The Thorogood Family by Robert Michael Ballantyne (amazing books to read .TXT) 📕

to push the huge ladder on wheels to the window mentioned, and placed it in position. While Jim ran for a nozzle and hose, there was a great cry from the crowd. A woman had got out on the ledge of an attic window, and knelt there shrieking and waving her arms, while the smoke curled round her, and the flames leapt up at her. She was high above the head of the escape; but there were fly-ladders which could be raised above that. These were instantly hoisted, and our foreman sprang up to the rescue.

The danger of the attempt lay in this--that, though the lower and upper parts of the escape were comparatively free from smoke, the middle was shrouded with a dense mass, through which now and then a lurid red flame burst. But our hero thought only of the woman. In a second or two he had disappeared in the smoke.

Two of the firemen stood below holding a nozzle of the hose and directing it on a particular spot. They did not dare to move from their post, but they could see by a glance upwards what was going on.

"Fred," said one to the other in a low voice, "_He'll_ save her, or there'll be a man less in the brigade to-night. He never does anything by halves. Whatever he undertakes he does _well_. Depend on't, that Harry Thorogood will save that woman if she can be saved at all."

As he spoke Harry was seen emerging above the smoke, but when he reached the top of the highest ladder he was fully six feet below the spot where the woman knelt.

"Come! girl, come!" he shouted, and held out his arms.

The terrified creature hesitated. She was afraid. She doubted the strength of the escape--the power of the man.

"Come! come!" again he shouted.

She obeyed, but came against the fireman with such force that the round of the ladder on which he stood gave way, and both were seen to go crashing downwards, while something like a mighty groan or cry rose from the multitude below. It was changed, however, into a wild cheer when Harry was seen to have caught the head of the escape, and arrested his fall, with one powerful hand, while, with the other, he still grasped the woman.

"God favours them," said a voice in the crowd, as a gust of wind for a few seconds drove smoke and flames aside.

Our bold fireman seized the opportunity, got the woman into the shoot, or canvas bag under the lowest ladder, and slid with her in safety to the ground.

The pen may describe, but it cannot convey a just idea of the thrilling cheers that greeted the rescued woman as she was received at the bottom of the escape, or the shouts of applause and congratulation that greeted Harry Thorogood as he emerged from the same, burnt, bleeding, scraped, scarred, and blackened, but not seriously injured, and with a pleasant smile upon his dirty face.


CHAPTER FIVE.

We turn now to a battlefield, but we won't affect to believe that the reader does not know who is one of the chief heroes of that field.

Robert Thorogood is his name. Bob does not look very heroic, however, when we introduce him, for he is sound asleep with his mouth open, his legs sprawling, his eyes tight shut, his bed the ground, his pillow the root of a tree, and his curtains the branches thereof. The only warlike point about Bob is the trumpet-sound that issues from his upturned nose.

Bob's sentiments about soldiering are queer. His comrades laugh at him a good deal about them, but they never scoff, for Bob is strong and full of fire; besides he is a pattern of promptitude and obedience, so they respect him. Moreover, he is a kindly and jovial man, therefore they are fond of him.

The battlefield of which we write was in the East. The fight had been between the British and Russians. The British had been victorious, and slept on the field.

When the bugles sounded the next morning they stopped the nasal trumpets everywhere, and Corporal Robert Thorogood was the first man of all the host to "fall in"--which he did by himself. But he was not long alone; others quickly joined him.

The companies were soon numbered, proved, formed into column, and marched off. Then there was a short halt for breakfast.

"Why, you're not half a soldier, Bob," said a hearty young comrade, while hastily eating his rations. "I saw you spare a Russian officer yesterday after he had cut off the little finger of your left hand."

"What good would it have done to have killed him?" asked Bob, with a smile, as he looked at the bloody stump, which had just been dressed by the surgeon; "the poor fellow's leg was broken by a bullet the moment after he had done it, so he could do us no more harm in this campaign. Then, his death would not make my little finger grow on again. Besides, I don't like killing men."

"Why did you join the army, then, if you did not do so for the honour and glory of fighting, (which means killing), our enemies?"

"Ah, you may ask that indeed! I mistook my profession, I suppose. However, I'll do my duty while I remain in the service."

As he spoke, firing was heard in the distance, and the men were ordered to fall in hastily before breakfast had been quite finished.

The firing increased, and soon the advance guard was seen falling back in good order over the brow of a small hill or slope. Rifle balls began to fly overhead, and a few to drop unpleasantly near the troops. Suddenly our Corporal was startled by an appalling cry behind him. He turned quickly, and saw the young soldier with whom he had been so recently conversing lying on his back stone dead, with the blood oozing from a hole between his eyes.

There was no time to think, however. His battalion was ordered to the front to defend a narrow rocky pass which the enemy were attempting to carry by storm. Twice already they had made the assault, and had almost succeeded on the second attempt. A third assault was being made when Thorogood's company came up. They rushed forward just as the Russians crowned the heights and were driving the British back. The reinforcements checked them, but did not turn the scale at first.

There was one gigantic Russian who stood towering above his fellows with clubbed rifle, furiously knocking down all who came within his reach, like Horatius or one of the other heroes of ancient Rome. At him Corporal Thorogood sprang, grasping his rifle by the muzzle as he ran, and whirling it on high. The Russian saw him coming. The two rifles met with a crash, and flew into splinters. Bob dropped his weapon, grasped his adversary by the throat, thrust him back, and bore him headlong to the ground. This incident turned the scale. A cheer followed. The British swept forward with such irresistible fury that the men in front were thrust upon the foe in a mass, Bob and his enemy being turned heels over head in the rush. A well-sustained fire scattered the foe like chaff, and those who had been thrown down were taken prisoners. Among them was the gigantic Russian, with the Corporal still holding his collar tight in his iron grasp.

"Well done, my man!" said the Colonel of the regiment as he rode past Bob.

The Colonel was a man of few words. He said no more on that occasion, but every one knew that he would not forget the man who had so bravely turned the tide of battle that day.

Bob, however, did not escape altogether unhurt. He had been rather severely wounded, and afterwards had to spend a considerable time in hospital. As his wound did not prevent him from moving about, he soon became a valuable assistant to the surgeons and nurses in the hospital.

"Ah!" said he one night, when smoothing the pillow and attending to the wants of a severely wounded soldier, "this comes more natural to me. It suits me better than fighting."

"I wish you were one of the regular nurses, Corporal," said one of the surgeons heartily; "you do everything so thoroughly, and with such a will."

But Bob was not allowed to remain long at his peaceful work. Being a healthy and temperate man he soon recovered, and ere long found himself in the trenches before Sebastopol.

It was winter. One bleak, raw morning, just before daybreak, Bob plodded down with his party through slush and mud to take his turn of fighting before the great fortress. It was bitterly cold and dark. Some of the men were grumbling terribly.

"Ah, then, won't you shut your 'tatie traps?" said a big Irishman, who had won the Victoria Cross the week before for conspicuous gallantry.

"We engaged for this sort o' work, lads, when we 'listed," remarked Bob, "an' are paid for it; so let's stick to our bargain wi' the Queen, an' do our duty well."

"Troth, that's well said," remarked the Irishman. "`What's worth doin' at all is worth doin' well,' as my ould grandmother used to say when she whacked me."

There was a faint laugh at this, and the grumbling ceased.

"Come, Corporal Free," said Bob, "as we've got to sit here till morning you'd better tell us one of your far-famed stories to make the time pass pleasantly--at least as pleasantly as circumstances will allow."

"Ay, Jacob Free," cried the Irishman, "that's well said. Give us that one about yoursilf whin ye was a schoolboy. A good story, you know, is niver a bit the worse o' bein' twice towld."

"Hear! hear!" cried Bob, "come along now, Corporal, an' give us the schoolboy's story."

Corporal Jacob Free, who was a gentlemanly man, somewhat advanced in years, said he would rather tell about some one else than himself, but this only made his comrades more determined.

"Well, then," said he, at last, "since you will have it, I'll give you what Bob Thorogood has named:--THE SCHOOLBOY'S STORY.

"It was with an intense hatred of lessons and books that I began my school-days. Not an unusual experience, I believe, with boys. My parents were poor--though I have every reason to conclude that they were scrupulously honest; hence I began my school career rather late in life--at about twelve years of age. But previously to that, my much-loved, much-abused, and long-suffering mother had taught me to read and write, so that my brain was not altogether unfurnished when I went to school.

"It was a village school, in a remote district of Scotland; the master was a tall, thin, cadaverous and kindly man, of considerable attainments, and with a strong affection for boys. Had it been otherwise he must have died younger--of a broken heart. I loved that man--but I worried him. A pang of toothache-like remorse shoots through me still when I think of the sorrows I caused that good man, but the pang is mitigated by the reflection that I lived to make amends to him.

"I liked the school-days well enough