The seven thousand dockyard men of course were keeping holiday. Many of the high officials were away on leave, and those few guardians of the yard who were supposed to be keeping watch and ward regarded their duty as perfunctory. What was likely to happen there, or anywhere, on Christmas Day? Perhaps some of those intelligent foreigners who had been permitted to inspect the yard from time to time--intelligent emulators of Jack the Painter--could have answered the question. By-and-by, of course there would be a most strict and searching Government inquiry--expert evidence, red tape, blue-books, and all the rest of it. Meanwhile, the great fire burned on--freely and furiously. Soon after the alarm was given the seamen from the Whale Island Barracks, and many from the ships in harbour, with a strong force of marines from Forton, came pouring into the dockyard, but only to make a terrible discovery. Of what avail a thousand willing hands--of what use all the activity and resource of British seamen, when the one element with which the fire could be fought and conquered was not available? The water supply had failed! At first, and, indeed, for some time, the real reason was not understood, for the pumping station of the Havant water-works was eight miles away. Then the appalling truth was realised--the explosions explained; the great engines, those in use and those in reserve, had been shattered by dynamite in the darkness of the previous night. The Royal dockyard was left to the mercy of the flames. All day, and all the night that followed, they raged and roared. Red ruin and destruction--almost without restraint--spread on every side. The Portsmouth Hard was packed with horrified spectators. The townspeople in excited throngs ran to all the dockyard gates, and in the poorer districts surrounding the great wall enclosing the extension works, every roof was loaded with awe-stricken watchers of the conflagration. The church steeples of the town stood out to view in blended clouds and smoke, illumined with a fiery glow; the gilded ship on the tower of Portsmouth parish church seemed to be sailing in a sea of fire. Disaster followed on the heels of horror. In the midst of the great calamity a rending explosion took place in the vast powder magazine at Priddy’s Hard,--on the Gosport side.