Proved in the Fire. A story of the burning of Hamburg

Chapter I

amalie's love. In the quiet and seclusion of the cottage at Wandsbeck, Amalie endeavoured to recover the tranquillity of mind so rudely disturbed by the late events. The house, with its httle wilderness of garden, was no longer in the occupation of Herr Urlacher. Its tenant was a certain Widow Frœbel, an early friend of his VOL. III. B dead wife's, and its hospitable door stood always open to Amahe or to himself. It was at all times a welcome retreat, for the Widow Frœbel was one of those happy souls who have the tact of making all about them comfortable ; and her pleasant, homely ways developed to the ut most the advantages of the naturally pretty and snug residence she had made her home. The outbreak of the fire in the great town had already driven the little rural hamlet of Wandsbeck into a flutter ; for although a fire in Hamburg was a matter of no rare occurrence, it was usually con fined to narrow limits.

In this case, how ever, the necessity of help had grown so urgent, that messengers had been sent to all the neighbouring villages, such as Wandsbeck, Bergedorf, and Blankenese, as well as to Altona, the adjoining Danish frontier town, for both fire-engines and men; and the Wandsbecker engine was off to the fire in a flush of enthusiasm. Although the sudden arrival of Amalie and her maid Trinen, in their agitated and care-worn state, and the story they had to tell of the ravages of the fire, were not calculated to lessen the alarm of the already aroused villagers, it was an addi tional reason to the Widow Frœbel for the exertion of all her resources to sooth and comfort her unexpected visitors. And this the good soul did with the greatest tact, and considerable success. In Ama lie's conception, the worst had already befallen, and she felt a sense of rehef in the knowledge, that her father — for it was only in that character she had ever known Urlacher — had been rescued from impendb ing death, and that at least the most valuable of his property had been saved.

This comparative good, in the midst of so much evil, was in itself a source of consolation. Her mind, thus relieved from the weight which had rested the heaviest upon it, turned with all the greater force to that subject which, by its nature, was most likely to attract it ; and the images of Ritzenheim and Christian contended for mastery in her thoughts. She strove to guide and control these reflections in con formity with her sense of duty ; but the task was more stubborn than her will, and its conflicting elements constantly eluded her grasp. Never before had such emotions agitated her breast as those which strug gled there now; never before had she felt so powerless to overcome them. It was not that she faltered in the path before her ; that path was already traced out, she had entered upon it, and to turn back was impossible.

But it was no longer the path upon which she had looked with complacency, if not pleasure ; and the calm submission of her previous life, which had promised to lead her only in the ways of peace and quietness, had changed to a rebelhous yearning for higher and unknown delights. Was she to blame for this, or was it the fault of her position ? Her honest con victions shrank from the conclusion to which her thoughts endeavoured to lead her. She could not even whisper to her self that she loved Christian ; any more than she dared entertain the thought that Ritzenheim, her accepted lover, her betrothed husband, was becoming every moment more indifferent to her. She feared to question herself as to whether she had ever loved him, or whether the divine passion had not now for the first time taken possession of her heart.

Then her thoughts reverted to her youthful days, when, in her childish affections, Christian, as her foster brother and constant companion, held the first place. That dim past she felt was a girlish dream, which but for recent events would have only lived in her memory as a recollection pleasant to cherish and to smile over. Now the same Christian, her early, her first love — if that girlish fancy could be called by so serious a name — had returned in the dignity, the strength, the beauty of his manhood, to assert a claim on which she had never se riously reflected, or regarded otherwise than as a youthful passion long forgotten. The whole story of her life, with the exception of some recollections so dim that they scarcely took the semblance of facts, extended no further back than her adoption by Urlacher upon the death of her father.

To her, during long years, Urlacher had been all in all; father, mother, companion; filling with his al most undivided presence the tender and patient offices of each. More than all ; subdued as his spirit was before her, who had taken the place in his heart left vacant by the death of his wife, and the absence of children, he stood as the symbol of authority in her eyes ; of authority gentle but firm ; the centre of wise counsel, and of patient trust. Thus she loved the father of her adoption with unswerving devotion and rehance, and had learned to regard his unstudied utterances as wishes expressed, his outspoken wishes as com mands. Next to Urlacher, Christian, as her childish playmate, had held a place in her heart ; and she looked back to their merry days passed together as the happiest of her life.

But when Christian had left the village to become an apprentice ; when they met at rare intervals, and then only to exchange perhaps a friendly word, the tie between them, if not weakened, gained but little strength on her part. While Christian's whole soul was becoming im bued with a reckless passion for Amalie, her own feehngs passed little beyond her early childish affection. The incident of the quarrel between Urlacher and Chris tian had made a deep impression in her mind, especially growing out as it had of a confession of Christian's love; but, unfortunately for Christian, her sense of right was shocked by his infliction of a terrible blow upon him whom she revered ; for which outrage she never learned the great provocation. Thus, between her conflicting emotions and her ignorance of the cause of the dispute, her heart swayed towards him to whom she owed both duty and love.

It might be that the reticence of Chris tian — the very fidelity with which he had adhered to his resolution, to obey tbe in junction of Herr Urlacher to refrain from intruding upon Amahe — but of which she knew nothing, told against him. His silence might well bear a guilty interpre tation by one who was ignorant of his motives ; and from Herr Urlacher himself, not a word, not a hint was given, to clear up the mystery. Then came the Cross of Roses ; and by this incident her heart was touched indeed. The withered stems which she could well recognize, entwined with the living rose buds, came with a pleading tenderness to her heart to call back her old affection for her once playmate. Nor wTas that all ; it touched a chord in her soul which had never yet been truly sounded, and which it only needed the passionate hand of the giver to wake into the full melody of love.

But the hand was far away, and the chord fell silent; only to be struck again when its notes jarred with the more peaceful strains which floated around her. It had, however, this effect : it effaced the image of alarm which the incidents of the quarrel had raised, and left her earliest reminiscences to remind her of one whom, if she had not loved, had once held, and still held, a place in her heart. As months aud years passed on, this more vivid im pression grew gradually fainter, or was only revived in something of its former strength, but a rare and chance occurrence. In the ripeness of time, Herr Hugo Rit zenheim entered on the scene. An affable gentleman, of a handsome presence ; a traveller ; a master of languages ; acknow ledged to be clever, and reputed to be rich. More than all this, he soon became Herr Urlacher's valuable assistant and cherished friend.

What wonder then if such a man should be regarded as an eligible suitor, by him whose word was to her almost a command ; or that his respectful, obse quious attentions to herself, should be received with a graceful blush of acquies cence ? She had never probed her heart to seek what might lie in its innermost recesses, and did not know the secret which slumbered there; the voice which could have called it into life was far away and silent. Shut out in a great measure, owing to her peculiar position, from active intercourse with the young of her own age and sex ; deprived as she had been from her childhood of the advice and consolations of a mother ; Amalie was more susceptible, in her comparative seclusion, to the advances of such a lover, under such an introduction. If her heart did not throb with emotion at his approach, or her eyes droop in his presence, she could at least receive him with sincere respect; acknowledge his talents and his courtesy.

Often, indeed, she found herself questioning her own heart, why she should not love him — Sure sign that she did not; and if she found no eager response in his favour, she was answered by no sounds of utter disapproval. More than all besides, the influence of Herr Urlacher swayed her in favour of Ritzenheim's advances. It was not that her father, so to call him, exerted this in fluence directly, or with any deliberate purpose. He was too innately honest and considerate, to attempt to urge her to a course in the consequences of which she herself, and all her future life, would be involved. But he conscientiously be lieved that her union with Ritzenheim would bring prosperity and happiness to both, and in a hundred signs, small in themselves, in speech and act, he showed his concurrence in the suit preferred by his friend.

It had become the habit of Amalie to seek for guidance in the quiet, unpro nounced and unpremeditated acts and words of Urlacher, and in this case there was to her no mystery. Of his approval and even gratification at her choice she felt assured ; and if her own heart did not bid her to go on, it sounded at least no warning note of retreat. Thus it was that Amalie became the betrothed of Ritzenheim. Was this love, or was it misconception ? Was it not rather a mistaken sense of duty ? In any case this was Amalie Lindenkrone's love for Hugo Ritzenheim.

Chapter II. Fire And More Fire

The httle band of zealous men who, with their engine, dashed through the high street of Wandsbeck, with the deliberate intention of putting out the fire in Ham burg, soon found that they had their hands full. So also the worthy citizens of Al tona with their engines ; the men of Bergedorf, and Blankenese; and half a dozen other neighbouring villages with their several engines, their buckets, their hose, and their flambeaux. All found, zeal ous, bold, and resolute as they were, when they came into the great town on the waters of the Elbe, that they had their work to do. Put out the fire ! They might as well have stood in the dry gully formed by a mountain torrent, and when the torrent came, swollen with fresh rains and the meltings of Alpine snows, have tried to stop the current with their hands !

It was no longer a house or even a street that blazed ; it was a deluge of fire flowing like a sea : licking and lapping with its waves of flame, house of wood, and house of stone, with every writhing, living thing that parched and shrivelled in its path. It was not yet half an hour past noon, and the Deich Strasse on both sides was already burning itself out. The Rodings Markt was in full blaze. Leaping across the Stein and the Griiztwiete the fiery torrent was rapidly flooding the whole of the Hopfen Markt, which, with some few insignificant buildings, formed one side of the open space where stood the church of St. Nicolas. The church itself was in danger. From early morn up to nearly mid-day, the terrified inhabitants of the neighbouring streets had made it their haven of hope and safety.

The most valuable goods saved from the houses already burning or endangered by the fire — choice fur niture, rich stuffs, costly jewels and plate — had been carried within its walls; and now this cherished place of refuge, with all its contents, was itself threatened by the insatiable flames. The cloud of glowing flakes, and the furnace-heat from the burning mass around, was rapidly prepar ing this next prey to the fire which lay in the direction of the wind. VOL. III. c It blew a strong gale towards the church, the spire of which, four hundred feet high, stood exposed to all the gleam ing blast. It was not that the flames could touch it, for standing in a com paratively open space, it was beyond their reach, let them flare, and dart, and stream as they would. But the hot wind was parching it up.

The wood-work within was becoming charred through its coating of stone. The eight gilded spheres upon which the spire rested, metallic as they were, were drawing the heat towards themselves and rapidly growing into balls of fire. So early as one o'clock, the smoke from the wood framework curled and steamed through every aperture by which it could find vent, and by three o'clock the whole tower, from base to vane was in a blaze. Strange and beautiful it was to hear the clang of its bells, ringing out their own death-knell from amidst the funeral pyre, which leapt in flames of red, and green, and vivid white around it ! The bells of St. Nicolas were renowned for the beauty and purity of their tone. Daily, for nearly two hundred years, had they rung out their melodies at certain fixed times, played by the action of pedal keys after the manner of a harpsichord, and so marked the fleeting of the hours in music.

But they had rung their last peal ; now in a wild, plaintive jangle of sounds, as they were driven into mo tion by the very fire which consumed them, they wailed their parting notes, soon to become silent for ever. Amid all the frightful confusion of terror, grief, and despair, which agitated c2 the listeningcrowd, not an ear but heard the last clang of the old bells with a feeling of anguish, and many an eye was wet with bitter, smarting tears. There stood awhile a tower of flame, springing higher and higher, which not even the fierce wind could bend ; streaming into Heaven a beacon' of warning, and an appeal for succour to all the land. Then it swayed, and shook, and crumbled ; with a hoarse roar, heard even above the shriek and hiss of the flaming wind, cast itself down, and spread its own destruction around it.

The scattered fragments of the spire fell, partly into itself, partly on to the church roof, and the burning houses of the Hopfen Markt ; and if there had been any hope of saving the body of the church when the steeple first took fire, there could be none now. Lower and lower FIRE AND MOKE FIRE. 21 the flames burnt downwards, casting blazing beams and calcined stones into the mass of costly furniture which lay heaped beneath, and so preparing it for ignition ; till the whole became one flam ing furnace of which the outer walls of the church formed the shell. Not even the stone walls could long resist tbe frightful heat within ; they crumbled away foot by foot until of the whole edifice only a heap of ashes remained. Meanwhile, the flames were sweeping round from either side, so as to enclose the churchyard in a circle of fire.

By seven o'clock in the evening the two ends met, and the whole space, from nearly the lower end of the Deich Strasse to the Senate House was one vast, seething lake of leaping jets of flame, and of red-glowing, almost molten ruins. This terrible destruction had not been effected, without calling forth almost super human efforts on the part of the firemen of Hamburg and its environs. Sixty engines were now gathered round the seat of the conflagration, principally on the side of the Hopfen Markt and the Rathhaus, pouring in such streams of water as the shallow Flethe afforded, or the imperfect means at command en abled them to obtain. As one set of men was exhausted, another took its place ; and even women were to be found among the volunteers, eager to help the exhausted workers. All utterly without effect.

No human exertion availed to check, even for a moment, the torrent of flame which poured on its resistless way, devouring everything before it. The puny efforts of many hundreds of men resulted in nothing but their own exhaustion, or worse ; in many of them being crushed beneath falling ruins, or sucked into the vortex of the fire like helpless, shrivelling leaves. If at the outset their efforts had failed to interpose any effectual check to the pro gress of the fire, how could they now avail when its terrific power was increased a hundred fold ! The heat became so in tense, that it was impossible to approach even to the outer edge of the sea of flame ; the feeble jets of water which were thrown upon the scorching walls, and half burnt embers, were dissipated in thin mist and steam, ere they had reached their ob ject.

A feeling of utter prostration, of despair, began to take possession of those who had hitherto laboured with the most courage and energy. They felt themselves helpless and incapable in the face of the overpowering calamity which swept them before it, or crushed them on its way. The total destruction of the church of St. Nicolas, with all its precious contents, had the effect of spreading dismay among the most hopeful, and of confirming the worst fears of those who were already trembling with apprehension. To stem the flames seemed impossible, and there remained nothing but to fly before them. The number of those who were houseless and roofless was already great, and the streets leading to the gates of the city were half choked with the fugitives, laden with such household goods as they could them selves carry, or following the course of carts and other vehicles, containing often all the worldly possessions left to them.

Panic-stricken and overburdened, their only hope seemed to be in flying from the doomed city into the broad roads, the lanes, and open fields of the suburbs. Men, women, and children were there ; pale, haggard, and tottering beneath their loads. Many left without house or home by the implacable destroyer ; more who had fled from beneath the roofs which sheltered them, preferring to pass the night under the open sky to remaining in their frail tenemeuts exposed to the ruthless, insatiable fire. And so the night drew on — no night to the hapless citizens of Hamburg — with the flames widening out fanwise from the nar now stem from which they had arisen. The broad Deich was threatened on its oppo site bank, the Holz bridge and Reimer's bridge being already in flames ; the Grass keiler was already half in the grip of the destroyer.

In front were the old Ex change, the Senate House, and the Bank ; all in the direct path of the fire, and there was scarcely a hope of human aid being able to interpose to save them from des truction. So intense was the heat as it glared across the Deich, that even the stout piles which were driven into the middle of the stream, were set alight, and like strange torches, flared down to the water's edge. On some of the smaller canals, the sight was even more terrible and strange. The inhabitants, hopeless of saving their trea sured goods by transport through the crowded streets, or utterly unable to pro cure land conveyance, had placed them on boats and ship-board ; when to their horror, what was once a water-way be came a path of fire ! The oil, the turpentine, and other inflammable liquids, released from their frail bonds, flooded the streets, and floated on the stream.

Soon they became heated, burst into flames, and boats, goods, or whatever living thing had the unhappy chance to be with them, perished alike. The night brought no relief; and as the morning dawned, even the most hopeful became convinced that no ordinary means would avail to check the ravages of the flames. So long as one house joined another, the fire must spread ; the mere contact, or even proximity, was sufficient, from the overpowering heat, and the clouds of burning matter which rained and floated in the air, to ensure destruction of everything within reach. Nothing less than the creation of huge gaps, over which not even the ravenous flames, driven as they still were by the storm of wind, could leap, would rescue the re mainder of the city from devastation. It was, therefore, resolved to spring into the air, or to shoot down, whatever was likely to form a point of contact be tween that which already burned, and the uninjured houses.

A large house on the Graskeller bridge was the first to be mined and blown up; and this act had the happy effects of checking the fire in that direction. This was followed by more efforts of the same kind, and soon, among other buildings, the old Exchange and the Senate House were levelled with the ground. The fate of the latter was determined by the strong desire to save the Bank ; but its destruction was without the hoped for result. The Bank caught fire from within, as was supposed, but more probably from the shower of fire which fell upon the roof; and but httle of it was saved. Nor, indeed, could all these desperate measures long check the pro gress of the fire. For awhile the wide chasms made by the sudden levelling of masses of building made the fire pause at the gaps in its advance ; but the heat, and the strong wind, and the flood of sparks which poured through the dense atmosphere, soon carried new seeds of destruction abroad, which were fanned into life in regions hitherto untouched.

Then arose a new difficulty. The store of gunpowder was exhausted by repeated explosions, and still no effectual check was given to the fire. In this extremity, by means of the old telegraph, a message was sent to Stade, demanding a thousand pounds of powder; and with such good PROVED IN TEE FIRE. will was the order obeyed, that within a few hours an English steam-boat landed at the quay, with not only the powder, but cannon and artillerymen to assist in its use. And so the terrible hours passed on ; in frantic efforts to stem the torrent of destruction by the over-wearied firemen ; in the rending, and springing into the air, of mansions and blocks of houses, by the artillery, who had almost superseded the ordinary workers at the engines. And all of httle avail. The fire spread, despite every effort to check it.

The sky was, of a lurid red with the blaze, and the sun obscured by the masses of smoke which rolled above the devoted city. And still there rang the fire-bell, as if men needed to be told of the calamity which drove them forth beggars into the world. The fire roared, and crackled, and hissed ; the arms of the fire engines gave forth their dull thud; the hose spirted their in effectual jets into the hot air. Still there poured the affrighted, despairing stream of fugitives through the almost impassable streets ; hurrying away from their burning homes, to seek rest for awhile in the open places, in the public gardens which sur round the town, and out into the open country, where no shelter awaited them but the cold, untainted sky. No rest, no hope ! The fire streamed on its flaming way. Checked in one di rection, it only gathered itself together for a while, and then burst on with re doubled force in another.

Stayed in its course on the side of St. Catherine's Church, and on the Graskeller bridge, it made its way with all the greater violence in the direct course of the wind towards the little Alster. Although its path was here strewn with the ruins of houses blown into the air, or shot down by the artillery, it made little of these obstacles ; but, pausing, as if for breath, on the edges of the gulphs artificially made to stop its progress, suddenly overleaps the chasm with an angry roar, and passed screaming on its way. No peace, no rest ! For three nights and two days the fire held its fearful revels, and yet there was no hope of the end. Fire everywhere ; nothing but fire !

Chapter III

A CALL FOR VOLUNTEERS. If Hamburg, in her hour of trial, found herself feeble and short-handed in appli ances to extinguish the flames which were burning her very heart out ; if, with all the help of her neighbours, she toiled against the insatiable enemy in vain ; it cannot be said that she was equally defi cient in the means of self-protection against the foes within her gates. Next to fire-engines, her friends seemed to con sider that her great want was soldiers ; and accordingly mihtary were soon on vol. in. d their way from all the neighbouring states, to protect her from her own populace, at the very time that that populace was being rapidly burnt out of house and home. Doubtless this was merely an ex emplification of the continental idea, that the people as a body are always in a state of latent revolution, ready upon the least opportunity to overturn church and state.

Certain it is that the authorities of Hamburg were in as great anxiety to re strain the people as to extinguish the fire. Or rather, it seemed to be considered that the one was as dangerous an element to the state, as the other was to the town, if once let loose ; and that there was some invisible sympathy between the two which would make a simultaneous outbreak an exceedingly likely occurrence. In this spirit it was that a German paper of the day, while chronicling the fact that can non had been brought from Stade "to shoot down the houses," added, senten tiously : "and to curb the people." An other excited journal exclaimed : " The people must be, and can be, only kept in check by force;" while yet another an nounced that " the people are turbulent, and cry for bread." Therefore, it may be supposed, it was considered advisable to give them cannon-shot, as something hkely to occupy their digestion.

With more of truth and charity, one nar rator thus describes the demeauour of this (if we may believe their own chronicles) evil-minded population : " One hears at night the sentinels fire, the alarm bells ring, and the night-watchmen cry, and at the utmost one asks where the fire burns. d Thence it comes that, beyond a little knot of curious folk, as a rule it is only the fire guard and the military who are on their feet. It would appear that this complete shutting out of the people is in the high est degree dangerous. Even now — it is nearly mid-day — the soldiers and firemen, through their continued labour, are ex hausted, yet the streets are closed up, the people stand with arms crossed, and only give vent now and then to a fearful cry, as one house after the other falls to the ground, with all the terrible accom paniments of such a scene."

There can be no doubt, that a feeling of mistrust in the people, in the presence of such a calamity as had befallen the city, paralysed for a time the efforts of those whose especial duty it was considered to be to act on such an occasion. Moreover, there was much jealousy among the organ ized firemen, and much clinging to pri vilege, which checked the admission of strangers into their body, and to a parti cipation of the pecuniary advantages, such as they were, which belonged to its mem bers. In short the " Fire-Quenching Establishment" of Hamburg was a "vest ed interest," and although a well inten tioned, was a very obstinate and short sighted corporation. This will account for the exclusion of the people from an active participation in the endeavours to extinguish the fire for some time after its outbreak.

The so much desired presence of the military, to keep them from open violence, was explained, or excused, on the ground that Hamburg was a great port, with a loose population of seamen of all nations, who were under no efficient subordination from their officers. Who, on the contrary, were released for a time, from their ordinary discipline, and therefore a dangerous element to control at such a moment of alarm and confusion. Add to this, the inveterate conviction, from settled habits of thought in that direction, among continental com munities, that nothing can under any circumstances be done without soldiers, and the accumulation of military from the sister Free States, Bremen and Lubeck; from Denmark, from Hanover, from Brunswick, and from Prussia, may very readily be accounted for. Doubtless, too, the necessity for the demolition of so many houses, in their efforts to check the pro gress of the flames, rendered them a desirable addition to the over-worked soldiers of the State.