THE MAN-IS THE TOWER

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1509, 31 January 1901, Page 66

THE MAN-IS THE TOWER

guardian of a sleeping city. /. .-■A-. . '

A TWENTY-THREE YEARS’ VIGIL

Not many people in Wellington know that the same pair of keen blue eyes laave ■ watched over the sleeping city from- the vantage of the Fire Brigade watchtower night after night, with few intermissions, for the last three and twenty years. Such, however, is the ease. Old Peter Johnson, now in Ins 7 6th year—six years younger than our gracious sovereign, whose coronation he well remembers —is that man. He has been night-watchman in the lonely tower over the .Manners street fire station for well-nigh a quarter of a century. As he told a- “Mail” reporter last Tuesday they hardy men in the old days when he arrived in Wellington m the late fifties. Hale and hearty lie 'certainly looks to-day in spite of his years and white hair, and tough as .the timbers of the old, “Wild Duck in which ship he was boatswain, and made six voyages between Wellington and London, under the late Captain Bishop. Captain Babot, of this city, by the way, was the mate of that same ship. The ex-bo’sun, after sailing many eeas; being in the China waters in 1840, during the first China w 7 ar, and tasting life in the old piratical days in the Indian Ocean, brought out his good wife from the Old Country and made a home for himself in the neighbourhood -when Cuba street still boasted an open creek. Twenty-six years ago he had his thigh and ribs crushed in the hold of the ship Alcina. It was a had job for the old man, who had a family of thirteen, but his friends managed later to get him his present billet. So for twenty-three years he has climbed up the winding stairs to his little box (7ft by 6ft) in the tower, 65ft from the ground, punctually at 10 o’clock at night, and maintained his lonely vigil until six o’clock on the following morning. As soon as the brighteyed old fellow detects a blaze, and liis instinct, even at the first faint indication is almost infallible, he gives a few “tingles” on the big bell. , Then he touches three buttons in the alarm apparatus, warning the men of the Central Station, and at Brandon street and Newtown. After that he rings the familiar peals which so often cause the slumbering citizen to leap out of bed towards a window with the exclamation. “Where’s the fire?” From his airy perch all Wellington—- north, south, east and west —lies exposed to his searching glance. . , , „ What yarns he can spin about fares in former days! He is particularly strong on the subject of incendiaries. He has cause to remember some hreraisers who set Wellington by the ears in years gone by. One got a lire sentence; another seven years. These gentry started three fires in one mgnt. That was in Captain Page’s time. He is keen to remember also the destruction of the Opera House and later of the Royal Oak Hotel, both “hot fires” as he. put it. Old Peter Johnson has never failed in his duty. No man has ever an ill word to say of him. He is not ; done by any means. He feels - good for years, of duty yet. But the J Old - order-.ebangeth ; .. fire alarms are to

take the place of firebells, and Peter is to be put on the shelf. His friends are interesting themselves to secure him a competency. His comrades of the brigade and the Fire Underwriters’ Association have up handsomely,” and others are invited to assist. Now is the opportunity for a display of gratitude from the sleepy multitude ever whom Peter has kept watch and ward for years and years. It is a subscription list as wortliy of contribution to as any that was ever circulated m the city.