burst forth again, and afford them fresh excitement; but before two o’clock, everyone had gone away, and Joe was left alone with his “preventer” and lantern. Even the policeman on the beat appeared to avoid him; for, although he passed the ruin at regular intervals in his rounds, he did not stop at it beyond a few moments, to see that the fireman’s lantern was burning and all right.

“Corney, me lad,” said Joe to himself, “it’s bad luck has befallen ye this night; but face yer luck like a man now, and shame it.”

Encouraging himself thus, he grasped his preventer, and pulled about the débris in various places of which he had some suspicion; but the engines had done their work so effectually that not a spark remained. Then Joe walked up and down, and in and out for an hour; studied the half-consumed pictures that still hung on the walls of one of the lower rooms, which had not been completely destroyed; moralised on the dire confusion and ruin that could be accomplished in so short a space of time; reflected on the probable condition of the unfortunates who had been burnt out; on the mutability of human affairs in general, and wondered what his “owld mother” would think of him, if she saw him in his forlorn situation.

This latter thought caused his mind to revert to ghosts; but he was comforted by hearing the slow, distant foot-fall of the policeman. On it came, not unlike the supposed step of an unearthly visitant, until the guardian of the night stood revealed before him on the other side of the road.

“It’s a cowld night intirely,” cried Corney.

“It is,” responded the policeman.

“How goes the inimy?” inquired the fireman.

“Just gone three,” replied the other.

The policeman’s voice, although gruff, was good-humoured and hearty; but he was evidently a strict disciplinarian, for he uttered no other word, and passed on.

“Faix, I’m gettin’ slaipy,” remarked Joe to himself, with a loud yawn. “I’ll go and rest a bit.”

So saying, he re-entered the ruin, and with the aid of his lantern sought about for the least uncomfortable apartment on the ground floor. He selected one which was comparatively weather-tight. That is to say, only one of the windows had been dashed out, and the ceiling was entire, with the exception of a hole about four feet wide, through which the charred beams above could be seen depicted against the black sky. There was about an inch of water on the floor; but this was a small matter, for Joe’s boots were thick and strong. The door, too, had been burst off its hinges, and lay on the floor; but Joe could raise this, and place it in its original position.

The room had been a parlour and there were several damaged prints hanging on the walls, besides a quantity of detached paper hanging from them. Most of the furniture had been removed at the commencement of the fire; but a few broken articles remained, and one big old easy-chair, which had either been forgotten, or deemed unworthy of removal, by the men of the Salvage Corps. (See note 1.)

Joe wheeled the chair to the fireplace—not that there was any fire in it; on the contrary, it was choked up with fallen bricks and mortar, and the hearth was flooded with water; but, as Joe remarked to himself, “it felt more homelike an’ sociable to sit wid wan’s feet on the finder!”

Having erected the door in front of its own doorway, Joe leaned his preventer against the wall, placed his lantern on the chimney-piece, and sat down to meditate. He had not meditated long, when the steady draught of air from the window at his back began to tell upon him.

“Och! but it’s a cowld wind,” said he. “I’ll try the other side. There’s nothin’ like facin’ wan’s inimies.”

Acting on this idea, he changed his position, turning his face to the window and his back to the door.

“Well,” he remarked on sitting down again, “there’s about as much draught from the door; but, sure, ye’ve improved yer sitivation, Corney, for haven’t ye the illigant prospect of over the way through the windy?”

Not long after this, Joe’s mind became much affected with ghostly memories. This condition was aggravated by an intense desire to sleep, for the poor man had been hard worked that day, and stood much in need of repose. He frequently fell asleep, and frequently awoke. On falling asleep, his helmet performed extremely undignified gyrations. On awaking, he always started, opened his eyes very wide, looked round inquiringly, then smiled, and resumed a more easy position. But, awake or asleep, his thoughts ran always in the same channel.

During one of those waking moments, Joe heard a sound which rooted him to his seat with horror; and would doubtless have caused his hair to stand on end, if the helmet would have allowed it. The sound was simple enough in itself, however; being slight, slow, and regular, and was only horrible in Joe’s mind, because of his being utterly unable to account for it, or to conceive what it could be.

Whatever the sound was, it banished sleep from his eyes for at least a quarter of an hour. At last, unable to stand the strain of uncertainty, he arose, drew his hatchet, took down his lantern, and, coughing loudly and sternly—as though to say:

“Have a care, I’m coming!”—removed the door and went cautiously into the passage, where the sound appeared to come from. It did not cease on his appearing; but went on slowly and steadily, and louder than before. It appeared to be at his very elbow; yet Joe could see nothing, and a cold perspiration broke out on him.

“Och! av I could only see it!” he gasped.

Just as he said this he did see it, for a turn of his lantern revealed the fact that a drop of water fell regularly from one of the burnt beams upon a large sheet of paper which had been torn from the passage wall. This, resting on the irregular rubbish, formed a sort of drum, which gave forth a hollow sound.

“Ah, then, but ye are a goose, Joe Corney, me boy!” said the fireman, as he turned away with an amiable smile and resumed his seat after replacing the door.

About this time the wind began to rise, and came in irregular gusts. At each gust the door was blown from the wall an inch or so, and fell back with a noise that invariably awoke Joe with a start. He looked round each time quickly; but as the door remained quiet he did not discover the cause of his alarm. After it had done this several times Joe became, so to speak, desperately courageous.

“Git out wid ye!” he cried angrily on being startled again, “wasn’t the last wan all a sham? an’ sure ye’re the same. Go ’long in pace—an’ goodnight!”

As he said this the over-taxed man fell asleep; at the same moment a heavy gust of wind drove the door in altogether, and dashed it down on his head. Fortunately, being somewhat charred, the panel that struck his helmet was driven out, so that Joe came by no greater damage than the fright, which caused his heart to bound into his throat, for he really believed that the ghost had got him at last!

Relieving himself of the door, which he laid on the floor lest it should play him the same prank over again, Joe Corney once more settled himself in the easy-chair and resolved to give his mind to meditation. Just then the City clocks pealed forth the hour of four o’clock.

This is perhaps the quietest hour of the twenty-four in London. Before this most of the latest revellers have gone home, and few of the early risers are moving.

There was one active mind at work at that hour, however—namely, that of Gorman—who, after recovering from the blow given him by Dale, went to his own home on the banks of the Thames, in the unaristocratic locality of London Bridge.

Gorman owned a small boat, and did various kinds of business with it. But Gorman’s occupations were numerous and not definite. He was everything by turns, and nothing long. When visible to the outward eye (and that wasn’t often), his chief occupations were loafing about and drinking. On the present occasion he drank a good deal more than usual, and lay down to sleep, vowing vengeance against firemen in general, and Dale in particular.

Two or three hours later he awoke, and leaving his house, crossed London Bridge, and wended his way back to the scene of the fire without any definite intention, but with savage desires in his breast. He reached it just at that point where Joe Corney had seated himself to meditate, as above described.

Joe’s powers of meditation were not great at any time. At that particular time they were exerted in vain, for his head began to sway backward and forward and to either side, despite his best efforts to the contrary.

Waiting in the shadow of a doorway until the policeman should pass out of sight and hearing, and cautiously stepping over the débris that encumbered the threshold of the burnt house, Gorman peeped into the room, where the light told him that some one kept watch. Great was his satisfaction and grim his smile when he saw that a stalwart fireman sat there apparently asleep. Being only able to see his back, he could not make certain who it was,—but from the bulk of the man and breadth of the shoulders he concluded that it was Dale. Anyhow it was one of his enemies, and that was sufficient, for Gorman’s nature was of that brutal kind that he would risk his life any day in order to gratify his vengeance, and it signified little to him which of his enemies fell in his way, so long as it was one of them.

Taking up a brick from the floor, he raised himself to his full height, and dashed it down on the head of the sleeping man. Just at that moment Corney’s nodding head chanced to fall forward, and the brick only hit the comb of his helmet, knocking it over his eyes. Next moment he was grappling with Gorman.

As on previous occasions, Joe’s heart had leaped to his throat, and that the ghost was upon him “at last” he had no manner of doubt; but no sooner did he feel the human arm of Gorman and behold his face than his native courage returned with a bound. He gave his antagonist a squeeze that nearly crushed his ribs together, and at the same time hurled him against the opposite wall. But Gorman was