Flame and Ashes

by Janet Mcnaughton

  Then Sarah came downstairs with Alfie, his hair still damp from scrubbing, and Mama shooed all of us out the door. We had to wait while Mama and Nettie got the barrel of china down the front steps. A gust of wind blew my hat off and I had to chase it. When I looked up, I could see along to the end of Gower Street where the slanted roof of our Cathedral disappeared every few seconds into the smoke that billowed down from above. Suddenly a big chunk of flaming debris sailed by in the wind, trailing flankers like the tail of a comet. It went so fast, I thought my eyes had tricked me, but then some smaller pieces followed. All the roofs are dry as tinder. What would happen if sparks landed on them? No one else had seen, and I found I couldn’t tell them.

  Mama finally took the big iron key that locks the front door from her purse, but Alfie began to shout, “No, no, you can’t, Mama! Mouser is inside. If the house catches fire she will die.” He would not be comforted and soon he was wheezing again.

  Mama grasped him by the shoulders and told him firmly that he must stop so we could leave before the smoke came our way. When she saw this wasn’t working, she went back up the stairs and opened the door. “Look, Alfred,” she said. “Look at me.” She only calls him Alfred at the most serious moments. Then she told him we would leave the door open so Mouser could escape.

  Alfie nodded and was quiet, but Nettie didn’t like this at all. She wondered about robbers, but Mama shook her head and said, “Alfie’s health matters more to me than anything we own.” Then we began to walk to the park, Mama and Nettie rolling the barrel along carefully between them. A few men driving empty carts passed us and I thought they must be going to fight the fire.

  We soon came to the park and here we remain. The wind seems hotter and drier than ever, and so strong it flings dust at us from time to time. This is like a grim picnic without games or food, and people have brought the strangest things. A large lady is sitting near us with her small boy and nothing but a blue and white vase the size of an umbrella stand. It’s almost as big as her child. She keeps looking in the direction of the fire and twisting her purse strings. There are hardly any men here. Like Papa, they must be

  I put my writing down because Nettie came back with news. She told us the fire started about 4 o’clock in a barn on Freshwater Road belonging to a man named Timothy O’Brien, or Brien, or Byrne. The alarm was raised, but many of our firemen were outside town, busy with a forest fire. Those who answered the alarm soon discovered there was no water in the pipes. Nettie said it had been turned off for repairs at Rawlins Cross today. The water was turned on again, but sadly, it had not yet reached the pipes in the upper levels.

  I remembered the glass of water Sarah dumped on my head and reminded Nettie that we’d had water.

  She replied that she’d seen a notice in the newspaper yesterday, so she’d filled some buckets. Mama beamed. Nettie always takes care of small things like that without even mentioning them.

  Then the woman with the little boy spoke. “Yes, the pipes was empty but there’s a tank near to where the fire started. It should have been filled, but from what I heard when we was stowing our furniture, they was playing at putting out fires a few weeks ago and nobody filled her up again.” Her eyes brimmed with tears as she told us how they had lost their “neat little house on Courting Lane, freehold land and all.” She found her hankie, blew her nose and went on to tell us that they had managed to hire a cart as the flames approached, and their rescued belongings were now safely stowed inside the Anglican Cathedral. “No way, my husband said, any fire is going to breach those stout stone walls,” she concluded.

  While Mama and Nettie congratulated her, I felt a glow of pride. Of course our Cathedral will keep everything safe.

  The lady seemed pleased, but added, “I kept this vase with me anyway. The only thing in the world I got to remind me of my mother now.”

  A boy with a pail and tin dipper came around selling water for a penny a cup. Mama frowned. Everyone had been drinking from that cup and she still lives in dread of diphtheria. She pried our barrel open and took out six of her best china tea cups. Then she told the boy she would hold them while he filled them up.

  The boy mistook her reason. “It don’t matter if you got your own cups, Missus,” he said, scowling. “It’s still a penny each.”

  I’d never heard anyone speak so rudely to Mama and I held my breath to see what she would say, but she only nodded. The world is upside down today.

  Just as I drained my cup, I recognized one of Mr. Bright’s apprentice boys, Leander Janes. He was leading Mr. Michael Power and I was happy to see they had his new barrel organ in tow. Some friends came to guide Mr. Power away and I saw him offer a penny to Len, who shook his head as he backed away.

  I stood up and shouted, “Len, Len, over here!”

  Mama told me to stop yelling like someone from Tank Lane (which is what she always says when I yell), but Alfie was already on his feet and running, and I explained to Mama while Alfie brought Len over that he would have news of Papa.

  Unlike the water boy, Len stood in awe of Mama, turning his cap in his hands as he spoke. He told us there was no sign of the fire on Duckworth or Water yet, but the shop was closed and all hands were ready with buckets and barrels of water.

  Then he painted a picture I could never have imagined for St. John’s — the streets filled with panic and looters. He said it costs the world to hire a horse and wagon down there now, but Papa had the luck to find Mr. Morrissey, our usual cabman, with his Victoria cab. While they filled his carriage with a few valuables, Miss Rosy demanded space for a box of her best supplies.

  “As we loaded the goods into his carriage,” Len continued, “looters were waiting to snatch them out again, circling like a pack of wolves.” He told us Mr. Morrissey had his buggy whip raised, but then Miss Rosy got all the girls to surround the cab while it was filled. Len smiled for the first time. “You should’ve seen her, Missus. She tore such a strip off those sleeveens, big men the lot of them. They slunk away like dogs with their tails between their legs.”

  Then Len told us those looters had likely gone off to find another shop to pillage. We all protested that this could not be so, but Len stood firm. “Shops that stayed open are completely gutted now,” he told us.

  Len had met one of Macpherson’s clerks when he was walking poor Mr. Power here and learned that the Constabulary had made everyone abandon the Macpherson premises because Bowrings, next door, is filled with ammunition, and might explode if it catches fire. “But he said, even if the fire spares them, it’ll be almost as bad as if they were burnt out,” Len concluded. “Looters have made away with almost everything.” Then he glanced over his shoulder toward Water Street and told us he should get back.

  Mama grabbed his arm as he turned to go. “Please tell Mr. Winsor we are safe and waiting for him in the park, just as he wished.”

  After Len left, I tried to picture wild gangs of looters running up and down Water Street, taking anything they pleased. Even my imagination couldn’t quite summon the image.

  My stomach growled and I told Mama I was hungry. She began to say we’d just have to wait, when Nettie opened one of her cases. Out came a loaf of bread, a cheese wrapped in cheese cloth and a pot of partridgeberry jam. “Last one,” she said as she put the jam pot down. “I was saving it for Mr. Winsor’s birthday breakfast.”

  Mama asked Ruby for a jam spoon and butter knife from the silver chest while Nettie cut the bread with the breadknife she’d brought too. I saw her look toward the homeless lady with her little boy nearby. Mama nodded, then asked me to put on my best manners and ask the lady with the little boy if she’d care to join us. Of course, she was more than happy to.

  She introduced herself as Mrs. Bertha Ledwell, and her little son is called Georgie. I’m going to stop now to have some bread and cheese and jam —

  Oh! A great gang of men is coming into the park, covered in smoke and soot, some with holes burnt in their jackets, some coughing. Why so many at once? Maybe th
e fire is out!

  Friday, July 8th, Bannerman Park, evening

  I can hardly believe how much I am writing today, but I feel I should capture every detail. The sunlight is fading, but we can see the fire now and it glows like a second, more evil sun as it moves ever closer to our house. Even so, I don’t think I will be able to see the page beyond another hour, so I will record the terrible events of this evening while there is light. Those men who came into the park were seeking a moment’s respite from fighting the fire and they brought with them news of unimaginable horror. Just as I feared, the flankers and burning debris that blow ahead of the main fire are causing smaller fires to break out everywhere, so the conflagration is impossible to control. This is how Scotland Row caught fire, just opposite our beloved Cathedral. The heat was so intense it melted the lead in the stained glass windows and flankers blew inside the Cathedral. The men were helpless to prevent what happened next. Strong stone walls and a stout slate roof did nothing to protect the building from the flames. The Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist, the pride of our city, is now aflame, along with all the earthly goods that trusting citizens placed inside.

  Some of the men were crying when they came into the park, tears washing clean tracks down their soot-stained faces. Mr. Ledwell came with them and we listened as he told his wife this sad story. Now everything the Ledwells own is with them in this park, scarcely more than the clothes on their backs and that rather ugly vase.

  As tragic stories of destruction and loss were told around the park, Mr. Michael Power began to play his barrel organ in the distance. He chose “Heart of Oak,” which is the song of the Royal Navy, well known to everyone here. Many of us raised our voices where we sat to join in the stirring lyrics.

  Come, cheer up, my lads, ’tis to glory we steer,

  To add something more to this wonderful year;

  To honour we call you, as freemen not slaves,

  For who are so free as the sons of the waves?

  And even more joined in on the chorus:

  Heart of oak are our ships, jolly tars are our men,

  We always are ready; steady, boys, steady!

  We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again.

  Like Alfie and I, many sang through all the verses and when the last strains of the song died away, it was plain to see some had taken heart. Even Mrs. Ledwell had more colour in her cheeks.

  Mama leaned over and asked her if, perhaps, Sarah and Alfie and I could take little Georgie closer to the barrel organ? Poor Mrs. Ledwell seemed grateful for this suggestion, and I was happy to move around. We had been sitting for hours.

  Crossing the park, I noticed Susie Verge sitting with her mother and father and any number of younger brothers and sisters. Our eyes met, she half smiled and looked away quickly. Mrs. Verge noticed me and scowled.

  I complain about Mama, but I cannot imagine life with a mother like Susie’s. In winter she’s an attendant in the women’s changing room at the City Hall Skating Rink, which is a very fine establishment. She was the one who caught the girl who was trying to steal a fur muff last winter, a girl about my age. Mrs. Verge held her by the ear while she harangued the poor child, telling her she would burn in Hell for her sins.

  The girls who are mean to Susie are mean to me too, which should make us friends, but Susie will not have friends. She is fiercely clever, easily surpassing girls like me who live in houses filled with books and have plenty of time to read them too. Last year she, along with other girls in our year, won prizes for Holy Scriptures, Reading and Recitation, Grammar, French, Arithmetic and Mapping. And she was the only girl to be awarded the General Proficiency prize.

  Seeing Susie made me think of school, and I suddenly stopped in my tracks. Sarah asked me what was wrong. “Our school, Sarah, it’s upwind from the Cathedral. Do you think —” I was quite unable to finish my horrible thought.

  Sarah told Alfie to take little Georgie ahead to see the barrel organ man, then she turned to me with her mouth set. I had never seen her look so grim, and I confess, it frightened me. “Triffie, if our school is burned down, you are not to go making a fuss about it.”

  My face crumpled like a used hankie. I wanted to be brave, but I couldn’t. At least I managed to keep my voice to a whisper while I listed all the buildings that would also burn around our school. “The Bishop’s House!” I cried. “How can we have a homeless bishop?” Then I had a truly terrible thought. “What of the orphans! The orphanage is just behind our school.” I had a vision of that sturdy brick building in flames, screaming children inside.

  Sarah told me not to be so foolish. She was so absolutely sure that the orphans would have been moved long before the fire reached them. Then she added, “It’s a blessing this fire began in the afternoon, not the middle of the night. A great many lives will be spared because of that.”

  Her voice was barely above a whisper, but even so, she looked around to be sure no one was listening before she continued. “Many poor souls around us have lost everything, Triffie. We mustn’t fuss over losses that are not even our own.” As I tried to stop my mouth from trembling, Sarah put her arm around my shoulder. “Be brave as those Heart of Oak sailors of olden days. Keep up your spirits for Alfie’s sake.”

  Since then I have managed to keep my feelings in check. Now twilight is deepening, though it brings none of the cool relief that usually comes with night. It sounds as if we’re on the edge of a mighty battle as roofs and chimneys crash to the ground nearby. The men who came from the Cathedral are rested, and I heard one tell Mr. Ledwell they will regroup at Flavin’s Lane, by our fine electric light works and the Terra Nova Bakery, to make a stand there. If they can stop the fire, our house and the east end of the city will be saved. I dare not let myself imagine they might fail.

  Saturday, July 9th

  So terrible, so terrible, I cannot write of it.

  Sunday, July 10th, Scott Street

  I feel a little better today, though the problems that face us now can easily bring tears to my eyes. I am that tired, I find myself wishing to sleep at all hours of the day, which is hardly practical, because I no longer have a bed.

  I did not think I would sleep on that terrible night as the fire came closer and closer, consuming all in its path, but I must have dozed off finally because suddenly it was sunrise, and Papa had found us! I flew into his arms, all cares forgotten. His clothes smelled of smoke. Papa hugged me very close while Sarah and Alfie rushed to join me. He held us as if we were all he had in the world. As I soon discovered, that was close to the truth.

  Everything is gone. Papa’s premises — the shop, the workshops, the wharves — all of it, burnt to ash. Our house, Papa says, is no more than a smoking pit in the ground, all our fine and beautiful things consumed. Only the old stone warehouse on the South Side remains unharmed. We have that, the clothes on our backs and whatever we grabbed as we left our dear, departed house. Our only consolation is that no one was hurt.

  A few of Papa’s crowd were with him, but the ones who still had homes to return to were gone, taking however many friends they could house with them. The bedraggled band with us in the park were ash smeared, with red-rimmed eyes. Miss Rosy was positively dishevelled, her white blouse, usually spotless, all besmirched with soot and her hair was half fallen out of the neat chignon she always wears. As I watched, she took a comb from her purse. I was quite shocked to see a lady dressing her hair in public, but no one so much as frowned, not even Mama.

  Although they had lost the battle to save the store and their livelihoods with it, our brave crowd was still in high spirits, regaling one another with stories of small victories, as if they had defeated the fire. It seemed strange to find them in such good cheer.

  The fire had not made its way beyond Rawlins Cross, so the houses around the park were untouched. Soon, neighbours very kindly appeared with food. No one asked them to — they acted out of pure sympathy. Nettie got out the last of our bread and cheese and partridgeberry jam, and we added tha
t to the general store of food that was shared around. No one thought to hold back that morning. There must have been over a thousand people in the park, but we were like one family, bedraggled and dazed, rich and poor alike, together in our misfortune.

  Alfie was enthralled by stories of the battle to save Papa’s store, but I could not share the good spirits of those around me. I had often thought a sudden reversal of fortune might be romantic, but the grim truth is pure misery. “What is to become of us?” I dared to ask as we finished our meal.

  Papa told us that Mr. Sampson had invited us to stay, so we might have a roof over our heads while Papa makes arrangements. Then he said we must be brave for him if we are to recover our fortunes. “The old stone warehouse is not clean, but it’s sturdy. I propose we tidy it up and live there for a time.”

  “Oh, Gregory,” Mama cried, “Surely we could find a little cottage to rent!”

  Papa shook his head. “It would be very wrong, Eleanor, to do so when we have a place to live, however humble it may be. Thousands are utterly homeless. Besides, I have a plan.” Then he said that new stock that was ordered in the spring is already bound for us in ships, and he wants to set up a store as soon as possible. He proposed we have everything under one roof, store and dwelling place, just as his parents had when he was a child.

  I saw Mama’s face. The one roof Papa grew up under covered a fine brick building on Water Street, not a filthy old warehouse.

  I looked around the park at all the homeless people, trying to find a way to feel grateful for our situation, and there was May! She was with her mother, who was handing out buns of bread from a large basket. I asked permission to go to May at once. As I ran to her, I thought of Ordnance House with its many empty rooms. The Seawards, being so charitable, would surely fill their house with homeless families.