All But Lost: A Novel. Vol. 1 of 3

by G. A. Henty

Frank Maynard, the new comer, was a tall, wiry man, lithe and sinewy, with broad sloping shoulders. His face was long and narrow, still whiskerless, or nearly so, and he would be probably a much better-looking man in another two or three years than he was now. But he could never be handsome; his features were by no means regular, and his honest eyes, frank smile, and powerful frame, constituted at present his only claims to attraction. He was generally addressed by his Christian name, a sure sign at the University of unusual popularity. Upon Frank’s left sat his cousin, Fred Bingham, and a stronger contrast could hardly be imagined. Fred Bingham was under the middle height, and his figure was extremely slight, almost as much so as that of a boy of fourteen, and his waist could have been spanned by the hands of an ordinary man. Apart from the extraordinary youthfulness of his appearance, he was good-looking, with well-cut aristocratic features. His hair was very fair, and his face had hardly a trace of colour. His voice was high-pitched and thin, and his laugh especially more resembled that of a girl than a man. He had small and well-formed feet, but his hands curiously were large, red, and coarse. Among a certain set in the college with whom he cared to make himself agreeable he was much liked, but among the boating set he was intensely unpopular. These big, strong men were antipathetic to him, their powerful figures dwarfed his, their deep hearty voices drowned his weak treble and girlish laugh, and his disagreeable remarks and cutting sneers frequently caused disputes which it needed all his cousin Frank’s influence to allay. Indeed, had it not been for Frank’s popularity, the crew would never have retained him for their coxswain, notwithstanding the fact that he really was a most useful man, always cool and collected, with a perfect knowledge of the river, a good judge of rowing, and above all a feather-weight.

It is unnecessary to enter into any details as to the doings of the evening, the speech-making, the songs, the drinking, and the smoking. Every one can imagine the scene for himself, and may conceive the noise, the shouting and laughing which twenty young fellows in full health and spirits, highly satisfied with themselves and their day’s work, would make upon such an occasion. So great was the hubbub indeed that the dons across the court began to think that even the victory of the day, which they themselves had discussed with great satisfaction over their wine in the common room, could hardly excuse such an uproarious meeting as this. About midnight, however, the party began to break up, and the men scattered over the college to their respective rooms, singing snatches of songs as they went. And then the courts were still again. Frank Maynard, and a few of the quieter men, sat for another hour smoking and discussing the race, agreeing that the credit of the day was mainly due to Crockford, the don who had called upon them for the final ten strokes which had effected the bump. After this they, too, separated, and in a few minutes Caius was quiet for the night.

Frank Maynard had not been very long asleep when he was awakened by a shouting, and the sound of running in the street. He opened his eyes—the room was lit up with a dull red light—and he hardly needed the cry of “Fire! fire!” to tell him what was the matter. He leaped from his bed, threw up his window, and looked out. There were no flames visible, but the fronts of the houses on the opposite side of the road were aglow with a dark fiery glare. It was evident that the flames were behind him—that one of the colleges was on fire. He ran into the sitting-room—to the windows which looked into the court, and there, through the trees before him, across the court, was a great glare, and sparks flying up. It was close—so close that he could not tell whether it was in the next court of his own college or in Trinity Hall, which lies behind it, separated only by a narrow lane.

It was the work of a minute to throw on his clothes, and to run downstairs and across to the gateway leading to the next court; and then he saw that the fire was not there, but in Trinity Hall.

Turning back, he ran to the porter’s-lodge. It was already open, and the porter, in answer to an appeal at the gate for assistance, had just gone into the college to rouse the men.

Frank ran down the narrow lane between Caius and the schools, and in another minute was in Trinity Hall. From the rooms above the gateway a volume of flame and red smoke was pouring out. Not many men were as yet in the court; those there were, belonged to the college itself. They were looking on, ready enough to assist, but helpless at present. The engines had not yet arrived, and the flames were having it all their own way, pouring out with a fierce crackling from the windows of the first-floor. The volume of red smoke, lit up by an occasional tongue of flame, which filled the adjoining rooms, showed that it was rapidly spreading. Very soon a bright ripple of flame runs along the ceilings, the window curtains catch, the glass shivers into fragments at the fiery touch, and the flames rush out with a roar of triumph. Now the men from the colleges near, from Caius and Trinity and Clare, are clustering in, together with a few of the townspeople. Presently the engines come lumbering up, and the handles are seized by eager volunteers. But there is no water at hand, and the hose are not long enough to reach to the river behind. So long lines of men are formed down to the waterside, who pass the buckets along from hand to hand, and in a few minutes the engines begin to work. By this time the fire has got a firm hold of the part attacked, and the upper stories are one sheet of flame. Dainty food do the old colleges, with their rickety wooden staircases and wainscoted rooms, dry and inflammable as so much tinder, offer to the hungry fire. At last the engines are in full play, and work at a speed at which engines have seldom worked before. Most of those at the handles are boating-men, who have been for weeks in some sort of training. Beneath their powerful arms the cranks work up and down, with a rapid stroke, very unlike the usual monotonous clank of a fire-engine. The men encourage each other with cheering shouts and boating cries of “Now then, all together!” “Now she moves!” and the jets of water dash eagerly in at the blazing windows. But the fire still spreads. The roof falls in. The flames mount up more fiercely and brightly than before, with vast volumes of glowing smoke, and myriads of fiery sparks. Day is dawning, and the crowded court presents a strange sight as the grey morning light breaks on the red flashing of the fire. Some of the men are in pea-jackets with boating-caps of every colour, others are in their caps and gowns. Here a party is working its engine with untiring vigour, there another group is impatiently awaiting fresh supplies of water; long lines of men are passing the buckets to and from the river. Sober dons are as busy and excited as any; a few are directing the operations, the rest are hard at work among the undergraduates. In spite of their exertions the fire still spreads. All are anxious; for if the flames extend to the adjoining wing of the court, Trinity, which is only separated by a narrow lane, is certain to catch fire. These old places are terribly inflammable. Some of the dons therefore get upon the roof, Crockford of Caius most active among them, and direct the hose of the engines; not unfrequently in their haste and inexperience deluging themselves and each other with water, to the amusement of the undergraduates below. No attempt is now made to extinguish the fire in the part it has already seized upon, every effort being directed to prevent it from spreading. Several times the flames break into the adjoining rooms, but the dons with the hose, on ladders at the windows, stand their ground and beat them back. All this time the college servants are moving about with cans of beer among the men at work; the butteries of the colleges near are thrown open, and refreshments served to all comers.

At last the efforts to check the flames are successful, and they spread no farther. Another hour passes, and it is evident that all danger is over. The flames only shoot up at intervals from the shell they have destroyed. The gown then leave it to the firemen to pump upon the ruins, and scatter to their homes to breakfast.

By the time that Frank Maynard had changed his things and was ready, a friend who had been working next to him at the engine, and who had agreed to come in to breakfast, arrived. Arthur Prescott was a man with a short, thick-set figure, and a kindly face with a quaint, old-fashioned expression—one of those faces which, on a boy’s shoulders, looks like that of an old man, but which never alters, and in old age looks younger than it had ever done before.

Arthur Prescott—he had been always called Old Prescott at school, and his intimate friends never spoke of him as anything else even now—was a general favourite. No one was ever heard to say a bad word of him. He was one of those men in whom all around him seem instinctively to confide, and to make a depositary of secrets which they would never relate to anyone else; a straightforward, sensible, true-hearted English gentleman.

Prescott and Maynard had been great friends when boys together at Westminster; and, indeed, it was principally the fact of the former’s coming to Caius which had induced Frank to choose that college in preference to any other.