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Page 67
There was something uncanny about the black smoke, and the dark red
flame, which seemed every moment to get a surer foothold, and to gather
strength without a soul to oppose them. Gabriel noticed nothing: he saw
only the red glare on the ship, which loomed against the dark grey sky,
and off he ran like a madman over the field above the house. When he saw
the ship was in danger, Tom Robson was his first and only thought, and
he went straight into the house where he was so well known.
"Mr. Robson! Tom! Tom!" he shouted into the dark room, which smelt like
an old rum-cask. "She's on fire, Tom! The ship's on fire!"
He groped his way to the bed, and gave Mr. Robson a good shaking. The
landlady, a slatternly sailor's wife, now entered with a light. Only a
few minutes before, she had managed to get Tom undressed, somehow or
another.
"Oh no! can that be Mr. Gabriel?" said she, drawing her night-dress
closer to her. "Is it a fire? Mr. Robson!" she cried, and helped Gabriel
to shake him.
"What's the matter?" muttered he in English, turning round his face, all
bruised and bloody as he was.
"Oh no, no!" whined the woman, "how beastly drunk he is! Isn't it a
shame for such a fine fellow to make himself just like a pig? Tom! Tom!
Oh dear me, how tipsy he is!"
Without a moment's hesitation, Gabriel dashed the contents of the basin
in his face. Mr. Robson sputtered and blew, and raising himself on his
left arm, swung the right feebly over his head, and shouted, "Three
cheers for Morten Garman! Hip--hip---" But before he got to "Hurrah," he
fell back on his side and was snoring again. Gabriel left the room;
there was nothing to be done with Tom.
The wind was sweeping down over the meadow, and driving the thick smoke
from the pitch-house out over the fjord. All round the house it was as
light as day. Long tongues of flame were flying far away over the
fields, shedding their glare here and there on the front of a
whitewashed house, while up above on the level ground it was still dark,
under the shadow of the vessel. And now a glitter was seen, and a rumble
was heard in the direction of the town. The fire brigade was on its way.
And from the farmhouses which lay near, down over the fields, but
chiefly in the avenue leading from the town, people were to be seen
running, first singly, then two or three, then several together, until
the crowd in the avenue appeared like a close black mass, dotted here
and there with red-and-white specks. When Gabriel got down again to the
house he was at his wits' ends, and, leaning against the garden wall, he
sobbed aloud.
Some one came skirting along the wall; it was the schoolmaster, Aalbom.
He recognized Gabriel, and stopped. "Isn't it what I always said?" cried
he, triumphantly. "You are a regular Laban, standing here blubbering.
You might at any rate manage to lend a hand with the water, you lout!"
Gabriel sprang up, as if seized with a sudden inspiration, pushed the
master aside, and dashed down towards the building-yard.
"An ill-mannered cub," muttered Aalbom, as he continued his way to get a
good place from which to see the fire.
Rachel was naturally most anxious to make herself useful, but there was
nothing for her to do. She therefore stood on the steps in front of the
house, and watched the crowd streaming up from the town, while the fire
threw its ever-increasing glare down the highroad, which was now
thronged with people. Suddenly she heard a voice she recognized. "Out of
the way! Let the engines pass! Look out there--the engines! Out of the
way!" The crowd opened, and out of the throng came two rows of men,
dragging the red-painted fire-engine by a long rope. Jacob Worse was
running in front, shouting and giving his orders. He gave her a hurried
greeting as he passed, and away rumbled the engine towards the
ship-yard. It struck Rachel that his face was the only one that showed
any feeling of sympathy or sorrow; all the rest appeared indifferent,
and some showed, openly enough, that they thought the fire glorious
sport. Rachel turned away and went into the house.
All this time the young Consul was standing at the corner window, on the
north side of the small sitting-room. The pitch-house was now blazing
inside; the flames came bursting out of the door, and followed the line
of melted pitch which flowed along the ground. The thick wooden walls
were glowing with the heat, and he could see the people shrink back when
they got too near them. The wind was blowing so strongly, that it beat
down the smoke and shrouded the engines and spectators from his view,
but upon the roof of the storehouse he could see Uncle Richard, in
company with some other forms, working away with the wet sail. The
storehouse was only a few yards distant from the pitch-house, and was
thus so close under the stern of the ship that she was as good as lost,
if the fire once happened to catch the former building.
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