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Chapter V - The mill on fire--Jem Wilson to the rescue
"Learned he was; nor bird nor insect flew,
But he its leafy home and history knew:
Nor wild-flower decked the rock, nor moss the well,
But he its name and qualities could tell."
--ELLIOTT.
There is a class of men in Manchester, unknown even to many of the
inhabitants, and whose existence will probably be doubted by many,
who yet may claim kindred with all the noble names that science
recognises. I said in "Manchester," but they are scattered all over
the manufacturing districts of Lancashire. In the neighbourhood of
Oldham there are weavers, common hand-loom weavers, who throw the
shuttle with unceasing sound, though Newton's "Principia" lies open
on the loom, to be snatched at in work hours, but revelled over in
meal times, or at night. Mathematical problems are received with
interest, and studied with absorbing attention by many a broad-
spoken, common-looking factory-hand. It is perhaps less astonishing
that the more popularly interesting branches of natural history have
their warm and devoted followers among this class. There are
botanists among them, equally familiar with either the Linnaean or
the Natural system, who know the name and habitat of every plant
within a day's walk from their dwellings; who steal the holiday of a
day or two when any particular plant should be in flower, and tying
up their simple food in their pocket-handkerchiefs, set off with
single purpose to fetch home the humble-looking weed. There are
entomologists, who may be seen with a rude-looking net, ready to
catch any winged insect, or a kind of dredge, with which they rake
the green and slimy pools; practical, shrewd, hard-working men, who
pore over every new specimen with real scientific delight. Nor is
it the common and more obvious divisions of Entomology and Botany
that alone attract these earnest seekers after knowledge. Perhaps
it may be owing to the great annual town-holiday of Whitsun-week so
often falling in May or June, that the two great beautiful families
of Ephemeridae and Phryganidae have been so much and so closely
studied by Manchester workmen, while they have in a great measure
escaped general observation. If you will refer to the preface to
Sir J. E. Smith's Life (I have it not by me, or I would copy you the
exact passage), you will find that he names a little circumstance
corroborative of what I have said. Being on a visit to Roscoe, of
Liverpool, he made some inquiries of him as to the habitat of a very
rare plant, said to be found in certain places in Lancashire. Mr.
Roscoe knew nothing of the plant; but stated, that if any one could
give him the desired information, it would be a hand-loom weaver in
Manchester, whom he named. Sir J. E. Smith proceeded by boat to
Manchester, and on arriving at that town, he inquired of the porter
who was carrying his luggage if he could direct him to So-and-So.
"Oh, yes," replied the man. "He does a bit in my way"; and, on
further investigation, it turned out that both the porter and his
friend the weaver were skilful botanists, and able to give Sir J. E.
Smith the very information which he wanted.
Such are the tastes and pursuits of some of the thoughtful, little
understood, working-men of Manchester.
And Margaret's grandfather was one of these. He was a little
wiry-looking old man, who moved with a jerking motion, as if his
limbs were worked by a string like a child's toy, with dun-coloured
hair lying thin and soft at the back and sides of his head; his
forehead was so large it seemed to overbalance the rest of his face,
which had, indeed, lost its natural contour by the absence of all
the teeth. The eyes absolutely gleamed with intelligence; so keen,
so observant, you felt as if they were almost wizard-like. Indeed,
the whole room looked not unlike a wizard's dwelling. Instead of
pictures were hung rude wooden frames of impaled insects; the little
table was covered with cabalistic books; and beside them lay a case
of mysterious instruments, one of which Job Legh was using when his
grand-daughter entered.
On her appearance he pushed his spectacles up so as to rest midway
on his forehead, and gave Mary a short, kind welcome. But Margaret
he caressed as a mother caresses her first-born; stroking her with
tenderness, and almost altering his voice as he spoke to her.
Mary looked round on the odd, strange things she had never seen at
home, and which seemed to her to have a very uncanny look.
"Is your grandfather a fortune-teller?" whispered she to her new
friend.
"No," replied Margaret, in the same voice; "but you are not the
first as has taken him for such. He is only fond of such things as
most folks know nothing about."
"And do you know aught about them too?"
"I know a bit about some of the things grandfather is fond on; just
because he's fond on 'em, I tried to learn about them."
"What things are these?" said Mary, struck with the weird-looking
creatures that sprawled around the room in their roughly-made glass
cases.
But she was not prepared for the technical names, which Job Legh
pattered down on her ear, on which they fell like hail on a
skylight; and the strange language only bewildered her more than
ever. Margaret saw the state of the case, and came to the rescue.
"Look, Mary, at this horrid scorpion. He gave me such a fright: I
am all of a twitter yet when I think of it. Grandfather went to
Liverpool one Whitsun-week to go strolling about the docks and pick
up what he could from the sailors, who often bring some queer thing
or another from the hot countries they go to; and so he sees a chap
with a bottle in his hand, like a druggist's physic-bottle; and says
grandfather, 'What have ye gotten there?' So the sailor holds it
up, and grandfather knew it was a rare kind o' scorpion, not common
even in the East Indies where the man came from; and says he, 'How
did you catch this fine fellow, for he wouldn't be taken for
nothing, I'm thinking?' And the man said as how when they were
unloading the ship he'd found him lying behind a bag of rice, and he
thought the cold had killed him, for he was not squashed nor injured
a bit. He did not like to part with any of the spirit out of his
grog to put the scorpion in, but slipped him into the bottle,
knowing there were folks enow who would give him something for him.
So grandfather gives him a shilling."
"Two shillings," interrupted Job Legh; "and a good bargain it was."
"Well! grandfather came home as proud as Punch, and pulled the
bottle out of his pocket. But you see th' scorpion were doubled up,
and grandfather thought I couldn't fairly see how big he was. So he
shakes him out right before the fire; and a good warm one it was,
for I was ironing, I remember. I left off ironing and stooped down
over him, to look at him better, and grandfather got a book, and
began to read how this very kind were the most poisonous and vicious
species, how their bite were often fatal, and then went on to read
how people who were bitten got swelled, and screamed with pain. I
was listening hard, but as it fell out, I never took my eyes off the
creature, though I could not ha' told I was watching it. Suddenly
it seemed to give a jerk, and before I could speak it gave another,
and in a minute it was as wild as it could be, running at me just
like a mad dog."
"What did you do?" asked Mary.
"Me! why, I jumped first on a chair, and then on all the things I'd
been ironing on the dresser, and I screamed for grandfather to come
up by me, but he did not hearken to me."
"Why, if I'd come up by thee, who'd ha' caught the creature, I
should like to know?"
"Well, I begged grandfather to crush it, and I had the iron right
over it once, ready to drop, but grandfather begged me not to hurt
it in that way. So I couldn't think what he'd have, for he hopped
round the room as if he were sore afraid, for all he begged me not
to injure it. At last he goes to th' kettle, and lifts up the lid,
and peeps in. What on earth is he doing that for, thinks I; he'll
never drink his tea with a scorpion running free and easy about the
room. Then he takes the tongs, and he settles his spectacles on his
nose, and in a minute he had lifted the creature up by th' leg, and
dropped him into the boiling water."
"And did that kill him?" said Mary.
"Ay, sure enough; he boiled for longer time than grandfather liked,
though. But I was so afeard of his coming round again, I ran to the
public-house for some gin, and grandfather filled the bottle, and
then we poured off the water, and picked him out of the kettle, and
dropped him into the bottle, and he were there about a twelvemonth."
"What brought him to life at first?" asked Mary.
"Why, you see, he were never really dead, only torpid--that is, dead
asleep with the cold, and our good fire brought him round."
"I'm glad father does not care for such things," said Mary.
"Are you? Well, I'm often downright glad grandfather is so fond of
his books, and his creatures, and his plants. It does my heart good
to see him so happy, sorting them all at home, and so ready to go in
search of more, whenever he's a spare day. Look at him now! he's
gone back to his books, and he'll be as happy as a king, working
away till I make him go to bed. It keeps him silent, to be sure;
but so long as I see him earnest, and pleased, and eager, what does
that matter? Then, when he has his talking bouts, you can't think
how much he has to say. Dear grandfather! you don't know how happy
we are!"
Mary wondered if the dear grandfather heard all this, for Margaret
did not speak in an undertone; but no! he was far too deep, and
eager in solving a problem. He did not even notice Mary's
leave-taking, and she went home with the feeling that she had that
night made the acquaintance of two of the strangest people she ever
saw in her life. Margaret, so quiet, so commonplace, until her
singing powers were called forth; so silent from home, so cheerful
and agreeable at home; and her grandfather so very different to any
one Mary had ever seen. Margaret had said he was not a
fortune-teller, but she did not know whether to believe her.
To resolve her doubts, she told the history of the evening to her
father, who was interested by her account, and curious to see and
judge for himself. Opportunities are not often wanting where
inclination goes before, and ere the end of that winter Mary looked
upon Margaret almost as an old friend. The latter would bring her
work when Mary was likely to be at home in the evenings and sit with
her; and Job Legh would put a book and his pipe in his pocket and
just step round the corner to fetch his grandchild, ready for a talk
if he found Barton in; ready to pull out pipe and book if the girls
wanted him to wait, and John was still at his club. In short, ready
to do whatever would give pleasure to his darling Margaret.
I do not know what points of resemblance, or dissimilitude (for this
joins people as often as that) attracted the two girls to each
other. Margaret had the great charm of possessing good strong
common sense, and do you not perceive how involuntarily this is
valued? It is so pleasant to have a friend who possesses the power
of setting a difficult question in a clear light; whose judgment can
tell what is best to be done; and who is so convinced of what is
"wisest, best," that in consideration of the end, all difficulties
in the way diminish. People admire talent, and talk about their
admiration. But they value common sense without talking about it,
and often without knowing it.
So Mary and Margaret grew in love one toward the other; and Mary
told many of her feelings in a way she had never done before to any
one. Most of her foibles also were made known to Margaret, but not
all. There was one cherished weakness still concealed from every
one. It concerned a lover, not beloved, but favoured by fancy. A
gallant, handsome young man; but--not beloved. Yet Mary hoped to
meet him every day in her walks, blushed when she heard his name,
and tried to think of him as her future husband, and above all,
tried to think of herself as his future wife. Alas! poor Mary!
Bitter woe did thy weakness work thee.
She had other lovers. One or two would gladly have kept her
company, but she held herself too high, they said. Jem Wilson said
nothing, but loved on and on, ever more fondly; he hoped against
hope; he would not give up, for it seemed like giving up life to
give up thought of Mary. He did not dare to look to any end of all
this; the present, so that he saw her, touched the hem of her
garment, was enough. Surely, in time, such deep hope would beget
love.
He would not relinquish hope, and yet her coldness of manner was
enough to daunt any man; and it made Jem more despairing than he
would acknowledge for a long time even to himself.
But one evening he came round by Barton's house, a willing messenger
for his father, and opening the door saw Margaret sitting asleep
before the fire. She had come in to speak to Mary; and worn-out by
a long, working, watching night, she fell asleep in the genial
warmth.
An old-fashioned saying about a pair of gloves came into Jem's mind,
and stepping gently up, he kissed Margaret with a friendly kiss.
She awoke, and perfectly understanding the thing, she said, "For
shame of yourself, Jem! What would Mary say?"
Lightly said, lightly answered.
"She'd nobbut say, practice makes perfect." And they both laughed.
But the words Margaret had said rankled in Jem's mind. Would Mary
care? Would she care in the very least? They seemed to call for an
answer by night and by day; and Jem felt that his heart told him
Mary was quite indifferent to any action of his. Still he loved on,
and on, ever more fondly.
Mary's father was well aware of the nature of Jem Wilson's feelings
for his daughter, but he took no notice of them to any one, thinking
Mary full young yet for the cares of married life, and unwilling,
too, to entertain the idea of parting with her at any time, however
distant. But he welcomed Jem at his house, as he would have done
his father's son, whatever were his motives for coming; and now and
then admitted the thought, that Mary might do worse, when her time
came, than marry Jem Wilson, a steady workman at a good trade, a
good son to his parents, and a fine manly spirited chap--at least
when Mary was not by; for when she was present he watched her too
closely, and too anxiously, to have much of what John Barton called
"spunk" in him.
It was towards the end of February, in that year, and a bitter black
frost had lasted for many weeks. The keen east wind had long since
swept the streets clean, though in a gusty day the dust would rise
like pounded ice, and make people's faces quite smart with the cold
force with which it blew against them. Houses, sky, people, and
everything looked as if a gigantic brush had washed them all over
with a dark shade of Indian ink. There was some reason for this
grimy appearance on human beings, whatever there might be for the
dun looks of the landscape; for soft water had become an article not
even to be purchased; and the poor washerwomen might be seen vainly
trying to procure a little by breaking the thick grey ice that
coated the ditches and ponds in the neighbourhood. People
prophesied a long continuance to this already lengthened frost; said
the spring would be very late; no spring fashions required; no
summer clothing chased for a short uncertain summer. Indeed, there
was no end to the evil prophesied during the continuance of that
bleak east wind.
Mary hurried home one evening, just as daylight was fading, from
Miss Simmonds', with her shawl held up to her mouth, and her head
bent as if in deprecation of the meeting wind. So she did not
perceive Margaret till she was close upon her at the very turning
into the court.
"Bless me, Margaret! is that you? Where are you bound to?"
"To nowhere but your own house (that is, if you'll take me in).
I've a job of work to finish to-night; mourning, as must be in time
for the funeral to-morrow; and grandfather has been out moss-
hunting, and will not be home till late."
"Oh, how charming it will be! I'll help you if you're backward.
Have you much to do?"
"Yes, I only got the order yesterday at noon; and there's three
girls beside the mother; and what with trying on and matching the
stuff (for there was not enough in the piece they chose first), I'm
above a bit behindhand. I've the skirts all to make. I kept that
work till candlelight; and the sleeves, to say nothing of little
bits to the bodies; for the missis is very particular, and I could
scarce keep from smiling while they were crying so, really taking on
sadly I'm sure, to hear first one and then t'other clear up to
notice the set of her gown. They weren't to be misfits, I promise
you, though they were in such trouble."
"Well, Margaret, you're right welcome, as you know, and I'll sit
down and help you with pleasure, though I was tired enough of sewing
to-night at Miss Simmonds'!"
By this time Mary had broken up the raking coal, and lighted her
candle; and Margaret settled herself to her work on one side of the
table, while her friend hurried over her tea at the other. The
things were then lifted en masse to the dresser; and dusting her
side of the table with the apron she always wore at home, Mary took
up some breadths and began to run them together.
"Who's it all for, for if you told me I've forgotten?"
"Why, for Mrs. Ogden as keeps the greengrocer's shop in Oxford Road.
Her husband drank himself to death, and though she cried over him
and his ways all the time he was alive, she's fretted sadly for him
now he's dead."
"Has he left her much to go upon?" asked Mary, examining the texture
of the dress. "This is beautifully fine soft bombazine."
"No, I'm much afeard there's but little, and there's several young
children, besides the three Miss Ogdens."
"I should have thought girls like them would ha' made their own
gowns," observed Mary.
"So I dare say they do, many a one, but now they seem all so busy
getting ready for the funeral; for it's to be quite a grand affair,
well-nigh twenty people to breakfast, as one of the little ones told
me. The little thing seemed to like the fuss, and I do believe it
comforted poor Mrs. Ogden to make all the piece o' work. Such a
smell of ham boiling and fowls roasting while I waited in the
kitchen; it seemed more like a wedding nor* a funeral. They said
she'd spend a matter o' sixty pound on th' burial."
*Nor; generally used in Lancashire for "than."
"They had lever sleep NOR be in laundery."--DUNBAR
"I thought you said she was but badly off," said Mary.
"Ay, I know she's asked for credit at several places, saying her
husband laid hands on every farthing he could get for drink. But
th' undertakers urge her on, you see, and tell her this thing's
usual, and that thing's only a common mark of respect, and that
everybody has t'other thing, till the poor woman has no will o' her
own. I dare say, too, her heart strikes her (it always does when a
person's gone) for many a word and many a slighting deed to him
who's stiff and cold; and she thinks to make up matters, as it were,
by a grand funeral, though she and all her children, too, may have
to pinch many a year to pay the expenses, if ever they pay them at
all."
"This mourning, too, will cost a pretty penny," said Mary. "I often
wonder why folks wear mourning; it's not pretty or becoming; and it
costs a deal of money just when people can spare it least; and if
what the Bible tells us be true, we ought not to be sorry when a
friend, who's been good, goes to his rest; and as for a bad man,
one's glad enough to get shut* on him. I cannot see what good comes
out o' wearing mourning."
*Shut; quit.
"I'll tell you what I think the fancy was sent for (old Alice calls
everything 'sent for,' and I believe she's right). It does do good,
though not as much as it costs, that I do believe, in setting people
(as is cast down by sorrow and feels themselves unable to settle to
anything but crying) something to do. Why now I told you how they
were grieving; for, perhaps, he was a kind husband and father, in
his thoughtless way, when he wasn't in liquor. But they cheered up
wonderful while I was there, and I asked 'em for more directions
than usual, that they might have something to talk over and fix
about; and I left 'em my fashion-book (though it were two months
old) just a purpose."
"I don't think every one would grieve a that way. Old Alice
wouldn't."
"Old Alice is one in a thousand. I doubt, too, if she would fret
much, however sorry she might be. She would say it were sent, and
fall to trying to find out what good it were to do. Every sorrow in
her mind is sent for good. Did I ever tell you, Mary, what she said
one day when she found me taking on about something?"
"No; do tell me. What were you fretting about, first place?"
"I can't tell you, just now; perhaps I may some time."
"When?"
"Perhaps this very evening, if it rises in my heart; perhaps never.
It's a fear that sometimes I can't abide to think about, and
sometimes I don't like to think on anything else. Well, I was
fretting about this fear, and Alice comes in for something, and
finds me crying. I would not tell her no more than I would you,
Mary; so she says, 'Well, dear, you must mind this, when you're
going to fret and be low about anything--An anxious mind is never a
holy mind.' O Mary, I have so often checked my grumbling sin'* she
said that."
*Sin'; since.
"SIN that his lord was twenty yere of age."
--Prologue to Canterbury Tales.
The weary sound of stitching was the only sound heard for a little
while, till Mary inquired--
"Do you expect to get paid for this mourning?"
"Why, I do not much think I shall. I've thought it over once or
twice, and I mean to bring myself to think I shan't, and to like to
do it as my bit towards comforting them. I don't think they can
pay, and yet they're just the sort of folk to have their minds
easier for wearing mourning. There's only one thing I dislike
making black for, it does so hurt the eyes."
Margaret put down her work with a sigh, and shaded her eyes. Then
she assumed a cheerful tone, and said--
"You'll not have to wait long, Mary, for my secret's on the tip of
my tongue. Mary, do you know I sometimes think I'm growing a little
blind, and then what would become of grandfather and me? Oh, God
help me, Lord help me!"
She fell into an agony of tears, while Mary knelt by her, striving
to soothe and to comfort her: but, like an inexperienced person,
striving rather to deny the correctness of Margaret's fear, than
helping her to meet and overcome the evil.
"No," said Margaret, quietly fixing her tearful eyes on Mary; "I
know I'm not mistaken. I have felt one going some time, long before
I ever thought what it would lead to; and last autumn I went to a
doctor; and he did not mince the matter, but said unless I sat in a
darkened room, with my hands before me, my sight would not last me
many years longer. But how could I do that, Mary? For one thing,
grandfather would have known there was somewhat the matter; and, oh!
it will grieve him sore whenever he is told, so the later the
better; and besides, Mary, we've sometimes little enough to go upon,
and what I earn is a great help. For grandfather takes a day here,
and a day there, for botanising or going after insects, and he'll
think little enough of four or five shillings for a specimen; dear
grandfather! and I'm so loath to think he should be stinted of what
gives him such pleasure. So I went to another doctor to try and get
him to say something different, and he said, 'Oh, it was only
weakness,' and gived me a bottle of lotion; but I've used three
bottles (and each of 'em cost two shillings), and my eye is so much
worse, not hurting so much, but I can't see a bit with it. There
now, Mary," continued she, shutting one eye, "now you only look like
a great black shadow, with the edges dancing and sparkling."
"And can you see pretty well with th' other?"
"Yes, pretty near as well as ever. Th' only difference is, that if
I sew a long time together, a bright spot like th' sun comes right
where I'm looking; all the rest is quite clear but just where I want
to see. I've been to both doctors again and now they're both o' the
same story; and I suppose I'm going dark as fast as may be. Plain
work pays so bad, and mourning has been so plentiful this
winter, that I were tempted to take in any black work I could; and
now I'm suffering from it."
"And yet, Margaret, you're going on taking it in; that's what you'd
call foolish in another."
"It is, Mary! and yet what can I do? Folk mun live; and I think I
should go blind any way, and I daren't tell grandfather, else I
would leave it off; but he will so fret."
Margaret rocked herself backward and forward to still her emotion.
"O Mary!" she said, "I try to get his face off by heart, and I stare
at him so when he's not looking, and then shut my eyes to see if I
can remember his dear face. There's one thing, Mary, that serves a
bit to comfort me. You'll have heard of old Jacob Butterworth, the
singing weaver? Well, I know'd him a bit, so I went to him, and
said how I wished he'd teach me the right way o' singing; and he
says I've a rare fine voice, and I go once a week, and take a lesson
fra' him. He's been a grand singer in his day. He led the choruses
at the Festivals, and got thanked many a time by London folk; and
one foreign singer, Madame Catalani, turned round and shook him by
th' hand before the Oud Church* full o' people. He says I may gain
ever so much money by singing; but I don't know. Any rate, it's sad
work, being blind."
*Old Church; now the Cathedral of Manchester,
She took up her sewing, saying her eyes were rested now, and for
some time they sewed on in silence.
Suddenly there were steps heard in the little paved court, person
after person ran past the curtained window.
"Something's up" said Mary. She went to the door, and stopping the
first person she saw, inquired the cause of the Commotion.
"Eh, wench! donna ye see the fire-light? Carsons' mill is blazing
away like fun" and away her informant ran.
"Come, Margaret, on wi' your bonnet, and let's go to see Carsons'
mill; it's afire, and they say a burning mill is such a grand sight.
I never saw one."
"Well, I think it's a fearful sight. Besides, I've all this work to
do."
But Mary coaxed in her sweet manner, and with her gentle caresses,
promising to help with the gowns all night long, if necessary, nay,
saying she should quite enjoy it.
The truth was, Margaret's secret weighed heavily and painfully on
her mind, and she felt her inability to comfort; besides, she wanted
to change the current of Margaret's thoughts; and in addition to
these unselfish feelings, came the desire she had honestly
expressed, of seeing a factory on fire.
So in two minutes they were ready. At the threshold of the house
they met John Barton, to whom they told their errand.
"Carsons' mill! Ay, there is a mill on fire somewhere, sure enough
by the light, and it will be a rare blaze, for there's not a drop o'
water to be got. And much Carsons will care, for they're well
insured, and the machines are a' th' oud-fashioned kind. See if
they don't think it a fine thing for themselves. They'll not thank
them as tries to put it out."
He gave way for the impatient girls to pass. Guided by the ruddy
light more than by any exact knowledge of the streets that led to
the mill, they scampered along with bent heads, facing the terrible
east wind as best they might.
Carsons' mill ran lengthways from east to west. Along it went one
of the oldest thoroughfares in Manchester. Indeed, all that part of
the town was comparatively old; it was there that the first cotton
mills were built, and the crowded alleys and back streets of the
neighbourhood made a fire there particularly to be dreaded. The
staircase of the mill ascended from the entrance at the western end,
which faced into a wide, dingy-looking street, consisting
principally of public-houses, pawnbrokers' shops, rag and bone
warehouses, and dirty provision shops. The other, the east end of
the factory, fronted into a very narrow back street, not twenty feet
wide, and miserably lighted and paved. Right against this end of
the factory were the gable ends of the last house in the principal
street--a house which from its size, its handsome stone facings, and
the attempt at ornament in the front, had probably been once a
gentleman's house; but now the light which streamed from its
enlarged front windows made clear the interior of the splendidly
fitted-up room, with its painted walls, its pillared recesses, its
gilded and gorgeous fittings-up, its miserable squalid inmates. It
was a gin palace.
Mary almost wished herself away, so fearful (as Margaret had said)
was the sight when they joined the crowd assembled to witness the
fire. There was a murmur of many voices whenever the roaring of the
flames ceased for an instant. It was easy to perceive the mass were
deeply interested.
"What do they say?" asked Margaret of a neighbour in the crowd, as
she caught a few words clear and distinct from the general murmur.
"There never is any one in the mill, surely!" exclaimed Mary, as the
sea of upward-turned faces moved with one accord to the eastern end,
looking into Dunham Street, the narrow back lane already mentioned.
The western end of the mill, whither the raging flames were driven
by the wind, was crowned and turreted with triumphant fire. It sent
forth its infernal tongues from every window hole, licking the black
walls with amorous fierceness; it was swayed or fell before the
mighty gale, only to rise higher and yet higher, to ravage and roar
yet more wildly. This part of the roof fell in with an astounding
crash, while the crowd struggled more and more to press into Dunham
Street, for what were magnificent terrible flames--what were falling
timbers or tottering walls, in comparison with human life?
There, where the devouring flames had been repelled by the yet more
powerful wind, but where yet black smoke gushed out from every
aperture--there, at one of the windows on the fourth story, or
rather a doorway where a crane was fixed to hoist up goods, might
occasionally be seen, when the thick gusts of smoke cleared
partially away for an instant, the imploring figures of two men.
They had remained after the rest of the workmen for some reason or
other, and, owing to the wind having driven the fire in the opposite
direction, had perceived no sight or sound of alarm, till long after
(if anything could be called long in that throng of terrors which
passed by in less than half-an-hour) the fire had consumed the old
wooden staircase at the other end of the building. I am not sure
whether it was not the first sound of the rushing crowd below that
made them fully aware of their awful position.
"Where are the engines?" asked Margaret of her neighbour.
"They're coming, no doubt; but bless you, I think it's bare ten
minutes since we first found out th' fire; it rages so wi' this
wind, and all so dry-like."
"Is no one gone for a ladder?" gasped Mary, as the men were
perceptibly, though not audibly, praying the great multitude below
for help.
"Ay, Wilson's son and another man were off like a shot, well-nigh
five minutes ago. But th' masons, and slaters, and such like, have
left their work, and locked up the yards."
Wilson, then, was that man whose figure loomed out against the
ever-increasing dull hot light behind, whenever the smoke was clear--
was that George Wilson? Mary sickened with terror. She knew he
worked for Carsons; but at first she had had no idea that any lives
were in danger; and since she had become aware of this, the heated
air, the roaring flames, the dizzy light, and the agitated and
murmuring crowd, had bewildered her thoughts.
"Oh! let us go home, Margaret; I cannot stay."
"We cannot go! See how we are wedged in by folks. Poor Mary! ye
won't hanker after a fire again. Hark! listen!" For through the
hushed crowd pressing round the angle of the mill, and filling up
Dunham Street, might be heard the rattle of the engine, the heavy,
quick tread of loaded horses.
"Thank God!" said Margaret's neighbour, "the engine's come."
Another pause; the plugs were stiff, and water could not be got.
Then there was a pressure through the crowd, the front rows bearing
back on those behind, till the girls were sick with the close
ramming confinement. Then a relaxation, and a breathing freely once
more.
"'Twas young Wilson and a fireman wi' a ladder," said Margaret's
neighbour, a tall man who could overlook the crowd.
"Oh, tell us what you see?" begged Mary.
"They've getten it fixed against the gin-shop wall. One o' the men
i' the factory has fell back; dazed wi' the smoke, I'll warrant.
The floor's not given way there. God!" said he, bringing his eye
lower down, "the ladder's too short! It's a' over wi' them, poor
chaps. Th' fire's coming slow and sure to that end, and afore
they've either getten water, or another ladder, they'll be dead out
and out. Lord have mercy on them!"
A sob, as if of excited women, was heard in the hush of the crowd.
Another pressure like the former! Mary clung to Margaret's arm with
a pinching grasp, and longed to faint, and be insensible, to escape
from the oppressing misery of her sensations. A minute or two.
"They've taken th' ladder into th' Temple of Apollor. Can't press
back with it to the yard it came from."
A mighty shout arose; a sound to wake the dead. Up on high,
quivering in the air, was seen the end of the ladder, protruding out
of a garret window, in the gable end of the gin palace, nearly
opposite to the doorway where the men had been seen. Those in the
crowd nearest the factory, and consequently best able to see up to
the garret window, said that several men were holding one end, and
guiding by their weight its passage to the doorway. The garret
window-frame had been taken out before the crowd below were aware of
the attempt.
At length--for it seemed long, measured by beating hearts, though
scarce two minutes had elapsed--the ladder was fixed, an aerial
bridge at a dizzy height, across the narrow street.
Every eye was fixed in unwinking anxiety, and people's very
breathing seemed stilled in suspense. The men were nowhere to be
seen, but the wind appeared, for the moment, higher than ever, and
drove back the invading flames to the other end.
Mary and Margaret could see now; right above them danced the ladder
in the wind. The crowd pressed back from under; firemen's helmets
appeared at the window, holding the ladder firm, when a man, with
quick, steady tread, and unmoving head, passed from one side to the
other. The multitude did not even whisper while he crossed the
perilous bridge, which quivered under him; but when he was across,
safe comparatively in the factory, a cheer arose for an instant,
checked, however, almost immediately, by the uncertainty of the
result, and the desire not in any way to shake the nerves of the
brave fellow who had cast his life on such a die.
"There he is again!" sprung to the lips of many, as they saw him at
the doorway, standing as if for an instant to breathe a mouthful of
the fresher air, before he trusted himself to cross. On his
shoulders he bore an insensible body.
"It's Jem Wilson and his father," whispered Margaret; but Mary knew
it before. The people were sick with anxious terror. He could no
longer balance himself with his arms; everything must depend on nerve
and eye. They saw the latter was fixed, by the position of the head,
which never wavered; the ladder shook under the double weight; but
still he never moved his head--he dared not look below. It seemed
an age before the crossing was accomplished. At last the window was
gained; the bearer relieved from his burden; both had disappeared.
Then the multitude might shout; and above the roaring flames, louder
than the blowing of the mighty wind, arose that tremendous burst of
applause at the success of the daring enterprise. Then a shrill cry
was heard, asking--
"Is the oud man alive, and likely to do?"
"Ay," answered one of the firemen to the hushed crowd below. "He's
coming round finely, now he's had a dash of cowd water."
He drew back his head; and the eager inquiries, the shouts, the
sea-like murmurs of the moving rolling mass began again to be
heard--but only for an instant. In far less time than even that in
which I have endeavoured briefly to describe the pause of events,
the same bold hero stepped again upon the ladder, with evident
purpose to rescue the man yet remaining in the burning mill.
He went across in the same quick steady manner as before, and the
people below, made less acutely anxious by his previous success,
were talking to each other, shouting out intelligence of the
progress of the fire at the other end of the factory, telling of the
endeavours of the firemen at that part to obtain water, while the
closely-packed body of men heaved and rolled from side to side. It
was different from the former silent breathless hush. I do not know
if it were from this cause, or from the recollection of peril past,
or that he looked below, in the breathing moment before returning
with the remaining person (a slight little man) slung across his
shoulders, but Jem Wilson's step was less steady, his tread more
uncertain; he seemed to feel with his foot for the next round of the
ladder, to waver, and finally to stop half-way. By this time the
crowd was still enough; in the awful instant that intervened no one
durst speak, even to encourage. Many turned sick with terror, and
shut their eyes to avoid seeing the catastrophe they dreaded. It
came. The brave man swayed from side to side, at first as slightly
as if only balancing himself; but he was evidently losing nerve, and
even sense; it was only wonderful how the animal instinct of
self-preservation did not overcome every generous feeling, and impel
him at once to drop the helpless, inanimate body he carried; perhaps
the same instinct told him, that the sudden loss of so heavy a
weight would of itself be a great and imminent danger.
"Help me; she's fainted," cried Margaret. But no one heeded. All
eyes were directed upwards. At this point of time a rope, with a
running noose, was dexterously thrown by one of the firemen, after
the manner of a lasso, over the head and round the bodies of the two
men. True, it was with rude and slight adjustment: but slight as
it was, it served as a steadying guide; it encouraged the sinking
heart, the dizzy head. Once more Jem stepped onwards. He was not
hurried by any jerk or pull. Slowly and gradually the rope was
hauled in, slowly and gradually did he make the four or five paces
between him and safety. The window was gained, and all were saved.
The multitude in the street absolutely danced with triumph, and
huzzaed, and yelled till you would have fancied their very throats
would crack; and then, with all the fickleness of interest
characteristic of a large body of people, pressed and stumbled, and
cursed and swore, in the hurry to get out of Dunham Street, and back
to the immediate scene of the fire, the mighty diapason of whose
roaring flames formed an awful accompaniment to the screams, and
yells, and imprecations, of the struggling crowd.
As they pressed away, Margaret was left, pale and almost sinking
under the weight of Mary's body, which she had preserved in an
upright position by keeping her arms tight round Mary's waist,
dreading, with reason, the trampling of unheeding feet.
Now, however, she gently let her down on the cold clean pavement;
and the change of posture, and the difference in temperature, now
that the people had withdrawn from their close neighbourhood,
speedily restored her to consciousness.
Her first glance was bewildered and uncertain. She had forgotten
where she was. Her cold, hard bed felt strange; the murky glare in
the sky affrighted her. She shut her eyes to think, to recollect.
Her next look was upwards. The fearful bridge had been withdrawn;
the window was unoccupied.
"They are safe," said Margaret.
"All? Are all safe, Margaret?" asked Mary.
"Ask yon fireman, and he'll tell you more about it than I can. But
I know they're all safe."
The fireman hastily corroborated Margaret's words.
"Why did you let Jem Wilson go twice?" asked Margaret.
"Let--why, we could not hinder him. As soon as ever he'd heard his
father speak (which he was na long a doing), Jem were off like a
shot; only saying he knowed better nor us where to find t'other man.
We'd all ha' gone, if he had na been in such a hurry, for no one can
say as Manchester firemen is ever backward when there's danger."
So saying, he ran off; and the two girls, without remark or
discussion, turned homewards. They were overtaken by the elder
Wilson, pale, grimy, and blear-eyed, but apparently, as strong and
well as ever. He loitered a minute or two alongside of them giving
an account of his detention in the mill; he then hastily wished
good-night, saying he must go home and tell his missis he was all
safe and well: but after he had gone a few steps, he turned back,
came on Mary's side of the pavement, and in an earnest whisper,
which Margaret could not avoid hearing, he said--
"Mary, if my boy comes across you to-night, give him a kind word or
two for my sake. Do! bless you, there's a good wench."
Mary hung her head and answered not a word, and in an instant he was
gone.
When they arrived at home, they found John Barton smoking his pipe,
unwilling to question; yet very willing to hear all the details they
could give him. Margaret went over the whole story, and it was
amusing to watch his gradually increasing interest and excitement.
First, the regular puffing abated, then ceased. Then the pipe was
fairly taken out of his mouth, and held suspended. Then he rose,
and at every further point he came a step nearer to the narrator.
When it was ended he swore (an unusual thing for him) that if Jem
Wilson wanted Mary he should have her tomorrow, if he had not a
penny to keep her.
Margaret laughed, but Mary, who was now recovered from her
agitation, pouted and looked angry.
The work which they had left was resumed: but with full hearts
fingers never go very quickly; and I am sorry to say, that owing to
the fire, the two younger Miss Ogdens were in such grief for the
loss of their excellent father, that they were unable to appear
before the little circle of sympathising friends gathered together
to comfort the widow, and see the funeral set off.
Content of Chapter V - The mill on fire--Jem Wilson to the rescue
_
Read next: Chapter VI - Poverty and death.
Read previous: Chapter IV - Old Alice's history.
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