Six Fan Fics - 5. Mine Eyes Have Seen The Glory Of The Burning Of The School

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the burning of the school

We have tortured every teacher, we have broken every rule

We have shot the secretary, crucified the principal

Us kids go marching on!

Glory, Glory, Hallelujah

Teacher hit me with a ruler

Jesus died to make men holy

Teacher died to make us free

(one of many versions of the first verse and chorus to this well known song)

It had been a day like any other for Jeremy Thompson, the town’s twenty nine year old schoolmaster. He had taught his class maths and biology in the morning (as he did every Monday morning), and English and history in the afternoon (as he did every Monday afternoon). They then spent the final hour of the day looking at recent events, such as the news updates on the Japanese invasion of Manchuria, the opening of the Empire State Building in New York City, and a review of Herbert Clark Hoover’s first couple of years in the White House.

Mr Thompson was a harsh disciplinarian, who was hated and loathed by every child who attended the one room school in that rural Pennsylvania town. He was not afraid to use a ruler or a piece of birch to dole out six of the best to any misbehaving child; he was also not afraid to dole out seven, eight or even nine of the best if he felt the miscreant deserved it. Today, three such malefactors had been on the receiving end of Mr Thompson’s right arm getting some exercise.

Every parent in town was perfectly aware of his approach to discipline, and they supported him fully; “spare the rod and spoil the child” was practically the town’s official motto. However, what no parent in town knew was just how the children who lived under such tyranny felt; and just how far towards the edge they had been pushed. The children had had enough of being beaten, and they had decided that enough was enough; the time for action was here.

Mr. Thompson had finally finished cleaning the schoolroom. He had diligently refilled all of the inkwells, he had disposed of several quills that he believed could no longer be sharpened and he had just finished sweeping the floor.

He was contractually obliged to live in the rooms attached to the school; the idea was that he would be able to keep an eye on the school, ensure that it was kept warm in the winter months and that he would be on hand for his students. In fact, the obligation quite suited Jeremy Thompson; he was, after all, a lifelong bachelor with no family to speak of, and he did not need to pay any rent for the use of the property. As long he remained gainfully employed by the town as schoolmaster, he would have a roof over his head. He therefore had no issues with tidying the schoolroom before retiring for the evening; that way, he would not need to start his day any earlier than he already did.

However, Jeremy Thompson had a dark secret that would mean his instant dismissal if it were ever exposed; he was a drunkard. He was not a mean drunkard, just a drunkard; but school policy was school policy. Quite how he managed to function during the day, and keep his secret, was anybody’s guess; but now that school was closed for the day, he reached into his bottom drawer and pulled out a large half-empty bottle of whisky and a glass. He emptied out the wash basin, turned down the gas lights and locked the front door of the school. The school, and the teacherage come to think of it, had neither electricity nor running water; in spite of numerous promises from the town council.

It was a cold night and he had decided to keep the gas stove burning to provide himself with some much needed warmth. By the time it reached nine o’clock, Mr Thompson had managed to drink himself into a very advanced state of inebriation, and owing to the overpowering warmth being generated by the gas stove that had been left on, he passed out. If he had not been so drunk, then what happened next would most likely have happened very differently.

The three eldest boys from school, coincidentally the same three who had been beaten that morning, met up about fifty yards from the school building, and each was carrying a selection of their fathers’ work tools. They had hammers, chisels, screwdrivers, a couple of awls, and they even had some creosote and wood varnish; let it never be said that they were not prepared for the evening’s festivities. They planned to break into the school building and vent a few of their frustrations on it; they even planned to extend their retribution to Mr Thompson’s home as well should they get the chance.

They arrived at the school, and finding all of the lights on low, knew that meant that Mr Thompson must have retired for the evening. It was common practice for him not to extinguish the gas lights completely, so that he could see when he entered the building in the morning; even more so at this time of the year, given that the sun often didn’t rise until after the school day had started.

The three boys set their tools down in front of the school building, and they crept around to the teacherage with the two rooms that comprised Mr Thompson’s accommodation. Finding the building in complete darkness, they assumed he had already gone to bed. They felt it was hardly surprising; they had been in school since seven o’clock this morning, it was common knowledge that Mr Thompson was usually up before cock crow.

Finding the school and the teacher’s accommodation in darkness, the three boys prepared to make their entry into the school and have themselves a little fun. Their hearts pounded and they tasted copper as adrenaline flooded their bodies.

They were constantly on the lookout just in case someone saw them; but there was nobody around in this part of the town tonight. Just as they were about to force the main door open, there was a loud explosion and flames burst forth through every single window and blew the door off of its hinges; the concussive force of the explosion knocked the three boys to the ground and they were momentarily startled. Once they had regained control of their senses, they realised what had happened and that they needed to wake up their teacher and alert him.

They ran around to the side door of the teacherage, and started pounding on the door. After several minutes passed by with absolutely no indication that their teacher had heard them, they assumed he must be sound asleep. The oldest of the three, Marcus, decided to break in, in order that they could rouse their slumbering teacher. If it had not been for the seriousness of the fire, Marcus would have relished the opportunity to break into Mr Thompson’s home and potentially cause utter carnage.

After smashing the door in, and quickly searching the two rooms, he realised that their teacher was not home; something that was simply not done. He was allowed to take one evening a fortnight for himself, and he had been away only last week. The boys couldn’t bring themselves to believe that Mr Thompson would be guilty of violating one of the cardinal rules of his contract with the town council, and sincerely hoped that he was not inside the main school building; but of course, where else could he be?

Marcus elected to break into the school and search it for their teacher. He sent Matthew to run and alert the fire department; Matthew was the youngest of the three, but he was also far and away the quickest runner. Matthew was surprisingly clever enough to think to gather up the little party favours that they had brought down with them and secrete them in the forest, before he ran back towards town as fast as he could.

Marcus and Timothy ran into the school building without a single thought for their own safety or their own lives. If they had had the time to sit back and seriously think about what they were doing and for whom they were doing it, would they really be prepared to risk their lives for the person they hated most in all of Christendom? This writer would like to believe they would.

Marcus checked the large store cupboard and the boys and girls cloakrooms, whilst Timothy ran into the classroom. The school had already filled up with thick smoke, and the boys’ eyes were bloodshot and they had tears streaming down their faces.

“Marcus, he’s in here! I need help!”

Marcus ran into the classroom and slung one of his teacher’s arms over his shoulder while Timothy grabbed Mr Thompson’s other arm. The two boys managed to drag the limp body of their teacher out of the school, and not a moment too soon. A few seconds after they were clear, the roof collapsed in on itself.

Timothy, whose father was a doctor who had insisted on teaching his son a few basics of survival, began checking on Mr Thompson. Finding that he wasn’t breathing, Timothy began administering CPR utilising the Holger Nielsen technique he had learned from his Boy Scout guide book.

About fifteen minutes later, Matthew returned with the local fire service and Timothy’s dad, who had been apprised of the possibility of the teacher being found in the school. Timothy’s dad took over the CPR from his now nearly exhausted child, and was successful in reviving Mr Thompson, although Dr Fairfax was now aware of the same thing that his son was; Mr Thompson was drunk.

Marcus, Timothy and Matthew stood back watching as their teacher was being worked on, and couldn’t help but feel a tinge of pleasure as they watched the school burn to the ground. They hoped that this event would bring to an end the fear and brutality the town’s children had lived under.

Several weeks passed by, and the town council, at an emergency session, decided that they had no alternative but to fire Mr Thompson. He left town in disgrace and was never heard from again.

As time passed, most people forgot about what really happened that night. The people of America became more concerned with the Great Depression, the Second World War, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, the Apollo space missions, and a multitude of other events that occupied so much of the media.

By the time the twenty-first century arrived, the burning down of the one room school in that small Pennsylvania town of Shrewsbury had long since passed into folklore. The details of that night had become so twisted and contorted with the passage of time that nobody could separate the truth from the fiction of that night any longer. The fire had become a source of ghostly tales to be told to entertain and terrify children on boy scout campouts and family holidays; they were told the story about the teacher who had burned to death in his school, and how his soul still wandered the Pennsylvania countryside looking for naughty children to chastise.