Desperate Remedies
of couch-grass, when kindled in calm weather, to smoulder for many days,
and even weeks, until the whole mass is reduced to a powdery charcoal
ash, displaying the while scarcely a sign of combustion beyond the
volcano-like smoke from its summit; but the continuance of this quiet
process is throughout its length at the mercy of one particular whim
of Nature: that is, a sudden breeze, by which the heap is liable to be
fanned into a flame so brisk as to consume the whole in an hour or two.
Had the farmer narrowly watched the pile when he went to close the door,
he would have seen, besides the familiar twine of smoke from its summit,
a quivering of the air around the mass, showing that a considerable heat
had arisen inside.
As the railway-porter turned the corner of the row of houses adjoining
the Three Tranters, a brisk new wind greeted his face, and spread past
him into the village. He walked along the high-road till he came to a
gate, about three hundred yards from the inn. Over the gate could
be discerned the situation of the building he had just quitted. He
carelessly turned his head in passing, and saw behind him a clear red
glow indicating the position of the couch-heap: a glow without a flame,
increasing and diminishing in brightness as the breeze quickened or
fell, like the coal of a newly lighted cigar. If those cottages had
been his, he thought, he should not care to have a fire so near them as
that--and the wind rising. But the cottages not being his, he went on
his way to the station, where he was about to resume duty for the night.
The road was now quite deserted: till four o’clock the next morning,
when the carters would go by to the stables there was little probability
of any human being passing the Three Tranters Inn.
By eleven, everybody in the house was asleep. It truly seemed as if
the treacherous element knew there had arisen a grand opportunity for
devastation.
At a quarter past eleven a slight stealthy crackle made itself heard
amid the increasing moans of the night wind; the heap glowed brighter
still, and burst into a flame; the flame sank, another breeze entered
it, sustained it, and it grew to be first continuous and weak, then
continuous and strong.
At twenty minutes past eleven a blast of wind carried an airy bit of
ignited fern several yards forward, in a direction parallel to the
houses and inn, and there deposited it on the ground.
Five minutes later another puff of wind carried a similar piece to a
distance of five-and-twenty yards, where it also was dropped softly on
the ground.
Still the wind did not blow in the direction of the houses, and even now
to a casual observer they would have appeared safe. But Nature does few
things directly. A minute later yet, an ignited fragment fell upon the
straw covering of a long thatched heap or ‘grave’ of mangel-wurzel,
lying in a direction at right angles to the house, and down toward the
hedge. There the fragment faded to darkness.
A short time subsequent to this, after many intermediate deposits and
seemingly baffled attempts, another fragment fell on the mangel-wurzel
grave, and continued to glow; the glow was increased by the wind; the
straw caught fire and burst into flame. It was inevitable that the flame
should run along the ridge of the thatch towards a piggery at the end.
Yet had the piggery been tiled, the time-honoured hostel would even now
at this last moment have been safe; but it was constructed as piggeries
are mostly constructed, of wood and thatch. The hurdles and straw roof
of the frail erection became ignited in their turn, and abutting as the
shed did on the back of the inn, flamed up to the eaves of the main roof
in less than thirty seconds.
3. HALF-PAST ELEVEN TO TWELVE P.M.
A hazardous length of time elapsed before the inmates of the Three
Tranters knew of their danger. When at length the discovery was made,
the rush was a rush for bare life.
A man’s voice calling, then screams, then loud stamping and shouts were
heard.
Mr. Springrove ran out first. Two minutes later appeared the ostler and
chambermaid, who were man and wife. The inn, as has been stated, was a
quaint old building, and as inflammable as a bee-hive; it overhung the
base at the level of the first floor, and again overhung at the eaves,
which were finished with heavy oak barge-boards; every atom in its
substance, every feature in its construction, favoured the fire.
The forked flames, lurid and smoky, became nearly lost to view, bursting
forth again with a bound and loud crackle, increased tenfold in power
and brightness. The crackling grew sharper. Long quivering shadows began
to be flung from the stately trees at the end of the house; the square
outline of the church tower, on the other side of the way, which had
hitherto been a dark mass against a sky comparatively light, now began
to appear as a light object against a sky of darkness; and even the
narrow surface of the flag-staff at the top could be seen in its dark
surrounding, brought out from its obscurity by the rays from the dancing
light.
Shouts and other noises increased in loudness and frequency. The lapse
of ten minutes brought most of the inhabitants of that end of the
village into the street, followed in a short time by the rector, Mr.
Raunham.
Casting a hasty glance up and down, he beckoned to one or two of the
men, and vanished again. In a short time wheels were heard, and Mr.
Raunham and the men reappeared, with the garden engine, the only one in
the village, except that at Knapwater House. After some little trouble
the hose was connected with a tank in the old stable-yard, and the puny
instrument began to play.
Several seemed paralyzed at first, and stood transfixed, their rigid
faces looking like red-hot iron in the glaring light. In the confusion
a woman cried, ‘Ring the bells backwards!’ and three or four of the old
and superstitious entered the belfry and jangled them indescribably.
Some were only half dressed, and, to add to the horror, among them was
Clerk Crickett, running up and down with a face streaming with blood,
ghastly and pitiful to see, his excitement being so great that he had
not the slightest conception of how, when, or where he came by the
wound.
The crowd was now busy at work, and tried to save a little of the
furniture of the inn. The only room they could enter was the parlour,
from which they managed to bring out the bureau, a few chairs, some old
silver candlesticks, and half-a-dozen light articles; but these were
all.
Fiery mats of thatch slid off the roof and fell into the road with a
deadened thud, whilst white flakes of straw and wood-ash were flying in
the wind like feathers. At the same time two of the cottages adjoining,
upon which a little water had been brought to play from the rector’s
engine, were seen to be on fire. The attenuated spirt of water was as
nothing upon the heated and dry surface of the thatched roof; the
fire prevailed without a minute’s hindrance, and dived through to the
rafters.
Suddenly arose a cry, ‘Where’s Mr. Springrove?’
He had vanished from the spot by the churchyard wall, where he had been
standing a few minutes earlier.
‘I fancy he’s gone inside,’ said a voice.
‘Madness and folly! what can he save?’ said another. ‘Good God, find
him! Help here!’
A wild rush was made at the door, which had fallen to, and in defiance
of the scorching flame that burst forth, three men forced themselves
through it. Immediately inside the threshold they found the object of
their search lying senseless on the floor of the passage.
To bring him out and lay him on a bank was the work of an instant; a
basin of cold water was dashed in his face, and he began to recover
consciousness, but very slowly. He had been saved by a miracle. No
sooner were his preservers out of the building than the window-frames
lit up as if by magic with deep and waving fringes of flames.
Simultaneously, the joints of the boards forming the front door started
into view as glowing bars of fire: a star of red light penetrated the
centre, gradually increasing in size till the flames rushed forth.
Then the staircase fell.
‘Everybody is out safe,’ said a voice.
‘Yes, thank God!’ said three or four others.
‘O, we forgot that a stranger came! I think she is safe.’
‘I hope she is,’ said the weak voice of some one coming up from behind.
It was the chambermaid’s.
Springrove at that moment aroused himself; he staggered to his feet, and
threw his hands up wildly.
‘Everybody, no! no! The lady who came by train, Mrs. Manston! I tried to
fetch her out, but I fell.’
An exclamation of horror burst from the crowd; it was caused partly
by this disclosure of Springrove, more by the added perception which
followed his words.
An average interval of about three minutes had elapsed between one
intensely fierce gust of wind and the next, and now another poured over
them; the roof swayed, and a moment afterwards fell in with a crash,
pulling the gable after it, and thrusting outwards the front wall of
wood-work, which fell into the road with a rumbling echo; a cloud of
black dust, myriads of sparks, and a great outburst of flame followed
the uproar of the fall.
‘Who is she? what is she?’ burst from every lip again and again,
incoherently, and without leaving a sufficient pause for a reply, had a
reply been volunteered.
The autumn wind, tameless, and swift, and proud, still blew upon the
dying old house, which was constructed so entirely of combustible
materials that it burnt almost as fiercely as a corn-rick. The heat
in the road increased, and now for an instant at the height of the
conflagration all stood still, and gazed silently, awestruck and
helpless, in the presence of so irresistible an enemy. Then, with minds
full of the tragedy unfolded to them, they rushed forward again with
the obtuse directness of waves, to their labour of saving goods from the
houses adjoining, which it was evident were all doomed to destruction.
The minutes passed by. The Three Tranters Inn sank into a mere heap of
red-hot charcoal: the fire pushed its way down the row as the church
clock opposite slowly struck the hour of midnight, and the bewildered
chimes, scarcely heard amid the crackling of the flames, wandered
through the wayward air of the Old Hundred-and-Thirteenth Psalm.
4. NINE TO ELEVEN P.M.
Manston mounted his gig and set out from Chettlewood that evening in no
very enviable frame of mind. The thought of domestic life in Knapwater
Old House, with the now eclipsed wife of the past, was more than
disagreeable, was positively distasteful to him.
Yet he knew that the influential position, which, from whatever
fortunate cause, he held on Miss Aldclyffe’s manor, would never again
fall to his lot on any other, and he tacitly assented to this dilemma,
hoping that some consolation or other would soon suggest itself to him;
married as he was, he was near Cytherea.
He occasionally looked at his watch as he drove along the lanes, timing
the pace of his horse by the hour, that he might reach Carriford Road
Station just soon enough to meet the last London train.
He soon began to notice in the sky a slight yellow halo, near the
horizon. It rapidly increased; it changed colour, and grew redder; then
the glare visibly brightened and dimmed at intervals, showing that its
origin was affected by the strong wind prevailing.
Manston reined in his horse on the summit of a hill, and considered.
‘It is a rick-yard on fire,’ he thought; ‘no house could produce such a
raging flame so suddenly.’
He trotted on again, attempting to particularize the local features in
the neighbourhood of the fire; but this it was too dark to do, and the
excessive winding of the roads misled him as to its direction, not being