University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.
A DISASTROUS EVENT.

An interesting play, entitled Family Feuds,
had been announced for representation at the
theatre, for the benefit of Placide; and the governor,
with several of his friends, proposed to patronize
the performance. The Major declined
the proposition, but his son accompanied the
party.

It was the best house the season had afforded,
and the play went off with great eclat. The afterpiece
was the interesting pantomime of the
“Bleeding Nun,” which commenced amid the
plaudits of the admiring audience. George had
read the eccentric romance from which this pantomime

was selected, and consequently the plot of
the piece was familiar to his recollection. The
gallant Raymond saves his beloved Agnes from
the most imminent danger, and bears her away
in his arms. George thought of his Catharine,
and, when the curtain fell on the first act, sat absorbed
in tender recollections. “How happy,”
thought he, “must that lover be who saves from
destruction the idol of his soul! What rapture
must be mingled with the sensations which heave
their meeting bosoms, as he afterwards presses her
in his arms! Grant, O my God, that I may be placed
in such a blissful situation; grant that Catharine
may owe her precious life to my courage and
exertions; permit and enable me but to bear her
from danger in these longing arms, and I ask no
more!”

A most delightful piece of music from the
orchestra awoke him from the pleasing reverie,
and he gazed around on the happy faces that
every where met his view.

On no former occasion had the theatre of Richmond
exhibited a more brilliant assemblage of
beauty, taste and fashion; and never, perhaps,
was such an assembly more disposed to be happy.
Every bosom bounded with pleasure—every eye
beamed with satisfaction; care was forgotten,
and incessant flashes of wit and merriment bespoke
the lightness of the hearts from whence they
emanated.

The curtain rose on the second act of the pantomime,
the orchestra was in full chorus, and an
actor came forward to open the scene, when
sparks of fire were seen to fall on the back part of
the stage, and Robertson advanced, waving his
hand to the ceiling, and exclaiming that the house

was on fire! His hand was immediately stretched
forth to the persons in the stage box to help them
on the stage, and aid their retreat in that direction.
The heart-appalling cry of fire! fire! now passed
with electric velocity through the house, and all
who were not rendered insensible by terror,
flew from their seats to gain the lobbies and stairs.

The scene that ensued baffles all description.
The most heart-piercing cries pervaded the house,
of “Save me! O save me!” Wives calling for
their husbands, females and children shrieking,
while the gathering volumes of pitchy smoke
came rolling onward, extinguishing the lights, and
choaking respiration. Many were trodden under
foot, the stairs were blocked up, and men, women,
and children precipitated themselves from the
windows into the street below, some with their
garments in a blaze, and their persons dreadfully
burnt. The governor, in attempting to save his
child, perished with it, and several of the party
in his box shared the same dreadful fate.

George was in the adjoining box, with his new
friend Gibbon, who had under his protection the
young lady to whom he was affianced. When
the tumult arose her sensibility was overpowered
and she fainted; her lover raised her in his arms,
and endeavored to force his way through the
crowd; George offered his assistance, which Gibbon
declined, declaring himself to be competent
to the task, and entreating our hero to assist two
young ladies, who had fallen in the next box, and
were apparently without protectors. With great
coolness and intrepidity Gibbon then continued
to make his way through the opposing multitude,
until exhausted with his exertions, and overtaken
by the flames, he sunk with his lovely burden to
rise no more!

Our hero instantly perceived that the passage
from the pit offered the most probable chance of
safety, and raising the young ladies who had
fainted from terror in an adjoining box, he took
one in each arm, leaped into the pit, and bore his
insensible burdens, through the thick smoke and
scorching flames, until he gained in safety the
semi-circular avenue which led him to the door of
the theatre. Here the fresh air partially revived
the almost suffocated objects of his care, and
they gained the street a few minutes before the
roof fell in.

“My sister!” exclaimed a gentleman, and
snatched one of the ladies from the arms of her
preserver. He bore the other through the distracted
crowd, and seated her on a stone at the
corner of the street. Here she appeared to
awake at once to all the horrors of her situation,
and starting up, with a piercing shriek, flew with
such velocity towards the scene of conflagration
that our hero could hardly overtake her. She
sunk again into his arms, exclaiming, in a tone
that thrilled George to the soul—“Save my
father! O save my dear father!” The fire at that
moment shone full on her face—it was Catharine.

They were in the midst of a scene that it is impossible
to describe. Women with dishevelled
hair, calling on their husbands; fathers and
mothers shrieking for their children; husbands for
their wives, and brothers for their sisters, filled the
whole area on the outside of the blazing ruins.
Some, who had escaped, were plunging again
into the flames, to save some dear object of their
regard; others were frantic, and would have
rushed to destruction, but for the restraining hand
of a friend. The bells were ringing, and the
whole town rushing to the fatal spot.

What a spectacle here awaited the horror-struck
citizens of Richmond! a whole theatre enwrapped
in flames, a gay and animated assembly
suddenly thrown on the very verge of the grave—
many of them precipitated into eternity! Virtue,
genius, beauty, youth, and old age, whelmed in
one promiscuous ruin! shrieks of agony mingled
with the crackling flames!

Our hero had hitherto preserved his presence
of mind! but recognising Catharine at that dreadful
moment, and the uncertainty of her father's
fate, on whom she was still calling with the voice
of distraction, almost unmanned him; his brain
was bewildered, and it was with difficulty that he
could support the lovely girl in his arms. At that
moment he found himself supported by the arm of
his father.

“Take her,” cried George; “to you I can entrust
her. Bear her to a place of safety, while I
seek her father.”

Exhausted, and almost lifeless, she hung on
the major's arm, who, with the assistance of a
young officer whom he called to his aid, supported
her to the nearest house, which by this time
had become a hospital filled with those who had
escaped with fractured limbs, dreadful bruises,
and dangerous burns. But in the general consternation,
individual griefs could not be attended
to. Every one was flying in search of some near
relative or dear connexion, and the wounded and
dying were left to condole each other with their
groans.

Catharine, who had not been recognized by the
major, was in a kind of stupor not unlike a swoon,
and in that state was left in the care of the officer
who assisted in removing her from the scene of

danger, while Willoughby returned to assist his
son in his humane exertions.

Notwithstanding the dreadful scene around
him, the young stranger could not refrain from
gazing on the beautiful insensible reclining on his
arm. Her hair was loose, and floated wildly
over her shoulders and neck; her eyes were
closed, her bosom heaved, and her whole dress
was disordered. He rudely gazed on charms thus
heightened by distress, and almost forgot the disaster
that had submitted them to his inspection.

In a few minutes a man rushed into the room,
whose scorched and disfigured dress scarcely
retained any distinguishing marks of the sex to
which it belonged. He was without a hat, and
his head was severely burnt. “Where is she?”
he exclaimed—“O where is my child?” and
Catharine was pressed to her father's bosom,
where she soon recovered her recollection, and
expressed her joy in tears and sobs.

As soon as she became sufficiently composed,
they repaired to their lodgings, accompanied by
the officer, who insisted upon seeing his charge
in perfect safety before he thought of his own concerns.

“O my generous preserver!” faintly exclaimed
Catharine as he seated her on a sofa, “how
shall I express my thanks?”

“Your thanks are only due to Heaven,”
answered he; “I have only done my duty; and
had I lost my life in snatching you from the
flames—”

“How were you so fortunate as to save her?”
interrupted Fleming.

Officer. I saw her fall in the lobby, sir, and
flew to her assistance. The pressure of the crowd
was so great, and the smoke so suffocating, that I

almost despaired of success; but was resolved to
save or perish with her.

Fleming. But why such an interest for her
fate in particular, among hundreds who were in
situations equally perilous, and who possessed
equal claims to your assistance? Are you acquainted
with us?

Officer. No, sir. But—I sat in the next box
to you this evening. I saw your daughter—I
accidentally heard her appropriate and judicious
observations—I felt that she was worthy the risk
I ran.”

As he said this he gently pressed her hand,
which he held in his.

Fleming. Why did you not tarry in the box,
my child, as I requested? I was back in a
moment, after ascertaining that it was easy to
escape through the pit. What was my horror on
not finding you in the spot where I had left you!
I leaped into the boxes, and rushed into the lobby,
calling on your name, but could nowhere find
you. Overcome with suffocation, I fell to the
floor, with my head against the wall. A little
stream of fresh air issuing through a crack, revived
me, and I again arose, with a determination to
leap from the window, which was at that moment
burst open. When I had nearly reached it,
however, I almost despaired of effecting my
escape through it, for the crowds that blocked it
up. I pushed forward with desperation, while
many dropped on all sides of me to rise no more.
I mounted on the heads of the crowd, with my hair
and clothes on fire, burst through the window, and
reached the ground in safety. Here I again called
aloud on your name, and ran like a madman
among the multitude to find you, and was even on
the point of rushing back into the flames, when a

friendly hand restrained me. I know not who,
but some one called me by name, and told me that
my daughter was in safety at the house we have
just left. I hastened thither, and found you insensible,
tenderly supported by this gentleman,
who has risked his own life to preserve yours.
Had I a thousand lives, sir, they should all be devoted
to the preserver of my child. How shall
we express our gratitude?

Officer. You pain me, sir, by this language.
I am richly rewarded by the consciousness of having
preserved this lady. Do not lessen my happiness
by talking of gratitude.

Here he again pressed the hand of Catharine,
and added in a whisper—“I will not object to
your thanking me, for then I shall again hear that
angelic voice.” Catharine, however, was silent,
withdrew her hand, and sighed deeply. In the
next moment she burst into tears, and exclaimed
aloud, “O, why was I preserved!”

“Be composed, my child,” said Fleming, pressing
her to his bosom; “the dreadful scene of this
evening has affected you too deeply. Permit
Mrs. Crosby (the lady of the house) to conduct
you to your chamber. Repose will, I hope, restore
both your health and recollection.”

Catharine complied in silence, and was consigned
to the care of a faithful nurse; while Mrs.
Crosby returned with cordials, balsams, and plasters,
for the wounds of her father, which now began
to pain him extremely. The officer rose to
take his leave.

“We must see you again, when more composed,”
said Fleming, “in order to thank you as
we ought. In the mean time, oblige us with your
name.”

The stranger hesitated a moment, and then answered—“Thomas
Sandford. I must now tear
myself away to assist other sufferers in this dreadful
disaster, but will most certainly see you again.”

Major Willoughby and his son were prevented
by an accident from following Fleming immediately
to the house to which his daughter had
been conducted—accompany him they could not,
for his speed outstript the wind. George, however,
was there in a few minutes after their departure,
but no Catharine was to be seen, nor could he,
from all his inquiries, find any one that might
assist him in the search. His father had left her
in the care of an officer, but who he was, or
whither he was gone, he was totally ignorant.
Trusting, however, that both daughter and father
were in safety, he hoped to discover their lodgings
on the following morning, and therefore retired
to his own, to snatch a little necessary repose.