Part 1

“_Familiar in their Mouths as HOUSEHOLD WORDS._”—SHAKESPEARE.

HOUSEHOLD WORDS. A WEEKLY JOURNAL.

CONDUCTED BY CHARLES DICKENS.

N^{o.} 7.] SATURDAY, MAY 11, 1850. [PRICE 2_d._

THE FIRE BRIGADE OF LONDON.

Earth, Air, and Water are necessary conditions of human life; but Fire is the first great element of civilisation. Fire, the first medium between the ‘cooking animal’ and the wild root and raw-flesh-devouring savage; fire, the best, because the most useful of servants, and, according to the old proverb, the worst, because the most tyrannical of masters; fire, the chief friend of man in creations of nature and of industrial art, yet the most potent of all enemies in destruction; fire, the most brilliant and magnificent object on the earth, yet the most frightful and appalling when once it obtains dominion over man and man’s abodes;—to subdue, and render docile to all needs, this devouring dragon, and bend his splendid crests, not only to ‘boil the pot’ but to lick the dust before the feet of Science, this is one of the greatest triumphs of mankind, the results of which are every year more and more stupendous.

But, amidst all our mastery, we are never permitted to forget that this illustrious slave has neither abandoned nor abated one jot of his original nature. Of this we are but too constantly reminded. Not to speak of lightning and volcanic eruptions, the weekly record of colliery and other mine explosions, of steamboat explosions, the burning of ships, and the dismal transformation to a heap of ashes of valuable warehouses, costly public edifices, or private houses, with ‘dreadful loss of life,’ need but the slightest mention to excite a thrill of alarm, or some passing thought of caution in the mind of every person holding the smallest stake in the social community.

To meet this sudden emergency, therefore, and to restore the balance of power, or, rather, to put down the mutiny of this powerful slave, and reduce him to his habitual subserviency, we have the Fire Brigade, divided into four sections, and having nineteen stations in the most central quarters of the metropolis. This includes two ‘mighty engines’ floating on the Thames.

‘Of all the rallying words,’ says a writer in Charles Knight’s “London,” ‘whereby multitudes are gathered together, and their energies impelled forcibly to one point, that of “_Fire!_” is, perhaps, the most startling and the most irresistible. It levels all distinctions; it sets at nought sleep, and meals, and occupations, and amusements; it turns night into day, and Sunday into a “working-day;” it gives double strength to those who are blessed with any energy, and paralyses those who have none; it brings into prominent notice, and converts into objects of sympathy, those who were before little thought of, or who were, perhaps, despised; it gives to the dwellers in a whole huge neighbourhood the unity of one family.’

But even while we are trimming our midnight lamp to write this paper, the cry of ‘Fire!’ suddenly resounds from a distant street. The heavy boots of a policeman clatter along beneath our window. The cry is repeated by several voices, and more feet are heard hurrying along. The fire is in a squalid court, leading into a mews which runs close to the backs of the houses of one side of a great square. We hastily struggle into an overcoat, snatch up a hat, and issue forth to follow the alarming cry.

The tumult sounds in the court; the cry of ‘Fire!’ is wildly repeated in a woman’s voice from one of the windows of the mews; now from another window!—now from several. ‘Fire! fire!’ cry voices of many passengers in streets, and away scamper the policemen to the nearest stations of the Fire Brigade, passing the word to other policemen as they run, till all the police force in the neighbourhood are clattering along the pavement, some towards the scene of the fire, but most of them either towards an engine-station, to one of the Fire-escapes of the Royal Society, or to pass the word to the policeman whose duty it will be to run to the engine-station next beyond. By this means of passing the word, somebody arrives at the gates of the Chief Office of the Fire Brigade, in Watling Street, and, seizing the handle of the night-bell, pulls away at it with the vigour which such events always call forth.

The fireman on duty for the night, immediately opens the gate, and receives the intelligence, cutting short all loquacity as much as possible, and eliciting the spot where the fire has broken out, and the extent to which it was raging when the person left. The fireman then runs to a bell-handle, which he pulls; and applying his ear to the mouth-piece of a pipe, hears a voice ask, ‘What is it?’ (The fireman hears his own voice sound as if at a great distance; while the voice actually remote sounds close in the mouth-piece, with a strange preternatural effect.) The bell-wire reaches up to the Superintendent’s bedside; and the bell being rung, Mr. Braidwood raises himself on one elbow, and applying his mouth to the other end of the tube, answers, and gives orders. A few words of dialogue conducted in this way, suffice. Up jumps Mr. Braidwood—crosses the passage to his dressing-room (armoury, we ought rather to call it), and in three minutes is attired in the thick cloth frock-coat, boots, and helmet of the Fire Brigade, fixing buttons and straps as he descends the stairs.

Meanwhile all the men have been equally active below. No sooner has the fireman aroused Mr. Braidwood, than he rings the bell of the foreman, the engineer, and the ‘singlemen’s bell’—which means the bell of the division where the four unmarried men sleep. He then runs out to the stables, calling the ‘charioteer’ by the way, and two other firemen lodging close by; after which he returns to assist in harnessing the horses.

Owing to this simultaneous action, each according to his special and general duties, by the time Mr. Braidwood reaches the bottom of the stairs, the engine has been got out, and put in working order. All its usual furniture, implements, and tools are placed within, or packed about it. Short scaling-ladders, made to fit into each other, are attached to the sides; six lengths of hose; branch-pipes, director-pipes, spare nozzle, suction-pipes, goose-neck, dogs’-tails (the first to deliver water into the engine; the second are iron wrenches), canvas sheet, with rope handles round the edge (to catch people who will boldly jump out of window), dam-board (to prevent water from plug flowing madly away), portable cistern, strips of sheep-skin (to mend bursting hose), balls of cord, flat hose, escape-chain, escape-ropes, mattock, saw, shovel, pole-axe, boat-hook, crow-bar (_such_ a fellow!) to burst through doors or walls, or break up pavement; instruments for opening fire-plugs, and keys for turning stop-cocks of water-mains, &c.

All being ready, the Superintendent mounts the engine to the right of the driver, and the engineer, foreman, and firemen mount also, and range themselves on each side of the long red chest at the top, which contains the multifarious articles just enumerated. Off they start—brisk trot—canter—gallop! A bright red gleam overspreads the sky to the westward. The Superintendent knows that the fire in the court has reached the mews, and the stables are in flames. Full gallop!

Along the midnight streets, which are now all alive with excited people—some having left the theatres, others wending homeward from supper at a friend’s, from dances, or perhaps late hours of business in various trades,—all are running in the direction of the fire! As the engine thunders by them, the gas-lamps gleaming on the helmets of the firemen and the eager heads of the horses, the people send up a loud shout of ‘Fi-ire!’ and follow pell-mell in its wake.

Arriving at the mews, the Superintendent sees exactly all that has happened—all that must happen—all that may happen—and all that may be prevented. The court is doomed to utter ruin and ashes; so is the mews. Two of the larger stables are on fire, and the flames are now devouring a loft full of hay and straw. But in doing this, their luminous tongues stretch far beyond, seeking fresh food when this is gone. The wind too!—the fatal wind, sets in the direction of the square! The flames are struggling, and leaping, and striving with all their might to reach the back premises of the houses on this side of the square; and reach it they will, if this wind continues!

Meanwhile, two of the Fire Brigade engines from stations nearer at hand than that of the Chief Office, are already here, and hard at work. A fourth engine arrives from the Chief Office close upon the wheels of the first—and now a fifth comes thundering up the mews. The Superintendent taking command of the whole, and having ascertained that all the inmates of the court and mews have been got out, gives orders for three of the engines to continue their efforts to overcome the fire, and at any rate to prevent it spreading to the houses in the square on each side of the one which is now so imminently threatened. He then directs his own engine and one other to be driven round to the front of the house in the square, so as to attack the enemy both in front and rear at the same time. The flames have just reached it—not a moment is to be lost! As he drives off, innumerable cries and exhortations seek to arrest his progress, and to make him alter his intentions. Several voices, louder and more excited than all the rest,—vociferating something about ‘saving her life’—cause him to pause, and prepare to turn, till, amidst the confusion, he contrives to elicit the fact that a stable cat has been unable to escape, and has darted out upon the burning roof of a loft—and, also, that Mrs. Jessikin’s laundry—but he listens no further, and gallops his engine round to the front of the house in the square, followed by shouts of excitement and several yells.

The Fire-escape ladders of the Royal Society have already arrived here in front. All the inmates have been got out by the door—at least it is _said_ that all are out, by those white figures with faces as white, who, looking round them, really see nothing distinctly and know nothing as it is—having been awoke by the cries of ‘Fire,’ and not being quite sure if all this mad hubbub of people, flames, voices, and water-spouts, may not be some horrible nightmare vision.

The water-plugs have been drawn, and the gutters are all flooded. The gully-hole is covered—a dam-board arrests the stream and gives depth—the portable cistern is quickly filled—the suction-pipes of the engines, being placed in it, both of them are got into position. The flames have reached the back of the house; their points are just seen rising above the roof! A rush of people seize on the long pump-levers, all mad to work the engines. The foreman rapidly selects ten for each side—sets them to work—and then, one at a time, takes down their names in a book for the purpose, so that they may be paid a shilling an hour—those who choose to accept it. But a hundred volunteer to work—they don’t want the shilling—they want to pump. ‘Let _me_ pump!’ ‘_I’m_ the one to pump!’ ‘Do you want any more to pump?’ resound on all sides from men of all classes, while the crowd press forward, and can scarcely be got to leave room enough for the engines to be worked—and they would not, but for the man with the director-pipe, who soon makes a watery circle around him. The fortunate volunteers at the levers now begin to pump away with a fury that seems perfectly frantic. The Superintendent, who has had many a fine-engine disabled during the first five minutes of this popular furor, insists upon their ardour being restrained; and with no little difficulty succeeds in getting his pumping done a degree less madly. Who, that did not know them, would believe that these outrageous pumpers were the very same people who stood with lack-lustre eyes at some tedious operation in trade or workshop, all day long; or, who sat stolidly opposite each other in an omnibus, without a word to say, and seeming too dull for either thought or action? Look at them now!

The wind still blows strongly from the blazing stables—the flames are rapidly eating their way through the house from the back! The two upper stories are already on fire. A figure appears at one of the windows, and makes signs. All the inmates had NOT been got out! An aged woman—a very old and faithful servant of the family—had lingered behind, vainly endeavouring to pack up some of her dear young mistress’s clothes and trinkets. A prolonged cry bursts from the crowd, followed with innumerable pieces of advice—bawled, hoarsely shouted, or rapidly screamed to the Superintendent, and the firemen directing the nozzle of the hose.

‘Point the nozzle up to the _window_!’

‘Up to the _roof_ of that room!’

‘_Smash_ the windows!’

‘The _Fire-escape_, Mr. Braidwood!’

‘Bring the ropes for her!—_throw up_ the ropes to her!’

‘Don’t smash the windows; you’ll _cut_ her!’

‘She’s gone to _jump out_ at the back!’

‘She is lying on the _floor_!’

‘She’s _suffocated_, Mr. Braidwood!’

‘Send up the _water_, to bring her to her senses!’

‘She’s burnt to _ashes_, Mr. Braidwood—I see her lying _all of a red tinder_!’

Amidst these vociferations, the Superintendent, having a well-practised deaf ear for such pieces of advice, has despatched two firemen to ascend the stairs (no fireman is allowed to enter a burning house alone) while two others enter below, and a lengthened hose is handed up to them with a boat-hook through the front drawing-room window, in order to combat the fire at close quarters, each one being accompanied by another fireman, in case of one fainting from heat or smoke, and meantime to assist in getting out furniture from the rooms not yet touched by the flames.

The two foremost firemen have now ascended the stairs. One remains on the second-floor landing, to watch, and give notice if their retreat is likely to be cut off, while the other ascends to the upper room where the poor old servant had been last seen. The room is quite full of smoke. He therefore drops down directly with his face almost touching the floor (because, as the smoke ascends, he thus gets ten or twelve inches of clear space and air), and in this way creeps and drags himself along till he sees a bundle of something struggling about, which he at once recognises, seizes, and drags off as quickly as possible. Almost exhausted, he meets his comrade on the stairs, who instantly giving aid, they bring down a little white, smutty, huddled-up bundle, with a nightcap and arms to it; and as they emerge from the door, are greeted with shouts of applause, and roars and screams of ‘Bravo! Bravo! God bless ’em! Bravo!’ from voices of men, and women, and boys.

The old woman presently comes to herself. She holds something in one hand, which she had never loosed throughout, though she really does not know what it is. ‘At all events,’ says she, ‘I’ve saved _this_!’

It is a hearth-broom.

The two firemen, each bearing a hose, have now got a position inside the house—one standing on the landing-place of the second-floor within ten or twelve feet of the flames, the other planted in the back drawing-room. The first directs his nozzle so that the water strikes with the utmost force upon the fire, almost in a straight line, dashing it out into black spots, and flaws, and steam, as much by the violence of the concussion as the antagonistic element. The other fireman directs his jet of water to oppose the advances of the flames from the rafters of the stables behind, and the wood-work of the back premises. Both the men are enveloped in a cloud of hot steam, so hot as scarcely to be endurable, and causing the perspiration to pour down their faces as fast as the water runs down the walls from the vigorous ‘playing of their pipes.’

But next door—to the right—what a long succession of drawing-room and dining-room chairs issue forth, varied now and then with a dripping hamper of choice wine, and the sound of cracking bottles; now, with a flattened cradle, now a tea-tray of richly-bound books; now, a turbot-kettle, and then more chairs!

In the door-way of the house on the left, there is a dreadful jam. An abominable, huge mahogany table has fixed one of its corners into the wall, on one side, and the brass castor of one leg into a broken plank of the flooring, on the other, just as a Broadwood horizontal-grand was coming down the stairs in the most massive manner (like a piano conscious of Beethoven), with its five bearers. These five men with the piano-forte, receiving a check in the passage from three men bearing boxes and a large clothes-horse, who had themselves received a check by the jam of the huge mahogany and its eight or nine excited blockheads, the stoppage became perfect, and the confusion sheer madness. Some of the inmates of this house, who had been wildly helping and handing down all sorts of things, observing that a stoppage had occurred below, and believing they had no more time to spare before the flames would penetrate their walls, brought baskets to the window, and with great energy threw out a quantity of beautiful china, glass, and choice chimney ornaments down upon the stones below, to be taken care of; also an empty hat-box.

Above all the tumult, and adding in no small degree to the wildness and abrupt energies of the scene, a violent knocking at doors in the square is frequently heard, sometimes by policemen, at other times by excited relations suddenly arriving, desperate to give their advice, and see it attended to. The bedroom windows, in rows on either side, are alive with heads, many of them in night-caps, while the upper windows of several, apparently ‘the nurseries,’ are crowded with white dolls, whose round white nobs are eagerly thrust forth. In the windows of the houses, lights are seen to move about rapidly from room to room, and windows are continually thrown up; a figure looks out wildly—then suddenly disappears.

The two firemen who had gained positions inside the house, each with his long hose supplied from the engine below, had hitherto maintained their posts; the one on the second-floor landing having very successfully repelled the advance of the fire, the other in the back drawing-room having fairly obtained a mastery. But a strong gust of wind rising again, sets all their previous success at nought. The flames again advance; and all their work has to be done over again.

By this time the two men are nearly exhausted; two other firemen are, however, close at hand to relieve them. They take their places. As the flames advance, the engines below are worked with redoubled energy by the people, who also relieve each other; but no one will relinquish his place at the pump-lever, so long as he is able to stand, or have one heave up, or one bang down, more. Still the flames advance!—they enter the house!—the front drawing-room is suddenly illuminated!—a glare of light is reflected from a great looking-glass on one of the walls! A loud shout of excitement resounds from the crowd—while bang! bang! go the engine-pumps.

The fireman, who is surrounded by so strong a glare of light that he appears all on fire, is seen to retreat a few paces towards the door. He is presently joined by another fireman, who runs to the front drawing-room window, out of which he suspends an iron chain to secure their escape, in case of need, and then returns to his comrade. They rally, and each with his brass director-pipe advances again within half-a-dozen paces of the blazing walls. They are, foot by foot, driven back into the front drawing-room. The flames follow them, and soon are very close to the or molu frame-work of the great looking-glass.

Bang! bang! go the engines.

‘Save the glass!’ shout numbers of voices.

‘The ceiling! the ceiling’s bursting down!’ cry others.

Bang! bang! go the engines.

‘Save the pieces!’

‘The door-post’s on fire!’

‘Look behind you!’

‘The glass!—the glass!’

‘Save yourselves!’

Bang! bang! go the engines.

The Superintendent has sent orders to the firemen to give no more attention to the interior of this house, except with a view to prevent the fire spreading to the adjoining houses. Consequently, the streams of water are now directed to drenching the walls, and beating back the flames on either side. The great looking-glass, no longer an object of special protection, is presently reached by the flames; they coil and cluster round the frame-work, which, breaking out into jets of coloured fire, gives a splendid magnificence to the design of the carving. The crowd jump up and down to see, and also from excitement. The flames flap about, and point their long luminous tongues across the broad plate of the glass, which for a moment reflects every object in the room,—the falling ceiling—the firemen in their helmets—the blazing ruin around;—and then, crack!—clash! clash!—the whole falls, a wreck of sharp angles.

Again a loud shout from the crowd below!—not so much of regret as a kind of wild purposeless joy, which causes them again to leap up and down, expecting and (without knowing it) hoping the same thing will happen to some other glass in the room. Melted lead from the roof now runs gleaming down—spurting upon the helmet of one of the firemen, and then running in straggling lines down his thick coat; while a slate falling, as usual, edgeways, sticks across the centre-piece of his comrade’s helmet. Now, with a rattling and loud rumble, falls the partition between the front and back drawing-rooms, and with it a great part of the ceiling! A terrific shout of alarm bursts from the crowd. The two firemen are buried in the ruins. The whole space is filled with the dense smoke and with piles of lath and plaster, and brick and blazing wood.

But see!—a helmet, white with mortar, rises from the floor near the window-sill—and now another! One after the other, the exhausted firemen descend the iron chain, and are caught in the arms of the Superintendent and two of their comrades below, while loud shouts and vociferations of applause burst from the crowd.

The stable cat, too, from the mews! See! she has crossed between the burning rafters, and leaped into the balcony of the next house, with smoking tail and ears.

The flames have been smothered for a time by this fall of the ceiling and partition-wall; the Superintendent has now got seven engines round to the front; he takes advantage of the fortunate accident; the wind, too, has shifted; the seven engines pour torrents of water upon the smoking mass and against the walls, and thus continue till the most frightful of all enemies is thoroughly subdued and reduced to blackness and quietude. Most dismal is the scene of devastation; but the enemy is at all events laid prostrate and rendered incapable of further mischief.

Drenched to the skin with cold water, and reeking at the same time with perspiration, the gallant men of the Fire Brigade return to their several quarters. Two of them, however, remain on watch with an engine all night, a change of clothes and ‘a dram’ being sent them from the station.