CHAPTER XXX

THE FATE OF PORTSMOUTH DOCKYARD

On the night of Bank Holiday, Londoners did not lack illumination. Gas and electric light had failed, but north and south, and east and west, the lurid glare of burning buildings filled the sky. Cries of “Fire! Fire!” in every quarter of the town brought pale, affrighted people from their houses to the roadways or the roofs. This added terror of wholesale arson stupefied the luckless householders. The fires--some said there were forty, fifty, sixty--had free play, for the extreme section of the Leaguers--now known as Raggett’s Men--by concerted action, after dark, had rushed nearly all the stations of the Fire Brigade and forcibly removed the horses. The most destructive of these fires occurred in Bartholomew Close, where closely packed warehouses in yards and tortuous streets gave free scope to the spreading flames. At one time it was feared that the great hospital itself would be involved, and the troops were ordered out to aid the civil power and keep some order among the excited crowds.

Brave deeds were done that night; rescues effected in the face of almost certain death; buildings pulled down and cut away to check the spreading of the conflagration. But without means of utilising the water supply, what had once been seized by fire burnt out to its cindered end. Strong military guards were ordered by the general commanding the Home District to the railway stations. Euston, St Pancras, and King’s Cross remained intact. Paddington escaped with some damage to the goods department. Both the hotels and stations at Charing Cross and Cannon Street burst into flames almost simultaneously. The royal palaces suffered no injury. Incendiaries were caught red-handed, just in time, at the British Museum, and the better sort of people, now roused to retaliatory fury by these malignant acts, almost tore the offenders limb from limb.

London in its desperation found some courage. The quiet, orderly inhabitants had borne almost as much as could be borne. They realised, moreover, that yet worse things might happen unless the hydra-headed monster of disorder could be crushed. London might starve. Meat, milk, vegetables would fail; all the necessaries of daily life might be cut off, if the railways should be blocked. Six millions, young and old, would be the almost helpless victims of the Leaguers. Those who had gone about the streets wearing the Spider as a talisman suddenly found that it was a dangerous sign. Right and left were heard loud curses on the League. Men began to see the full significance of the long-tolerated movement--a growing canker at the heart of the nation, which gave the nation’s enemies without the very opportunity they had planned and watched and waited for. There was still some tough material in Englishmen; and if the authorities could not help them, they would help themselves. The tide began to turn. The giant was stirring. It had needed a galvanic shock to rouse his brain; and verily, the shock had come at last. It was, indeed, time to wake from sleep, and throw aside “the drowsy syrups of the world.”

In that fiery, sleepless night, in many districts great numbers of the younger men of the better class banded themselves together, beating up recruits from house to house, and posting watchers to give warning of incendiary attempts. Armed with whatever weapons they could find, they systematically patrolled the streets. Shouts of “Down with the Leaguers!” burst out from time to time, and women and children, peeping and cowering behind the window-blinds, gathered hope and courage. At last the men of London had been roused!

But the flames were still licking and curling round many a house and public building. All night the wind was rising to a gale; the cloud wrack flew across the reddened sky. As the tardy hour of dawn drew near, strange pallid people with fantastic gestures--hatless, oddly-clad--came wandering through the streets. Raggett had freed his friends. The Leaguers had let loose hundreds of the lunatics of London!

Seventy miles away a yet more deadly wound was being inflicted on the British nation. About five o’clock on the morning of Christmas Day two terrific explosions in quick succession roused the inhabitants of the little Hampshire town of Havant and the surrounding villages. Great numbers of Portsmouth people also heard it, but, of course, more faintly. When, later on, it became known that a fire had broken out in the Royal dockyard it was assumed by many that the sounds of explosion must have come from the same quarter. Every thought was concentrated on this appalling catastrophe, the full extent of which was only to be gradually realised. But, all the time, the great naval yard, Britain’s pride and strong tower against the enemy, was fast becoming one gigantic furnace. The grip of all-devouring fire grew deadlier every hour. This many-acred hive of naval industry, the factory of the wooden walls of England, dating from King John, and now the birthplace and the nursery of the armoured giants of the deep, was crumbling into dust and ashes. The docked ships, ships’ stores, and armament, that stood for millions of the nation’s money, needed for national defence, roared into flame and blackened into cinders.

The seven thousand dockyard men of course were keeping holiday. Many of the high officials were away on leave, and those few guardians of the yard who were supposed to be keeping watch and ward regarded their duty as perfunctory. What was likely to happen there, or anywhere, on Christmas Day? Perhaps some of those intelligent foreigners who had been permitted to inspect the yard from time to time--intelligent emulators of Jack the Painter--could have answered the question. By-and-by, of course there would be a most strict and searching Government inquiry--expert evidence, red tape, blue-books, and all the rest of it. Meanwhile, the great fire burned on--freely and furiously. Soon after the alarm was given the seamen from the Whale Island Barracks, and many from the ships in harbour, with a strong force of marines from Forton, came pouring into the dockyard, but only to make a terrible discovery. Of what avail a thousand willing hands--of what use all the activity and resource of British seamen, when the one element with which the fire could be fought and conquered was not available? The water supply had failed! At first, and, indeed, for some time, the real reason was not understood, for the pumping station of the Havant water-works was eight miles away. Then the appalling truth was realised--the explosions explained; the great engines, those in use and those in reserve, had been shattered by dynamite in the darkness of the previous night. The Royal dockyard was left to the mercy of the flames. All day, and all the night that followed, they raged and roared. Red ruin and destruction--almost without restraint--spread on every side.

The Portsmouth Hard was packed with horrified spectators. The townspeople in excited throngs ran to all the dockyard gates, and in the poorer districts surrounding the great wall enclosing the extension works, every roof was loaded with awe-stricken watchers of the conflagration.

The church steeples of the town stood out to view in blended clouds and smoke, illumined with a fiery glow; the gilded ship on the tower of Portsmouth parish church seemed to be sailing in a sea of fire. Disaster followed on the heels of horror. In the midst of the great calamity a rending explosion took place in the vast powder magazine at Priddy’s Hard,--on the Gosport side.

The harbour was now so unsafe for shipping that orders were given to remove all ships as far as possible. Among the large vessels alongside the dockyard jetty was the _Carisbrooke Castle_, a South-African liner which had lately been chartered by the Admiralty to serve as an auxiliary scout with a Flying Squadron then lying at Spithead. The _Carisbrooke_ had been brought round from Southampton and was taking in a quantity of stores; but the danger of her position made it advisable to get her clear of the harbour without delay. Just when she was abreast of Blockhouse Fort an explosion--accidental or designed, none knew--occurred on board. The great ship, viewed by the flashlight from the fort, was seen to heel over. In half an hour she had settled down, blocking the fairway, and effectually bottling the harbour against all craft of heavy tonnage.

On the Gosport side the shore was lined with lookers on. From this side, indeed, looking across the water, the sight was exceptionally striking, for the far-spread glow lit up the towering masts and rigging of the _Victory_ and all the ships in port.

From the tower of the old Norman castle at Portchester, away beyond the mudbanks of the harbour, and on the crumbling walls that flanked its water-gate, the villagers gazed spellbound at the awesome sight. Farther away, on the long ridge of Portsdown Hill, the rural population of the district had a yet more impressive view of what was happening. To them it seemed as if the whole town of Portsmouth must be wrapped in flames.

Here, on the chalk down, stood a solitary pillar, erected long years ago to the memory of Nelson. Grey, moss-grown, and mournful, it looked down on scenes with which the great sea-captain once had been so familiar.--Southsea Common, where a “blackguard horse” ran away with him; the Sally Port, where his sailors always were coming or going; the old nooks and alleys of “Point,” where the press-gang did its work; the old George Inn, in which he breakfasted on the morning of his last embarkation; the spot on the beach, marked by the anchor of the _Victory_, where the people grasped his hand and, weeping, bade him a final Godspeed; and there, in the light of the burning dockyard, rode the brave old ship in which he died for England.

More than a hundred years had passed away, and now the Royal dockyard, that had equipped so many fleets for the greatest of Britannia’s admirals, lay engulfed and wrecked in a tremendous, rolling sea of flame and smoke.

Portsmouth, for all purposes of naval warfare, was out of action.