Court Royal/Chapter X
CHAPTER X.
THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER.
The Fifth of November was a great day at the Barbican. Was, it no longer is. The reason why it is so no longer may be gathered from what follows.
The Barbican offered about the only open space in old Plymouth where a bonfire might blaze, and fireworks explode without certainty of setting the houses round in flames, or of frightening horses and impeding traffic. Moreover, about the Barbican swarm and multiply indefinitely the urchins who most love to celebrate the anniversary of the Gunpowder Plot. They are deterred by no dread of injuring good clothes, are restrained by no respectable parents. They burn Guy Fawkes out of no deep-seated enthusiasm for the Crown and the Bible, but out of pure love of a blaze.
Now, stillness reigns on that momentous anniversary at the Barbican; no crackers spurt, no pyre burns, for the police are there in force on the evening to prevent a repetition of such an event as that which took place on the occasion we are about to record.
The broad quay, the proximity of the waters and the coal barges, the good open space before the houses, had impressed the youth for many generations that no place was fitter for the fiery celebration than the Barbican. There were bits of old timber to be had for the asking or for the taking. The owners of the tar and tow and tallow store always contributed a cask, and some black fluid highly combustible. The colliers that lay in Sutton Pool were ready to give baskets of coal.
The adult population of the neighbourhood was in sympathy with the exhibition, turned out to see it, and contributed howls, cheers, and groans.
The Barbicanites had no pronounced political or religious antipathies. It was one to them whose effigy was burnt, they hooted and howled with equal enthusiasm whether the object represented ‘Old Boney,’ Pius IX., or a Puseyite. All they bargained for was that some one should be burned—who mattered little.
On the last occasion when the Barbican was illuminated by a bonfire, the guy represented a local celebrity. Before that evening closed in, who the guy was to be was known to every inhabitant of the Barbican, except the individual himself. Never had contributions flowed in more copiously, and been given with greater alacrity. Not a householder refused when solicited, except only Lazarus, who, when solicited, responded with an oath, a lunge, and a whirl of his stick.
Darkness fell. Joanna put up the shutters as usual, and locked and barred the doors. Lazarus looked with evil eye on the Fifth of November celebrations as a criminal waste of excellent fuel, and he made or pretended business for the evening which would take him to the other end of the town.
Lazarus had come to entrust the care of the house and the business of the shop very much to Joanna, whilst he carried on business of an analogous but more respectable kind elsewhere. He could place perfect confidence in Joanna. She took as keen a relish as himself in driving a bargain and in ‘doing’ a purchaser. He suspected her, indeed, of secreting for her own use some of the money she received, but this was solely because he suspected everybody; and in this case his suspicions were unjust, for Joanna was scrupulously conscientious in accounting to him for every farthing she spent and received. It was part of her duty to screw down the poor and bleed them of their last drop of blood; it was part of her duty to throw dust into the eyes of a buyer, and deceive him with lies and disguises; it was her duty to be true to her master. Joanna was conscientious.
During the day Joanna had observed the growth of a pile of combustible materials before the house, and had engaged in many passages of arms about it. She had remonstrated as to its size and position; and, finally, she had pillaged it. She had, by watching her opportunities, succeeded in carrying off from it a quarter of a ton of coals which she had stowed in the closet under the staircase, till detected, and then the urchins engaged on the erection of the pyre kept a guard against further pilfering.
When she found that she could no longer plunder the pile, she stormed against the pile-builders, she invoked the aid of a policeman to demolish it. It was in dangerous proximity to the Golden Balls. What if the wind set that way? When the policeman failed to give her redress, she appealed to the bystanders, the inhabitants of the houses on the quay, but they were all participators in the pyre, had subscribed coin, or contributed fuel for its erection.
After she had locked up the house, Joanna retired to a window of the first floor, whence she could follow the proceedings. The Barbican was alive with people, and heads were protruded from all the windows. The evening was fine, no rain fell, no fog hung over the water and wharf. Joanna was girl enough to enjoy a blaze; though old beyond her years in her views of life and of men, she had not lost childlike pleasure in what is beautiful and what is exciting.
Presently Joanna heard the bray of a horn, and the hubbub of voices mingled with jeers, laughter, and whoops. A moment after a crowd of boys, young men, and girls poured down the narrow street that debouches on the quay, carrying in their midst, supported on their shoulders, seated on a chair above their heads, the Guy Fawkes. Torches were borne and waved about the figure, and on its reaching the open space a Bengal light blazed up.
Joanna saw at a glance whom the effigy was designed to represent, and why the celebration had evoked so much interest on this occasion.
The figure was that of Mr. Lazarus. There could be no mistaking it. His peculiarities of costume and attitude had been hit off with real genius. A mask had been made or obtained with a sausage nose, like his, and a smirk on the thick lips, like his. His old fur cap, with flaps to cover the ears, which he wore in the shop, was faithfully reproduced; so also his long-tailed greatcoat; his black tie, which would turn with the knot under the ear, without a vestige of linen collar. The effigy was represented holding a ham-bone, which it was gnawing.
The crowd flowed from the street, and spread over the Barbican open space. The figure was planted in front of the Golden Balls, and three groans were given for Lazarus the Jew.
Joanna withdrew from the window that the people might not have the satisfaction of seeing that they were observed. Her face flamed with indignation and desire of revenge. She ascended a chest of drawers in the store chamber nearest the face of the house, whence she could watch proceedings unobserved. After the groans for Lazarus, a silence fell on the mob, and expectant looks were cast at his door. They supposed that the Jew, frenzied with rage, would rush forth, cudgel in hand, to belabour all whom he could reach. Disappointed in this anticipation, they removed the guy to the bonfire, and planted the figure, in its chair, on the top. Torches were applied, and amid huzzas and capers, and a ring of urchins dancing round the pile, the bonfire burst into lurid blaze.
Joanna saw the faces of the crowd illuminated by the fire. She saw those who lounged out of their windows looking on, laughing and applauding. She gnashed her teeth with impotent rage, and clenched her hands. She sat crouched, frog-like, on the top of a chest of drawers, with her fists closed, and her chin resting on them.
‘Ah!’ she muttered, ‘you come to Lazarus, all of you, when in need; you can’t do without him, and yet this is the reward he gets for helping you in trouble. Never mind, he has you all in his grip. He will not scruple now to give a squeeze, and your blood will run between his fingers. You also! How dare you!’ she exclaimed, and pointed to an attic window from which peered a woman’s face. The flames lit up the room, and cast Joanna’s shadow against the wall, distorting and exaggerating the length of her extended arm. Her finger indicated the woman leaning forth from the garret window, watching what went on below, and enjoying the scene. That woman was the mother of two children. She pawned the blankets every morning that had covered her and her sons by night, for three-halfpence, and redeemed the children’s clothes for the day. At night she pawned their rags and released the blankets. Six per cent is the legal rate of usury, but Lazarus obtained from this widow five hundred per cent. And this woman dared to applaud his being burnt in effigy? Whither is gratitude flown?
Suddenly a report, a roar, then a burst of cheers, followed by a crash, and dead silence!
The ham-bone had gone off! That ham-bone was a rocket disguised in coloured paper. The designer of this exquisite piece of humour had planned that the rocket, on exploding, should shoot out to sea and extinguish itself innocuously in the water; but in the haste and excitement of planting Lazarus on the pyre no thought had been given to the pointing of the head of the ham-bone. The only idea prominent in the minds of the urchins was to set the figure opposite the door of the Golden Balls. The rocket was from the Government coastguard stores, liberally contributed by the man invested with charge of them.
When the flame ignited the rocket it went off with a rush and roar in quite the opposite direction to the sea, crashed through a window, and disappeared in the tow, tallow, and tar warehouse.
One precious gift of nature is accorded freely to Englishmen of all ranks and ages—the aptitude of doing the right thing at the right moment; in a word, presence of mind. Those present, the whole crowd of men and boys—instantly realised the gravity of the situation, and did that which was best to be done—they took to their heels. The first to go was the storekeeper who had contributed the rocket, and he went home as fast as the rocket had gone into the tow and tallow shop, slipped into bed, and called his wife’s attention to the clock to enable her to swear that he had been laid up at that time of the evening with a bronchial catarrh. He was followed by everyone who had lent a hand or given a halfpenny towards the celebration. Thus the explosion of the ham-bone cleared the quay in five minutes.
The bargemen looked on from their boats in complacent expectation of a bonfire bigger than that on which Lazarus was burning. Only a few men stood about the pyre, and endeavoured with rakes to thrust it over the edge of the wharf into the pool before the police appeared.
Joanna had not observed what had taken place. She had indeed seen the flash of the rocket and heard the cheers, but from her chest of drawers she could not see the tow and tallow store.
Why had the crowd dispersed so suddenly? Why was the bonfire being put out, and the half-consumed Lazarus in his flaming chair toppled into Sutton Pool?
Joanna was roused by the sound of her master’s key in the side door. She remembered that she had bolted the door, so she descended to withdraw the bar and admit him. Then her pent-up wrath found vent, and she told him of the outrage.
‘Well,’ said Lazarus, without signs of discomposure, ‘it won’t cost me a penny. Have they singed one of my coats? burnt my cap? Not a bit! so it don’t matter to me. Run out, Joanna, with your shovel, and see if you cannot rescue some of the coals which are being wasted, and then look sharp and get me my supper ready. Dear, dear! The figure was dressed like me, and all the beautiful clothes burning. Don’t you think that we might fish him out of the water and see what can be done with the garments—they cannot be utterly spoiled? So they are raking out the fire, are they? Scared by the police, I suppose. It is wicked, inconsiderate waste to toss coals and sticks into the pool. The supper can wait; the apple won’t get cold, and it may ripen by delay.’
‘What is that?’ exclaimed the girl, as a flash of vivid yellow light smote in at the window. ‘They’ve surely never gone and lighted the bonfire again.’
‘They are burning what remains of the coal. Oh, the wicked waste!’
‘No!’ said Joanna, excitedly; ‘the light strikes from the wrong side of the street.’
She ran to the door, threw it open, and uttered an exclamation of dismay.
The tow and tallow store was in flames; it had burst into blaze at once; all the windows on the second floor were vividly illuminated, and from one a spout of fire issued and ran up the walls. No one lived in the storehouse; but an old woman, very deaf, occupied an attic, and she was wont to retire early to bed.
A light wind was blowing, likely to carry the flames across the street upon the house of the Jew.
Lazarus stood in the doorway behind the girl. He shared her dismay, but gave louder and more violent expression to it. He swore and stamped.
‘The fire will catch me! The fire will burn me and all my pretty, pretty things! Where are the police? Where are the fire-engines? What can I do to save myself?’
‘Master,’ said Joanna, recovering herself, ‘the shutters are up below, so that the basement is safe. There is not much danger to be apprehended till the flames issue from the roof; then it is possible they may be carried our way, or that sparks will be dropped on our roof and make the slates so hot that they will snap and the rafters ignite.’
‘Oh, Joanna! run, run with all your legs after the fire-engine!’ cried the Jew, wringing his hands. ‘If my house catches I am lost—ruined past recovery! I may as well die in it. I could not survive its destruction. I cannot bring my pretty things down; I have no place where to store them. If they are taken into the street they will be stolen. There are thousands of beautiful things here no money can replace. It would take an army of men to clear them all out in twenty-four hours; and the wicked flames allow no time. Run, Joanna, run for the engines! I’ll give a sovereign if they will save my place.’
‘Master,’ said Joanna, ‘lock the door and admit no one. The fire-engines will be here before long. Come with me to the roof; we must protect that. We must carry up carpets, and spread them over the slates.’
‘Carpets!’ exclaimed Lazarus. ‘They will be burnt.’
‘The carpets rather than the whole house.’
‘Not number 247, that is a lovable old Persian, worth a lot of money, not much worn. Don’t take that.’
‘Not if we can do without. We will carry up the worst, and I will scramble on to the ridge, and spread the carpets over the roof. Then you must pass me water, and I will keep them moist. I’ll take a mop, and when sparks fall I’ll mop them out.’
‘Oh, Joanna, you are a clever girl! Run! This is better than the engines; I sha’n’t have to pay for salvage if they send a little squirt over me.’
Joanna made no answer, but fetched buckets. At the top of the house was an open lead rain-water tank.
‘You must help me with the carpets,’ said she, hastily. ‘Come, this is not the time to stand bewildered and irresolute.’
The light shone fiercely, brilliantly illumining the room where they stood, like sunlight. Everything in it was distinctly visible.
‘Not that Brussels!’ cried the Jew; ‘it is worth four shillings a yard, and there are a hundred in it, that makes twenty pounds. I cannot afford it; I will not throw away such a lot of money. Here, if it must be, take this old bedroom Kidderminster, it is full of holes. No, Joanna, keep your hands off the Axminster, it is good as new, and has a border round it.’
‘Give me the Axminster, I must have it—it is thick and will keep sopped with water longest. Help me up with it.’
Joanna went out upon the roof dragging the heavy carpets after her by means of a rope which she had looped about them, assisted by Lazarus from below, who thrust the bundles up the ladder and through the trap-door. He assisted, but tempered his assistance with protests and groans. The girl scrambled, cat-like, up the low pitched roof, and flung the carpets across the ridge, or fastened two together, and spread one on each side upon the slates.
‘Give me another,’ she shouted. ‘Time is precious; I must, I will, have both the Persian and the Brussels.’
‘The Persian is not to be parted with under fifteen guineas,’ moaned Lazarus, and then half to himself, ‘Guineas are an institution; say pounds when a purchaser asks the price, and when he comes to pay swear to guineas. Will you have this Kidder.?’
‘It is too thin,’ answered the girl. ‘See! The fire is in the upper storey, and in ten minutes will be through the roof. When that gives way we shall be buried under a rain of fire. Hark!’
‘You hear the engine coming,’ said the Jew, ‘and the squealing of the old woman in the garret. Joanna, take the Persian, take everything, but save my house.’
In a brief time Joanna had covered the roof on both sides with carpets and rugs of all sorts and values, and had soused them well with water. The Jew stood in the tank, up to his waist, and filled the pails. The girl drew them up to her by the rope attached to their handles. She was seated astride on the apex of the roof, and poured the contents of the pails over the carpets.
Whilst Joanna and her master were taking these precautions for the protection of the house of the Golden Balls great excitement prevailed below. The street and the quay were crowded; the fire-engine played on the roofs adjoining the burning house. At a window high up stood the deaf old housekeeper, wringing her hands and shrieking for help. The crowd roared, women sobbed. The ladder was fixed, and a fireman mounted to the rescue. The mob was silent, then cheered as the man put his arm round the poor creature, and endeavoured to bring her down. But she was too frightened by the aspect of the depth she had to descend to yield, and she struggled, and cried, and escaped back into the room filled with smoke and twinkling with fire, bewildered, and in her mazed mind unable to decide whether to risk a fall or to perish in flames. The struggle was of engrossing interest to those in the street; neither Joanna nor the Jew wasted a thought on it. They were concerned only with the precious house of the Golden Balls, and were supremely indifferent to the fate of a stupid old woman of seventy-three.
The firemen and the mob had eyes only for the tow and tallow shop, and the rescue of the housekeeper. When, at length, in spite of her resistance, she was carried down the fire-escape, and received unhurt at the bottom, then only did they observe the proceedings on the roof opposite.
A gush of vivid flame rushed up into the air, over the pawnbroker’s house. Joanna saw the peril, and slipped down the opposite incline of roof into the tank. Directly the danger was over, she rose, scrambled again to her perch, drawing a pail of water after her, which she emptied over some fire-flakes that had fallen on the roof. The spectators had held their breath, believing that the flame had swept her away and cast her down, broken and burnt. When she reappeared she was greeted by a cheer, of which she took no notice, not supposing it was given to her.
‘There is a hole burnt in the Axminster,’ she called to Lazarus.
The Jew, standing in the tank, streaming with water, held up his arm and answered, ‘Oh, Joanna, don’t say so! If that occurs again I’ll whack you.’
‘I cannot help it. I will mend the hole after, if I can.’
‘Ah,’ said Lazarus, dipping a bucket, ‘mend it, mend it!’
In the meantime a consultation had taken place in the street. ‘That girl must come off the roof,’ said the Captain. ‘We must throw our water over it. We can’t send the jet till she removes; it would knock her down. Lord! she is like a monkey cutting about up there.’
Joanna had seen a spark resting on the roof beyond her reach, and had gone after it with a mop and extinguished it. The firemen knocked at the house-door, but met with no reply. They tried to force it open, but it was so firmly barred that it resisted their efforts.
‘Let be!’ shouted a gentleman in evening dress. ‘Captain James, let me run up and dislodge her.’
‘If you like, Mr. Cheek. It must be done at once.’
A ladder was applied to the Jew’s house, and the gentleman, mounted, armed with an axe, broke one of the windows, and swung himself into the house. Joanna and Lazarus, who had observed nothing that went on below, were amazed to see him emerge from the attic door upon the roof.
‘Robbers! burglars!’ screamed the Jew. ‘I’ll call the police and have you taken into custody. I’ll shoot you! What is it that you want here?’
‘Come down at once!’ shouted the gentleman in evening dress to the girl. ‘Come down from the roof immediately.’
‘She is protecting my house from fire!’ said the Jew. ‘She shall ’bide where she is.’
‘Come down!’ called Mr. Cheek, disregarding Lazarus. ‘The roof of the house opposite will give way in a minute, and you will be overwhelmed with fire. The engine must play upon this roof.’
‘I’ll have no squirting here,’ said the Jew. ‘Joanna and I can manage beautifully.’
‘She will be killed if she stays there,’ said the gentleman.
‘Not she; she’ll slip into the tank and duck, as before.’
‘The engine cannot play till she descends,’ remonstrated Mr. Cheek.
‘She sha’n’t stir. You only want an excuse to make me pay. Mark my protest. Squirt as you will, you’ll pump no money out of my pocket. Joanna and I can manage first-rate without you.’
Without wasting another word on the Jew, Mr. Cheek crept up the slope of the roof, and seated himself on the ridge, astride, opposite Joanna. The girl was wet through and through. Her dark hair was loose, flapping about her neck and shoulders, dank with moisture. The yellow glare of the burning house was on her face, the flames leaping in her dark eyes; she held the mop in one hand, and the empty pail dangled from the other. Opposite her was Mr. Cheek, in fine black cloth evening suit, patent leather boots, white tie, and diamond studs.
‘Come down, you wild cat! The roof yonder will be in with a crash directly. Come down at once, and let the engines play over this house.’
‘Who are you? Go your way, or I will knock you into the street with my mop.’
‘Come down, you fool! do you not realise the danger? You will be burned in a wave of flame in another moment. Down at once, or I give the signal, and a jet of water will knock you over as sure as if you were shot.’
Joanna looked down into the street, and realised the position. ‘I will come,’ she said quietly; ‘you are right.’
She threw her foot over the ridge, and slipped down. Mr. Cheek followed.
‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed the Jew. ‘Young gent! you’ve done for your dress suit; but I’ve some second-hand articles below you shall have cheap.’
‘Come out of the tank,’ said Mr. Cheek. ‘Come under cover at once, before the fire-shower falls. Come in, as you value your life.’
‘Mr. Charles Cheek!’ exclaimed Lazarus. ‘Bless me! I did not recognise you at first. We’ve done business together already, and, I hope, not for the last time. I beg your pardon, if I addressed you without proper respect.’
‘Come in; come in at once. The hose is playing.’
He drew the Jew after him down the step, and fastened the door. Joanna had already descended. They heard the rush of the water above their heads on the slates.
‘Upon my word,’ said the young man, ‘that was a clever idea of yours, covering the roof with wet carpet.’
‘My Joanna suggested it,’ answered the Jew. ‘A girl that, with the head of a man on her shoulders—but eats like rust, and grows like a debt.’
‘Well done, you girl!’ said the young man. ‘I must have a look at you.’
He turned, and saw Joanna, hanging behind, in shadow. He caught her by the shoulders, and drew her to the window, where the glare of the burning warehouse would fall over her face. She was self-composed, and thrust her wet hair back behind her ears, and then, full of confidence, raised her eyes and encountered his.
‘Upon my word, a fine girl. Of course there are wits behind such great clever eyes. By Jove! there is devilry there as well.’
He dropped his hands, as with a crash the roof of the house opposite fell, and they seemed to be enwrapped in flame and light as of the sun. Then they heard the rattle of falling ashes on the slates above them, and the redoubled roar of the water extinguishing the fire that had lodged overhead.
None of them spoke for some minutes.
Presently Mr. Cheek said, ‘I believe the girl’s expedient has saved your house, Mr. Lazarus. I must have a look at her again by daylight. Now I am off. You did not know me as an amateur fireman, Lazarus, did you? I am hand-and-glove with Captain James. Often help. What is the name of the little devil? Joanna? Farewell for the present, Joanna, we shall see each other again. Au revoir!’