Roland Graeme: Knight. A Novel of Our Time

by Agnes Maule Machar

By a natural sort of fascination, he involuntarily took the direction of Mr. Pomeroy's mill, which at present occupied so much of his thoughts, and walked some distance past it, into the open country, till he felt as if the physical exercise had sufficiently quieted his nerves, and turned to retrace his steps under the light of a late, waning moon, which seemed, as such moons are apt to do, to give a sombre and ghostly aspect to the familiar features of the scene. As he approached the mill, in doing which he had to pass a long alley that led to a rear entrance close to a small canal, he heard the thick voices of men, evidently intoxicated, who seemed engaged in a noisy altercation. He was almost sure, even in the distance, that one of the voices was Jim Mason's, which he had often noticed as somewhat peculiar.

"I suppose they have been making a night of it at 'The Haven,' and are going home 'full,' as they call it," he thought to himself in disgust.

"The Haven" was a drinking saloon, close to the alley which ran to the rear of the works, and was also a part of Mr. Pomeroy's property; and, at a distance, he could not be sure whether they had come out of the saloon, or out of the alley. Just as he reached the alley, however, he stopped short, as the penetrating odor of burning wood made itself distinctly perceptible. With a flash, a possibility that had often occurred to him rushed to his mind, and he turned down the alley in order to find out its cause. As he proceeded, it grew more and more distinct. He came at last to a gate leading into the courtyard, and found that it yielded at once to his strong push, but whether this was due to its having been previously forced open, or to the unconscious force he had himself exerted, he did not stop to think, and could never afterwards be sure. But, once inside, he saw what made his heart stand still with dismay. An already strong jet of flame was licking its greedy way along the base of an out-building used for the deposit of rubbish from the mill, and, as he could see, evidently full of inflammable material. Just beyond it was a storehouse, which he felt sure must in all probability contain oil and other combustibles used in the works. There was not a moment to be lost, and he, single-handed, could do nothing. He rushed up the alley at full speed—shouting "Fire!" as he ran; smashed in the office windows, till he had fully roused the sleepy watchman, and sent him off to give the alarm, and then made his way, breathless, to a street in the near vicinity, in which lived his friend Turner and many more of the operatives. In less time than he could have believed possible, he was making his way back, at the head of a half-clad band of men who flocked after him, more from the irresistible impulse which draws men to a scene of excitement and danger, than from any definite purpose of saving Mr. Pomeroy's mill. There must still intervene some minutes, at least, before the fire-engines could reach the spot; and they were fateful minutes, for the fire was making rapid headway, and its lurid glare now overpowered the pallid moonlight.

"Now, Turner, you know all the ropes. Tell us what's best to do," said Roland.

"That storehouse is full of oil-barrels," said the man, gasping with breathless excitement. "If the boys would turn to and get them out into the water,—and there are axes here to tear up the roof and other connections!"

"Come on, boys!" Roland shouted, tearing off his coat. "Let's get at it at once! Some of you go and help Turner with the barrels, and I'll help with the chopping!"

But the men sullenly held back; and Roland, looking round, saw, in the bright glare of the leaping flames, that Jim and his friends, who must have heard the alarm and hurried back, were already there, and were evidently rousing the worst passions of their comrades, by their oaths and invectives against the owners of the mill. Roland fairly rushed at the surly, irresolute group of men who stood divided between the instinctive impulse to save their workshops, and the grudge they had so long silently nourished against the proprietor, and the "boss." Why should they toil to save a place in which they might never do another day's work? For there had been already floating rumors, spread by the manager, that Mr. Pomeroy intended to send away for non-union men.

But Roland felt the gravity of the crisis, and felt that he must get them to work, for he could easily see the disastrous consequences that would result, if it should be represented and believed—as it would certainly be—that the strike had resulted in an incendiary fire. For the next few moments, it seemed to him rather as if he were listening to some one else, than speaking in his own proper person,—that the strong, burning words, the voice of stern authority, came from some other personality, so little seemed his conscious volition to be concerned in it. In ringing tones he commanded them to follow. Were they going to sacrifice their very livelihood to a childish impulse of vindictive malice? Had they no concern for the valuable machines they had tended so long? Would they let the mill become a mass of ruin, ruin to themselves, not to the owner, who, of course, would have his insurance, and could easily bear any trifling loss?

His tone even more than his words had a prompt effect, and the reference to the machinery touched a chord of feeling of which they had been previously unconscious. Roland's words called up a picture of the wrecked and twisted bars and coils which they had seen, some months before, in the ruins of a burned mill. Should the familiar machinery, which had so long been like a part of their daily life, be wrecked like that? No! they must try to save it! And so the scale turned. That incalculable element, on which the action of a crowd depends, was swayed round to Roland's side, as he shouldered his axe, calling the men again to follow either Turner or himself. And presently, he had the satisfaction of seeing at work a sufficient force to hack and tear away the roof of the burning building, so as to prevent the fire from spreading to the main part of the factory on the one side or to the store house on the other. "Don't go at it so hard," he heard one and another exclaim, "you'll hurt yourself, Mr. Graeme!" as he wielded his axe with the unnatural force of a white-heat of excitement. And, though he could feel the hot breath of the flames as they rolled up their red tongues, amid the dense clouds of smoke that now began to rise from the oil-soaked ruins below that fed the conflagration, Roland felt himself thrilled with a keener, more passionate sense of delight than he remembered ever feeling in his whole life before, in the sensation of encounter with some deadly monster, calling forth all the reserve force of his being into a hand-to-hand struggle with the fiery foe.

Meantime Turner, with his following, was equally hard at work, rolling out the oil-barrels, till they were all safely turned over, out of harm's way, into the little canal in the rear, where Roland could see them bobbing about, as he came down from the roof with his improvised body of sappers, to give place to the play of the fire-engine, which had by this time arrived. Scarcely a moment had been lost from the time when the fire had been discovered, and, thanks to the preventive efforts of Roland and the men, the fire was confined to the building in which it had begun, and was speedily under control. As Roland stood, at length, relieved from his self-imposed task, and, panting with unaccustomed toil, watched the hissing stream of water which seemed to meet in mortal combat the cruel flames that turned, under its charge, into white clouds of harmless steam, he felt a fierce exultation that surprised himself, as if in watching the death-throes of some ruthless destroyer. He could, ever after, better understand the fascination which draws the brave firemen to their arduous task, or even—what it had previously been difficult for him to take in—the fierce joy of victory in battle.