Burning Bright (14 page)

Every year on the fourth of June, Philip Astley provided a fireworks display for the King's birthday, setting them off from barges in the Thames at half-past ten at night, when the circus had finished. No one had asked him to take on this responsibility; he had simply begun it twenty years before, and it had become a tradition. Astley sometimes used fireworks on other occasions—at the beginning and end of the season to promote his circus, and during performances when someone important was attending. He set up a fireworks laboratory in a house on Asylum Place, down a short lane from the Asylum for Female Orphans.

The Asylum was a large, formidable building, not unpleasant to look at, on a site where Hercules Buildings, Bastille Row, and Westminster Bridge Road all met. It provided a home for two hundred girls, who were taught to read a little, and to clean, cook, wash, and sew—everything that would prepare them for lives as servants once they left the Asylum at age fifteen. They might have been stunned by losing their families, but the Asylum was a respite of sorts between that sorrow and the long drudgery that their lives were to become.

The Asylum yard was surrounded by a six-foot-high black iron fence. It was up against these bars in a corner of the yard that many of the girls and their minders were crowded, their faces all turned like sunflowers toward the fireworks house, which was now spitting and crackling and burning bright. For the girls it was as if this unusual entertainment had been laid on especially for them, with a fine spot from which to view it.

Inhabitants from surrounding houses were watching the fire too, but they were not so exhilarated by the spectacle. Indeed, those whose properties were very close to the laboratory feared their own houses would catch fire. Men were shouting; women were weeping. More people arrived all the time from neighboring streets to see what was happening. No one did anything, however: They were waiting for the right person to take charge.

He arrived on horseback with his son. By this time rockets were exploding, most of them heading sideways and smashing into the walls of the laboratory house, but one escaping up through the flames—which by now had eaten open a section of the roof—and shooting into the sky. Fireworks are impressive even in daylight, and especially when you have never seen them, as many of the orphans had not, for they were locked in at night well before any of Astley's fireworks displays on the river. A sigh arose from them as the rocket shed green sparks.

For the Astleys, however, the sparks were green tears. They dismounted from their horses at the same moment as John Fox, his half-lidded eyes opened wide on this occasion, arrived at their side. “Fox!” Philip Astley bellowed. “Have the men all got out?”

“Yes, sir,” he reported, “and no injuries but for John Honor, who hurt himself escaping out of a window.”

“How bad is he?”

John Fox shrugged.

“Have a boy fetch Honor's wife, and a doctor.”

Philip Astley looked around and took in the situation quickly. As a military man as well as a circus owner, he was used to crises and to directing large numbers of people, many of them temperamental or under strain. A crowd of gaping men and hysterical women proved no challenge to him. He stepped naturally into his position of authority. “Friends!” he shouted over the pops of firecrackers and the hiss of fiery serpents. “We have need of your services, and quickly! Women and children, run home and fetch every bucket you can find. Quick as you can, now!” He clapped his hands, and the women and children scattered like dust blown from a mantelpiece.

“Now, men! Form a chain from the fire to the nearest well. Where is the nearest well?” He looked around and descended on a surprised man idling across the street from the blazing house. “Sir, where is the nearest well? As you can see, we need quantities of water, sir—quantities!”

The man thought for a moment. “There's one down by Shield's Nursery,” he said, not quite matching Astley's sense of urgency with one of his own. He thought again. “But the closest is in there.” He pointed through the fence along which the orphan girls ranged in a mass of dark brown serge.

“Open the gates, ladies, and have no fear—you are doing us a great service!” Philip Astley cried, ever the showman.

As the gates swung back, a line of men—and soon women and children, and even a few of the braver orphans—strung out across the yard to the well near the Asylum building, and began passing buckets of water along toward the fire. Philip and John Astley themselves stood at the front of the line and threw the water onto the flames, then handed the empty buckets to children who raced with them back to the beginning of the line.

It was organized so quickly and effectively, once Philip Astley had taken charge, that it was impossible for anyone standing nearby not to want to join in. Soon there were enough people for two lines and twice the buckets. Along those lines could be found Dick and Charlie Butterfield, Jem and Maisie Kellaway, Bet and Maggie Butterfield, and even Thomas and Anne Kellaway who, like Jem, had found it impossible to remain at home with so much noise going on, and had come over to see the blaze. All of them passed buckets till their arms ached, none of them knowing that there were other family members there doing the same.

The Astleys threw hundreds of buckets of water onto the flames. For a time it seemed to be helping, as the fire on one side of the ground floor was extinguished. But other flames kept finding stores of fireworks and, igniting them, sent them blasting and rocketing all over and starting fires again. Then too, the fire had spread quickly upstairs, and burning parts of the ceiling and roof kept raining downward and reigniting the bottom. Nothing could stop the destruction of the house. Eventually the Astleys admitted defeat and concentrated the contents of the buckets on either side of the house to keep the fire from spreading to other properties.

At last Philip Astley sent word to those at the well to stop drawing water. The last bucket moved along each line, and when people turned to their neighbor for the next one, as they had been doing for the last hour, they found none was being swung at them. They looked around, blinked, then began to move toward the house to see the effect of all of their work. It was dispiriting to find the building in ruins, a wrecked gap among the other houses, like a rotted tooth splintered and pulled from its neighbors. Although the fire was now out, smoke still billowed from the charred remains, darkening the air so that it seemed like dusk rather than midmorning.

There was an awkward pause after the energized organization of the firefighting. Then Philip Astley once again stepped up to the responsibility of raising spirits. “Friends, you have come to the aid of Astley's Circus, and I am forever in your debt,” he began, standing as straight as he could, though the physical exertion of the last hour had taken its toll on him. “This has been a grievous, calami-tous accident. Stored here were the fireworks meant for the celebration of the birthday of His Majesty the King in two days' time. But we can thank God that only one man has been injured, and because of your heroic efforts, no other properties have caught fire. Nor will Astley's Circus be affected; indeed, the show will take place this evening at the usual time of half-past six, with tickets still available at the box office. If you haven't seen it, you will have missed an event far more spectacular than this fire. I am tremendously grateful to you, my neighbors, who have worked tirelessly to keep this unfortunate incident from becoming a tragedy. I am…”

He went on in the same vein. Some listened to him; some didn't. Some needed to hear the words; others wanted only to sit down, to have a drink or a meal or a gossip or a sleep. People began to mill about, looking for family and friends.

Dick Butterfield stood close behind Philip Astley so that he might overhear what the situation called for. For instance, when he heard Philip Astley tell a man who lived in the street that he would rebuild the house immediately, Dick Butterfield began thinking of a load of bricks he knew of down in Kennington that were just waiting to be used. In a few hours he would go down to the pub where the brickmaker took his dinner and speak with him. There were a few timber merchants along the river he would call on in the meantime. He smiled to himself—though the smile disappeared quick enough when he saw Charlie Butterfield kicking burning embers about in the street with some other lads. Dick Butterfield grabbed his son and pulled him out of the makeshift game. “Use your head, you idiot! How does that look to a man who's just lost his property for you to be making sport of it!”

Charlie scowled and slunk to a less crowded spot, away from his father and the boys he had been with. Though he had never admitted it to anyone, he hated helping his father. The line of business that Dick Butterfield pursued required a certain charm that even Charlie knew he didn't have and would never develop.

Once they'd finished with the buckets, Maisie dragged Jem to the crowd gathered around Philip Astley so that she could watch John Astley, who stood close by, his face black with ash. Some in the crowd who liked to speculate before the smoke had even dispersed were already muttering to one another that, as John Astley was the general manager of the circus, he ought to be making the rousing speeches rather than his father. Old Astley couldn't stay away and let his son run the show, they whispered. Until he truly let go, his son would continue to drink and rut his way through the circus women, as he just had with Miss Laura Devine, Europe's finest slack-rope dancer. That sighting at the window by the strawberry seller had already jumped beyond one set of old eyes. Gossip spread quickly in Lambeth. It was a kind of currency, with coins newly minted every hour. The strawberry seller held that particular coin with Miss Devine's head stamped on it, and even as she passed buckets, the old woman was spending the coin on her neighbors.

Maisie had not heard this gossip, however, and could still look passionately on John Astley as he gazed into the distance, while his father spilled over with gratitude. The charitable might say that behind his charcoal-colored mask he was stunned by what had happened to the King's fireworks and the Astley laboratory; others would say that he simply looked bored.

When Philip Astley finished, and people were coming up to give their condolences or put forward theories as to how the fire might have started, Maisie took a gulp of air and pushed through the crowd toward John Astley.

“Maisie, what're you doing?” Jem called.

“Leave her,” a voice said. “If she will make a fool of herself, there's nought you can do about it.”

Jem turned to find Maggie standing beside him. “Mornin',” he said, forgetting for an instant about his foolish sister. He was still surprised at how glad he always was to see Maggie, though he tried to hide both pleasure and surprise. “We saw you leave the garden. You all right?”

Maggie rubbed her arms. “I'll be feeling them buckets in my sleep tonight. Exciting, though, wan't it?”

“I feel bad for Mr. Astley.”

“Oh, he'll be all right. By Monday night he'll have added to his show a spectacle based on the explosion, with a backdrop of this”—Maggie gestured around her—“and fireworks going off to make it feel real. And John Astley will ride up and dance on his horse.”

Jem had his eye on his sister standing near John Astley, her back set very straight, as it did when she was nervous. Maisie was blocking his view of John Astley's face, so he had no idea what the horseman's response to his sister was. He could only guess by the glow on Maisie's face as she turned and skipped back to him and Maggie.

“He's such a brave man!” she declared. “And so gentlemanly with me. D'you know, he's burnt his arm from getting too near the flames when he were throwing water, but he didn't even stop to look at it and has only just discovered it? I”—Maisie flushed scarlet with the thought of her daring—“I offered to bandage it for him, but he told me not to worry, that I should find my family as they'd be concerned for me. Weren't that nice of him?”

Jem could now see John Astley's face. He was studying Maisie's slim form, his blue eyes glowing almost supernaturally from his sooty face in a way that made Jem uneasy. Jem glanced at Maggie, who shrugged and took Maisie's arm. “That's very well, Miss Piddle, but we should be gettin' you home. Look, there are your parents. You don't want 'em to see you settin' your eyes at Mr. Astley, do you?” She pulled Maisie toward Thomas and Anne Kellaway, who had emerged from the smoke, which was now as thick as a winter fog. Anne Kellaway's hair was flying in every direction, and her eyes were streaming so that she had to hold a handkerchief to them.

“Jem, Maisie, you been here as well?” Thomas Kellaway asked.

“Yes, Pa,” Jem answered. “We was helping with the buckets.”

Thomas Kellaway nodded. “Tha' be the neighborly thing to do. Reminds me of when the Wightmans' barn burnt down last year and we did the same. Remember?”

Jem did remember that fire on the edge of Piddletrenthide, but it was different from this one. He recalled how little effect their buckets had on the flames, which grew as high as the nearby oak trees once they reached the hay; after that there was little anyone could do to stop them. He remembered the screams of the horses trapped behind the flames and the smell of their burning flesh, and of Mr. Wightman screaming in response and having to be held back to keep him from running like a fool into the fire after his ani-mals. He remembered Mrs. Wightman weeping during all the crackles and cries. And Rosie Wightman, a girl he and Maisie had played with sometimes in the River Piddle, catching eels and picking watercress: She watched the fire with wide, shocked eyes, and ran away from the Piddle Valley soon after when it was discovered she'd been playing with candles out in the barn. She had not been heard of since, and Jem sometimes thought of her, wondering what became of a girl like Rosie. Mr. Wightman lost his barn, his hay and his horses, and he and his wife ended up in the workhouse at Dorchester.

Mr. Astley's fire destroyed only fireworks, whereas the Wightman fire had been an inferno that destroyed a family. The King would still be a year older whether his London subjects saw fireworks on his birthday or not. Indeed, Jem sometimes wondered how Philip Astley could spend so much time and energy on something that contributed little to the world. If Thomas Kellaway and his fellow chairmakers did not make chairs and benches and stools, people could not sit down properly, and would have to perch on the ground. If Philip Astley did not run his circus, would it make any difference? Jem could not say such a thing to his mother, however. He would never have guessed that she would come to love the circus so much. Even now she was staring through glistening eyes at the Astleys.

In a pause in conversation, Philip Astley felt her gaze on him and turned. He couldn't help smiling at the concern etched on her face—this from the woman who would not even look at him a few months ago. “Ah, madam, there is no need to cry,” he said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and offering it to her, though it was so filthy with soot that it would not have been much use. “We Astleys have been through worse in our time.”

Anne Kellaway did not accept his handkerchief, but wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “No, no, it's the smoke affects my eyes. London smoke do that.” She took a step back from him, for his presence had that effect of crowding people out of their own space.

“Fear not, Mrs. Kellaway,” Philip Astley said, as if she had not spoken. “This is merely a temporary setback. And I thank God that only my carpenter was hurt. He's sure to be back on his feet very soon.”

Thomas Kellaway had been standing beside his wife, his eyes on the smoking wreck of the house. Now he spoke up. “If you need any help in the meantime, sir, with the wood and that, I and my boy would be happy to give a hand, wouldn't we, Jem?”

His innocent offer to a neighbor in need, made in his soft voice without any underlying calculation, had more impact than he could ever have imagined. Philip Astley looked at Thomas Kellaway as if someone had just turned up the lamps very bright. The pause before he answered was not from rudeness, but because he was thinking in this new light. He glanced at John Fox, who as ever stood at his elbow, his eyes once more half-lidded now that the fire was out. “Well, now,” he began. “That is a very kind offer, sir, a very kind offer indeed. I may well take you up on that. We shall see. For the moment, sir, madam”—he bowed to Anne Kellaway—“I must take my leave of you, as there is so much to be getting on with. But I will see you again very soon, I expect. Very soon, indeed, sir.” He turned away with John Fox to rejoin his son and begin giving orders to those who awaited them.

Jem had listened to his father and Philip Astley in stunned silence. He couldn't imagine himself and his father working for someone else rather than for themselves. Maisie's face lit up, however, for she was already picturing herself finding reasons to visit her father and brother at the amphitheatre and staying to see John Astley. Anne Kellaway too wondered if this meant she might be able to escape to the circus even more often.

During this discussion, Dick Butterfield had spotted Maggie standing with the Kellaways and began stealing toward her. He had been gathering himself to pounce—if he didn't get a firm grip on the girl, she was likely to run off—when Thomas Kellaway's offer to Philip Astley pulled him up short. Dick Butterfield thought of himself as the master of the honeyed phrase and timely suggestion, pitched to draw the right response and drop the coin into his pocket. He was good at it, he thought, but Thomas Kellaway had just outmaneuvered him. “Damn him,” he muttered, then lunged for Maggie.

Caught unawares, she yelled and tried to pull away from her father. “You got her, then?” Bet Butterfield called, pushing through the crowd to her husband's side. “Where in hell have you been, you little minx?” she roared at her struggling daughter, and slapped her. “Don't ever run away from us again!”

“Oh, she won't,” Dick Butterfield declared, renewing his grip on Maggie. “She'll be too busy working, won't you, Mags? Rope not to your liking, eh? Not to worry—I found another place for you, see. Mate o' mine runs the mustard manufactory down by the river. You'll be working there come Monday. Keep you out of mischief. It's time you started bringin' in a wage—you're old enough now. Till then, Charlie'll keep an eye on you. Charlie!” he shouted, casting his eye about.

Charlie sauntered over from the wall he'd been squatting against. He tried to glare at Jem and smile at Maisie at the same time, but it came out as a confused smirk. Jem glared back at him; Maisie studied her toes.

“Where you been, boy?” Dick Butterfield cried. “Get hold of your sister and don't let her out of your sight till you take her to the mustard works Monday morning.”

Charlie grinned and grabbed Maggie's other arm with both hands. “Sure, Pa.” When no one was looking, he twisted her skin so that it burnt.

With her parents there, Maggie couldn't kick him. “Damn you, Charlie!” she cried. “Mam!”

“Don't talk to me, girl,” Bet Butterfield huffed. “I want nothing to do with you. You been one hell of a worry to us.”

“But—” Maggie stopped when Charlie made the sign of slitting his throat with his finger. She closed her eyes and thought of the attention she'd had from the Blakes, and of the peace she'd known briefly in their garden, where she could put from her mind thoughts of Charlie and what had gone on in the past. She'd known it was too good to last, that eventually she would have to leave the garden and return to her parents. She just wished she'd had the chance to decide for herself when that would happen.

Tears seeped from the corners of her eyes, and though she rubbed them away quickly with finger and thumb, the Kellaway children spotted them. Maisie gazed at Maggie sympathetically, while Jem dug his fingernails into his palms. He had never felt so much like hitting someone as he did Charlie Butterfield.