Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  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 no
ose, 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.

  VI. POVERTY AND DEATH.

  ”How little can the rich man know

  Of what the poor man feels,

  When Want, like some dark demon foe,

  Nearer and nearer steals!

  ”HE never tramp’d the weary round,

  A stroke of work to gain,

  And sicken’d at the dreaded sound

  Which tells he seeks in vain.

  ”Foot-sore, heart-sore, HE never came

  Back through the winter’s wind,

  To a dank cellar, there no flame,

  No light, no food, to find.

  ”HE never saw his darlings lie

  Shivering, the flags their bed

  HE never heard that maddening cry,

  ‘Daddy, a bit of bread!’“

  — MANCHESTER SONG.

  John Barton was not far wrong in his idea that the Messrs. Carson would not be over-much grieved for the consequences of the fire in their mill. They were well insured; the machinery lacked the improvements of late years, and worked but poorly in comparison with that which might now be procured. Above all, trade was very slack; cottons could find no market, and goods lay packed and piled in many a warehouse. The mills were merely worked to keep the machinery, human and metal, in some kind of order and readiness for better times. So this was an excellent opportunity, Messrs. Carson thought, for refitting their factory with first-rate improvements, for which the insurance money would amply pay. They were in no hurry about the business, however. The weekly drain of wages given for labour, useless in the present state of the market, was stopped. The partners had more leisure than they had known for years; and promised wives and daughters all manner of pleasant excursions, as soon as the weather should become more genial. It was a pleasant thing to be able to lounge over breakfast with a review or newspaper in hand; to have time for becoming acquainted with agreeable and accomplished daughters, on whose education no money had been spared, but whose fathers, shut up during a long day with calicoes and accounts, had so seldom had leisure to enjoy their daughters’ talents. There were happy family evenings, now that the men of business had time for domestic enjoyments. There is another side to the picture. There were homes over which Carsons’ fire threw a deep, terrible gloom; the homes of those who would fain work, and no man gave unto them — the homes of those to whom leisure was a curse. There, the family music was hungry wails, when week after week passed by, and there was no work to be had, and consequently no wages to pay for the bread the children cried aloud for in their young impatience of suffering. There was no breakfast to lounge over; their lounge was taken in bed, to try and keep warmth in them that bitter March weather, and, by being quiet, to deaden the gnawing wolf within. Many a penny that would have gone little way enough in oatmeal or potatoes, bought opium to still the hungry little ones, and make them forget their uneasiness in heavy troubled sleep. It was mother’s mercy. The evil and the good of our nature came out strongly then. There were desperate fathers; there were bitter-tongued mothers (O God! what wonder!); there were reckless children; the very closest bonds of nature were snapt in that time of trial and distress. There was Faith such as the rich can never imagine on earth; there was “Love strong as death”; and self-denial, among rude, coarse men, akin to that of Sir Philip Sidney’s most glorious deed. The vices of the poor sometimes astound us HERE; but when the secrets of all hearts shall be made known, their virtues will astound us in far greater degree. Of this I am certain.

  As the cold, bleak spring came on (spring, in name alone), and consequently as trade continued dead, other mills shortened hours, turned off hands, and finally stopped work altogether.

  Barton worked short hours. Wilson, of course, being a hand in Carsons’ factory, had no work at all. But his son, working at an engineer’s, and a steady man, obtained wages enough to maintain all the family in a careful wa
y. Still it preyed on Wilson’s mind to be so long indebted to his son. He was out of spirits, and depressed. Barton was morose, and soured towards mankind as a body, and the rich in particular. One evening, when the clear light at six o’clock contrasted strangely with the Christmas cold, and when the bitter wind piped down every entry, and through every cranny, Barton sat brooding over his stinted fire, and listening for Mary’s step, in unacknowledged trust that her presence would cheer him. The door was opened, and Wilson came breathless in.

  “You’ve not got a bit o’ money by you, Barton?” asked he.

  “Not I; who has now, I’d like to know. Whatten you want it for?”

  “I donnot* want it for mysel’, tho’ we’ve none to spare. But don ye know Ben Davenport as worked at Carsons? He’s down wi’ the fever, and ne’er a stick o’ fire nor a cowd** potato in the house.”

  *”Don” is constantly used in Lancashire for “do”; as it was

  by our older writers.

  ”And that may non Hors DON.” — SIR J. MANDEVILLE.

  ”But for th’ entent to DON this sinne.” — CHAUCER.

  **Cowd; cold. Teut., kaud. Dutch, koud.

  “I han got no money, I tell ye,” said Barton. Wilson looked disappointed. Barton tried not to be interested, but he could not help it in spite of his gruffness. He rose, and went to the cupboard (his wife’s pride long ago). There lay the remains of his dinner, hastily put by ready for supper. Bread, and a slice of cold fat boiled bacon. He wrapped them in his handkerchief, put them in the crown of his hat, and said, “Come, let us be going.”