The Macabre Megapack. Lafcadio Hearn
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to their own, rose silently into the sky, while above huge clouds of crimsoned smoke rolled heavily off in the north quarter of the heavens.
Every object in the immediate neighborhood of the scene of devastation was traced out with startling vividness: the groups of people on the tops of houses, sweeping to and fro, as small as pygmies; the ships in the river beyond were all clearly visible, and brought close to the eye. But to me the chief awe of this scene was its complete and unbroken silence. I was far too removed from it to hear the tumult in the streets, the hissing of the ascending flames, the cries of the helpless or the alarmed. The wind bore away in another direction the solemn toll of the fire-bell; and the whole scene, at that dead hour, wore the strange and awful guise of some show conjured up by a potent magician, it was so unlike any sight familiar to my previous experience.
After the silent gaze of a few instants, I dressed myself in haste; and, having called up my servant, and ordered him to sit up for me, I repaired as quickly as I could to that part of town where the conflagration was raging. It was nearly a mile from my house, but I needed no direction as to the precise spot, for crowds of awakened people were streaming thitherward from every quarter. Presently, as I advanced, their numbers became so dense as to make it a matter of some difficulty to proceed; and, long before I came within a stone’s throw of the spot, all further progress was impossible. The building on fire was a huge distillery: and, as the stores of manufactured spirits were reached, one after the other, enormous jets of intense colorless flame burst perpendicularly upward—the night fortunately being still—while every instant the fall of some floor or chimney was succeeded by a flight of sparks; and the sullen roaring of triumphant element was heard in a deep undertone amid the shouts of the firemen and the murmurs of the vast concourse of spectators. To give a yet deeper interest to the scene, the two unhappy watchmen belonging in the premises had been seen to perish in the flames, the spread of which had been so rapid that all that could now be hoped for was to prevent their communicating with the surrounding streets. The fire had already destroyed a court of small houses in the immediate vicinity.
Anxious to approach as near as I possibly could, it occurred to me that I might perhaps effect my purpose through a quiet, narrow street, terminating only in a warehouse which stood almost immediately opposite to the burning pile. Through this there was a thoroughfare allowed by sufferance, and with all speed I made my way around thither, through a labyrinth of alleys, in my eagerness forgetting that this warehouse was enclosed in a court shut up by strong gates, which were not likely to be open during a time of such confusion. This I found to be the case: the building was an empty one, and seemed to be left to its fate; and I was turning away in disappointment, when my attention was arrested by the scene without, which was to me more impressive than any I had yet witnessed.
The street in question was one of those anomalies which are found in the densest hearts of large towns, being quiet, clean, and dull; and the houses, of antique fashion, had been obviously built for some class of people better than that by which they were now occupied. On the causeways and in the windows stood the scared inhabitants, looking upwards in silence; and every now and then some strong man appeared reeling under a load of bedding or furniture belonging to the poor families who had lived in the court close to the distillery, and, having been awakened to a sense of their danger only just in time to save their lives, had been able to rescue little of their property. It was a touching sight to examine one face after another and to read one strong prevailing emotion upon every countenance; and it was grievous to hear the wailings of the poor homeless creatures who had been kindly received in the different houses, many of whom had lost all that they were worth in the world, the hardily accumulated earnings of years.
Apart from these and close in the shadow of the courtyard wall at the end of the street, I presently discovered an old man sitting disconsolately on a pile of stones. He was neatly dressed, but bare-headed; and his white locks were long and few. Beside him was a large chest; and while everyone else seemed to have his counselor and comforter, this sufferer alone was neglected , if not shunned; and he looked as if rooted there in stupid despair, reckless as to what could now befall him, and neither soliciting nor receiving the assistance of anyone. There was a mixture of meekness and agony in his fixed gaze, and a listless indifference in his attitude that arrested my compassion at once; and I asked a respectable woman, who was standing on a step with a child in her arms, if she knew who he was, and why the same good offices that were extended to his neighbors were so pointedly withheld from him.
“Why, sir,” she answered readily, “I should like to know who would dare to speak with him or offer him anything. He’s unlucky.”
“You mean that he is not in his right mind,” said I.
“I do not know that,” she replied, shaking her head oracularly. “He has lived in yonder court for these six and twenty years, and I do not think in that time he has said as many words to any of us—nobody but himself ever entered his house.”
“What is his name?”
“He is called Graham, we believe,” she said, “but we are not sure; no letters have ever come to him that we know of. He is well off in the world, for he does no work—and we are used to call him ‘the Silent Man.’ The children are afraid of him, though his custom was to go little abroad till it was dusk. He neither lends nor borrows, nor, so far as we have seen, goes to church.”
“And what is to become of him now that his house is burned down? Is he to sit here in the cold all night? I will go—”
“Lord bless you, sir!” said the good dame, laying her hand upon my arm, “don’t think of such a thing. Take care what you do; he will shift for himself somehow or other, I have no doubt.” And when she saw that I was bent upon accosting this singular being, she turned away from me hastily, as if afraid to share in the peril which, as her speech implied, I should bring upon myself, by offering him any assistance.
But my resolution was taken. I went up to the subject of our discourse, and touched him lightly on the shoulder. It would seem that he had been in a reverie; for he started, and looked up suddenly, and I was anew struck by the singular cast of his face. “You seem cold, my friend,” said I; “will you not come under shelter?” He made no answer, but shook his head.
“At least,” persevered I, “you cannot intend to remain where you are—it will be your death. Will you come home with me for the night, if you have no further occasion to stay here? I cannot promise you good accommodation, but, at all events, warmth and shelter—or, do you wait for someone else to join you?”
He answered in a low voice, but it was the voice and with the accent of a gentleman, “No one.”
“Well then,” said I, “you had surely better accept my offer—or, can anything more be done for you here? Is this your property—” I hesitated as I spoke, for I imagined him to be stupefied by the extent of his calamity.
“Beside me,” was his answer, pointing to the large chest.
“Then I beg you to make up your mind at once. It is far to go, it is true; but anything is better than staying here. Come—let me assist you to rise,” said I, taking hold of his arm.
He arose mechanically, as though he only half comprehended my meaning. “I do not know,” said he, in a bewildered manner, “but I suppose it is best. Thank you.”
I could make little of these broken words, but the supposition that his intellects were disordered, or that he was depressed beyond the power of speech by the total want of sympathy which had been shown him. But the common duty of humanity was not to be misunderstood; and, after addressing to him one or two other questions, to which he seemed unable or unwilling to reply, I gave him my arm. He looked wistfully down upon the chest; it was large, but, upon attempting to raise it, I felt it to be so light that I almost thought it must be empty. So, without making any further difficulties, I took it under my other arm, and, covering his bare head with my hat, we walked away slowly through the wondering people, who gave way as we passed. I was in hopes that my companion was so much absorbed in his own feelings that he did not notice this new gesture of distrust.
I never felt so totally in the dark as to what I was doing at that moment. He could not or would not speak