Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 7/A night of terror
A NIGHT OF TERROR.
I am naturally of a timid disposition,—in fact, I may say of a very timid disposition,—and am subject to what, in speaking of a large mass of people, we should call panics.
I was for a long time horribly frightened by the idea of French invasion, and kept my portmanteau in constant readiness for a sudden “stampede” into the interior of the kingdom on the receipt of the first intelligence of the arrival of the enemy on our shores. This feeling gradually subsided, and I then was tormented with a dread of fire; I couldn’t see a ladder fire-escape leaning against the railings of the parish church, without a relapse, and wondering when my time would come to make a terrific descent in my night-cap and slippers in one from the fourth floor of my lodgings; then the fear would come over me that perhaps the fire-escape might not arrive in time, and that at the last moment I should be left to my own resources for escape. I therefore arranged everything in my own mind in case of such a catastrophe. I intended to tear the sheets into three pieces, knot each piece firmly together, draw the bedstead to the window, fasten the end to the bed-post, and so descend hand over hand; but not feeling quite certain if my presence of mind would be sufficient to procure in time my “absence of body,” I engaged the boy belonging to the house, for a trifling remuneration, to ring the door-bell at uncertain hours during the night, rush up to my room, and wake me with the information that the “house was on fire, from the basement upwards.” It was well I tried the experiment, for the first time he aroused me, in the confusion of the moment I tied the towels together, and was about to draw the towel-horse to the window and attempt my escape that way; an operation which, if I had been allowed to have carried out, would not, I have reason to believe, have been crowned with success. But after a time I got accustomed to his nocturnal visit, and could say placidly, “Thank you, William; you will find sixpence for your trouble on the looking glass,” and turn round and go to sleep again.
The agony I suffered when obliged to travel by railway was fearful. I attempted to cure myself of this in a similar manner to my fire panic, and stuck steadily to excursion trains, and on one occasion I bribed the guard, if he should find me asleep at any station, to wake me up suddenly, and inform me that “the engine had broken down, and the up-express was expected every moment;” the foolish fellow did not perceive that I had a fellow-passenger in the carriage when he brought me this private intelligence,—an elderly gentleman with a silk pocket-handkerchief over his face, who no sooner heard the alarming information than he endeavoured to take a header out of the far window. Fortunately, the elderly gentleman was of a stout build, and could get very little out beyond his head and shoulders; but it required all the strength of myself and guard to pull him back again, and assure him that he must have been dreaming, otherwise the guard would most likely have lost his place, as the old gentleman did his temper, when he thought it was a hoax, and was going to write to the “Times,” and do all manner of things which irate old gentlemen are fond of doing.
This little misadventure prevented my following out entirely my plan with regard to railway travelling, and I merely mention it to show how strongly I have struggled with my infirmity.
Some brave men I have heard are the most arrant cowards when asleep: now I am just the reverse; I am prepared in my dreams to jump over any ravine however wide and however deep. I have frequently been engaged in a deadly conflict and found myself a perfect hero, but immediately I awake my infirmity comes upon me again.
Although acknowledging my natural timidity, I am by no means convinced that (under certain conditions) I might not come out uncommonly strong. I have never been shipwrecked; perhaps (should such a disaster happen to me) it might bring out my latent courage; I can picture myself, when the ship was at her greatest danger, cutting down the masts, seizing the tiller from the hands of the affrighted and trembling helmsman, and steering the gallant bark safely into port amidst the cheers of the spectators assembled on shore to witness the interesting sight, and the tears of gratitude of the captain and crew. I merely say it might be so; I might, however, be found hiding in one of the boats at the first alarm.
However, it must not be supposed that I do not entertain the highest respect for personal valour, and I never pass one of our gallant volunteers that I do not take off my hat to his superior courage.
The occurrence which I am about to relate would, in my opinion, strike awe into the breast of the most undaunted. I had occasion a short time since to run down the line on a little business. I arrived at the hotel rather late, took a light supper, a glass of brandy and water, and went to bed: I ought to say, perhaps, that my nerves had been a little shaken by my journey, the carriage had jolted in a somewhat mysterious manner, and I fancied that the engine had made strange noises, indicating an intention of blowing up; but still I was not in a state of extreme nervousness.
I don’t know exactly how long I had been asleep, but I had been dreaming that I had been appointed captain of the “Arkansas” by the Confederate States, and was making (to use a vulgar expression) mince-meat of the Federal blockading squadron, when the shots, which had appeared hitherto distant, gradually approached until a shell seemed to burst immediately under my nose, and I awoke.
I say awoke, though for some minutes afterwards I entertained considerable doubts as to whether I was not still asleep, as a smart fire of musketry appeared to be going on. I pinched myself severely and found unmistakeably that I was in a waking condition; but what could all that firing be in the street? could war have been declared against America while I had been asleep, and had the Yankees, with that promptness which they sometimes display, sent over a portion of that 700,000 men of which we heard so much, and which are to do so much harm to poor imbecile old England when—their present little affair is settled?
A cold perspiration broke out all over me; the firing had now reached the very door of the hotel. I hastily blew out my night light (I always like to sleep with a light in my room, it seems such company, if one should happen to wake in the night), lest its glimmer should attract the attention of the foe; I then ventured to creep out of bed, and cautiously to draw back about an inch of the window-curtain, and to peep out.
The conflict was at its height; the shouting was fearful, men were running about dressed in strange uniforms, a volley fired directly underneath my window caused me to draw back as precipitately as if I had been actually shot; but as the window was not broken, I have reason to believe that I escaped unhurt.
Driven from the window, I crept on my hands and knees back to the bed, got inside, and covered my head with the blankets and counterpane, occasionally allowing one ear to listen; after a short time, the enemy appeared to have taken possession of the house, and the firing was over, but the cheering still continued, if anything louder than ever.
A clatter of knives and forks, and popping of champagne corks, then succeeded, and for a time, comparative quiet reigned. It may seem strange, but during this lull I dropped off to sleep again, and was aroused by the most horrible din that I could have ever imagined; the enemy seemed to have indulged too freely in champagne, and were dashing about the house, shouting and screaming; they had evidently gorged themselves, and were about to slaughter the innocent inmates of the hotel in their drunken fury.
I sprang out of bed, to seek a place of concealment; a cupboard, a high one, stood invitingly open, and in I jumped, pulled-to the door with a bang, and for the moment I was safe. I heard them knocking at the door of my room, but of course I did not answer, and after a little time they went away. I don’t know how long I remained in my hiding place; it seemed about a year, but I suppose was only an hour, when all noise having ceased, I thought I might as well go back to bed, particularly as my costume was somewhat of the scantiest, and I began to feel cold, when, to my dismay, I found that the door had shut with a spring, and I was enclosed like the lady in the “Mistletoe Bough.” Nothing was to be done but remain quiet until morning, when some one would most likely come into the room, and I would surrender myself a prisoner.
After a lapse of time, which seemed centuries, a streak of light shone through the keyhole, and by-and-by I heard a knocking at my bed-room door.
“Come in,” shouted I through the keyhole. Fates be praised! I heard the door open. “Let me out,” I shouted again.
“Why, however did you get inside the cupboard, sir?” said the chamber-maid (for she it was), as she opened the door of my hiding place.
I did not stop to answer her ridiculous question, but sprang out at once into the room.
I have already stated that my garments were scanty, and the damsel fled precipitately at my appearance, before I had time to inquire the particulars of the fearful struggle of the previous night.
I dressed myself as quickly as possible, and ran down stairs expecting to find the whole lower storey a ruin; but, strange to say, everything looked as usual; the killed and wounded must have been removed I thought. I went into the coffee-room, and found the waiter; he looked a little pale, but otherwise appeared free from injury.
“How,” gasped I, “did we escape last night?”
The waiter scarcely heard my question, and replied:
“Why, sir, you see. sir, the wolunteers”
“Gallant fellows!” interrupted I; “so they drove the invaders from our hearths.”
The waiter looked at me somewhat dubiously, the chambermaid had most likely told him of my being found in the cupboard.
“Dear me, sir,” said he, “you must have been wery bad last night, sir.”
“What do you mean?” said I.
“Well, sir, I hope no offence, sir; but if I might make so bold as to recommend a glass of brandy neat, sir; a fine thing when a gentleman has had a little drop too much over night, sir.”
“Why, you rascal, you don’t think I was drunk, do you?”
The waiter grinned a ghastly grin, and replied:
“No offence, I hope, sir, but a good many on ’em was, sir.”
“A good many of whom?”
“Why, sir, the wolunteers had a midnight-march last night, and skirmished back through the town, and had supper at our house.”
“And the firing I heard, then?”
“Was them, sir; and they did fire beautiful, didn’t they, sir?”
I nodded assent.
“And some of the young gentlemen,” continued my loquacious waiter, “got uncommon jolly, sir, and chivied one another up and down stairs.”
I have still the greatest respect for our noble volunteers, but I sincerely hope that I shall never sleep again in a town, where they are in the habit of taking midnight-marches, or in an hotel where they come home to supper, and chivy one another up and down stairs.
W. H. S.