Life in the Red Brigade

Life in the Red Brigade, by R.M.
Ballantyne

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Title: Life in the Red Brigade London Fire Brigade
Author: R.M. Ballantyne
Release Date: June 6, 2007 [EBook #21695]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
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LIFE IN THE RED BRIGADE, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.
CHAPTER ONE.
Wet, worn and weary--with water squeaking in his boots, and a mixture

of charcoal and water streaking his face to such an extent that, as a
comrade asserted, his own mother would not have known him--a stout
young man walked smartly one morning through the streets of London
towards his own home.
He was tall and good-looking, as well as stout, and, although wet and
weary, had a spring in his step which proved beyond all question that
he was not worn-out. As the comrade above referred to would have said,
"there was plenty of go in him still." His blue and belted coat, sailor's
cap, and small hatchet, with the brass helmet swinging by its chin strap
on his left arm, betokened him a member of "The Red Brigade,"--a
London fireman--one of those dare-anything characters who appear to
hold their lives remarkably cheap, for they carry these lives in their
hands, as the saying goes, night and day; who seem to be able to live in
smoke as if it were their native element; who face the flames as if their
bodies were made of cast iron; and whose apparent delight in fire is
such that one is led to suspect they must be all more or less distantly
connected with the family of Salamander.
The young man's expression of countenance, as far as it could be
discerned through the charcoal and water, was hearty, and his name--
Dashwood--was in keeping with his profession. The comrade, whose
opinion we have already quoted, was wont to say that he ought to
change it to Dashwater, that being his chief occupation in life. We need
scarcely say that this comrade was rather fond of his joke.
Arrived at a small street, not far from the Regent Circus, young
Dashwood entered a fire-station there, and found the comrade above
referred to in the act of disposing himself on a narrow tressel-bed, on
which there was no bedding save one blanket. The comrade happened
to be on duty that night. It was his duty to repose on the
tressel-bedstead, booted and belted, ready at a moment's notice to
respond to "calls." Another fireman lay sleeping at his side, on another
tressel-bed, similarly clothed, for there were always two men on duty
all night at that station. The guard-room, or, as it was styled, the
"lobby," in which they lay, was a very small room, with a bright fire in
the grate, for it was winter; a plain wooden desk near the window; a

plain deal table near the door, on which stood four telegraphic
instruments; and having the walls ornamented with a row of Wellington
boots on one side, and a row of bright brass helmets on the other, each
helmet having a small hatchet suspended by a belt below it.
The comrade, who looked very sleepy, glanced at a small clock, whose
tick was the only sound that fell upon the ear, and whose hands
indicated the hour of half-past two.
On hearing the door open, the comrade, whose name was Bob Clazie,
raised himself on one elbow.
"Ah, Joe,--that you?" he said, with a somewhat violent yawn.
"All that's left of me, anyhow," replied Joe Dashwood, as he hung up
his helmet and axe on his own particular peg. "Bin much doin', Bob?"
"Not much," growled Bob; "but they don't give a poor fellow much
chance of a sleep with them telegraphs. Roused me four times already
within the last hour--stops for chimbleys."
"Ha! very inconsiderate of 'em," said Dashwood, turning towards the
door. "It's time I had a snooze now, so I'll bid 'ee good night, Bob."
Just as he spoke, one of the sharp little telegraphic bells rang viciously.
He waited to ascertain the result while Clazie rose--quickly but not
hurriedly--and went to read the instrument with sleepy eyes.
"Another stop for a chimbley," he muttered, with a remonstrative growl.
By this he meant that the head office in Watling Street had telegraphed
that a chimney had gone on fire in some part of London; that it was