any power higher than chance; but how of
Napoleon, dicing for empires without end?--and how of Columbus, sailing
indomitably westward into the wheel of the sun?--how of Shan Tung,
surveying the rotting corpses of seven times seven cities of Chinamen
slain by the Tartar sword?--and how of Boston, on this February
morning, looking white-faced on its own ruin, a ruin which,
furthermore, seemed scarcely begun? Whether Fate be Fate or not,
Boston believed in it that day.

Only one thing now tended to lift the gloom from the outlook, and this
was the fact that the fire seemed to have spread as far from east to
west as it was possible for it to do. The Common on the west, and on
the east side the Fort Point Channel, held its destructive sweep
apparently safe. To be sure, there was just the possibility that where
the Common ended, the corner of Tremont and Boylston might be turned
and the flames swing west once more; but this, in view of the lower
heights of buildings and the fact that the wind had now shifted and was
blowing toward the east rather than the west of south, seemed unlikely.
Moreover, the combined departments of Charlestown, Cambridge, Lynn, and
a dozen other places were massed along Tremont Street to prevent this
very thing. It was, however, a significant commentary on the
hopelessness of the situation when men could find comfort in the
reflection that a strip of city a half mile wide was alone exposed to
the direct path of destruction.

Smith had been in the lower yards of the South Station at the time the
train shed fell; he had waited only a short time after that, working
for a hot quarter hour to save some of the cars not yet exposed to the
shed fire. The method adopted was one suggested by a lieutenant of
militia from Braintree; his plan, since no locomotives were for the
moment available, was to fix bayonets, stick them in the woodwork of
the car sides, and then, forty men pushing at once, the car would be
rolled out of danger. Dozens of passenger coaches were saved in this
way. When the bulk of the close work here was done, the New Yorker
turned westward, taking care to keep well south of the burning zone.

"How far south on Tremont has it got?" he asked a passing stranger on
Kneeland Street.

"About to the end of the Common," the man replied, without slackening
his pace.

"By Jove! the Aquitaine'll be going next," reflected Smith. "I might
as well retrieve my suitcase. It's the only one I o