Fire (22 page)

‘Is he returned?'

‘You think he would miss this? He knew this date as well as we, remember.' He smiled. ‘Do you go and hang a blanket in the Bell Inn's window. He will know by that to come to our meeting house hard by All Hallows the More, where all saints will rally.'

Even in the little time they'd stood on the docks, everything
had intensified: the smoke, the heat, the lamentations. Daniel coughed. ‘Master,' he said, ‘I am confused. Did not the prophecies foretell that September the
third
was the day of judgment? Today is the second.'

Simeon stared at him for a long moment – then burst out laughing. ‘You think that the Almighty is bound…by a day? That all the prophets – Master Lilly, Anna Trapnel, Mother Shipton – are so scrupulous they could not err by so few hours?' He stepped closer, laughter gone, his eyes dancing with reflected light as he looked up once more. ‘This fire is but the forerunner, as the baptiser John was to Christ. This is the first spark, merely. By tomorrow there may be something even greater: the death of kings. So let us be about it.' As he strode away, pushing through the panicked crowd, he yelled, ‘Fuel, guns and powder. And Captain Blood.'

St Mary-le-Bow churchyard. Noon.

Clamping his hat to his skull so he did not lose it to the still-raging wind, Pitman surveyed what the church vaults had disgorged. He was not pleased.

This comes of taking the position of headborough without a proper handover, he thought. What annoyed him most was that it was at least partly his own fault. He had been in the post mere weeks when he'd been hurt by that devilish Irishman. And when he'd recovered enough from that, so much other parish business had built up to be dealt with that some things had been neglected. St Mary-le-Bow's arsenal for fire-fighting was one of them.

Such as there was, his men had spread out on the paths of the churchyard. Only two fire poles: one twenty feet, one thirty feet in length, with iron hooks at their ends, and ropes down the side for the pulling down of houses in a fire's path – if the houses had rings in their end beams to hook onto, which was not always the case. There were a mere dozen leathern buckets, and they would not make a very long chain from well to flame. They were better served with axes and ladders, having a dozen of the one, two-threes of the other. But the two brass fire squirts that men would fill with water and shoot over the flames looked as if they had survived from the first James's reign, and had been a habitation for mice ever since. He'd ordered them cleaned out but…

He sighed. He'd hoped to take half of his equipment to go and aid in the fight on the river. Now he thought he'd better take only himself and the half dozen constables he'd managed to rouse from slumber or chapel. ‘Bring a bucket and an axe apiece, lads,' he commanded, ‘and follow me.'

As he grabbed one of each, his hat, unencumbered, flew from his head and out of the churchyard. He did not give chase but went the opposite way. He was aware of the grumbling behind him, but the whistling of the wind drowned the words – though he knew what they'd be saying. That it was some distant parish's problem, at least a quarter of a mile away. That it was only old Coldharbour liberty that burned – so they'd been dragged from church to save the homes of some of the city's greatest sinners. All on their day off too.

He did not feel that way. It is my fellow citizens suffering, howsoever fallen, he thought, as he led his men down Bow Row and onto the Watling Street, my fellow Christians. Charity must
be offered, as Jesus taught. He had special reason to give thanks with good works on this, the Lord's day. He had a new son, swaddled up with his mother back at home. Cooing, his mother said, not crying.

It was when he stood at the crossroads with Walbrook and could see along Cannon Street that his smile vanished. The lane was a chaos of carts being pushed by hand and dragged along by horses, with men and women burdened like pack beasts. Smoke was gushing out of the lanes running up from the south, as if each were a chimney funnelling a most ferocious hearth. As he led his men into the mayhem, more and more people kept stumbling from each one, clutching each other and their few meagre possessions. ‘You there,' he called to a man newly emerged, who was slapping the back of a woman sitting on the ground, ‘where's the fire reached?'

The man coughed, spat and drew breath. ‘It's burned through the liberty,' he wheezed. ‘Fishmongers' Hall, Dyers' Hall, both gone.' Over the astonished cries of some of the constables, he continued, ‘Some men are trying to stop it at Thames Street.' He doubled over, hacking again, then looked up blearily. ‘Not many. Most are just running.'

‘Why did you not go upon the water, fellow?' asked another constable.

‘Take me for a fool? Or a money-bags?' The man emptied his nostrils to the side. ‘Bastard boatmen are charging a pound a trip now. But they won't have business for long cos the wharves are all ablaze too.' He helped the woman up from the cobbles and they staggered off.

‘Onwards,' said Pitman. If Thames Street is breached, he thought, this is a riverside fire no more.

Through the smoke ahead he saw men a-saddle. Striding closer, weaving between carts and drays, he recognised one of them. He'd seen him earlier that morning. Pitman thought of asking him now if he still believed a woman could piss this fire out. However, the Lord Mayor did not look like a man who would find the question amusing.

‘I
have
been pulling down houses, sir. When I can,' Bludworth said, his voice shrill. ‘But, God preserve me, people will not obey me, and householders threaten me – with law suits, with violence.' He dabbed the sweat on his brow with a large handkerchief. ‘What more would the king have me do?'

He was addressing these words to a man standing by his horse's bridle, a small, neat fellow who looked to be in his early thirties. He had a sharp way to him, as if he noted things others didn't – much as I do, Pitman thought. He certainly was losing his patience. ‘He would have you fight the fire, sir,' the man replied, pointedly, ‘and he offers you more soldiers to aid in the task.'

‘Ah, no! No, Mr Pepys.' Bludworth raised his voice. ‘You know that the city is most mindful of its prerogatives. And the King's Guards within the Mile? It speaks to them of tyranny.'

‘Tyranny, sir?' Pepys' voice was as sharp but far calmer. ‘The only tyrant this day is the fire.'

‘Indeed, indeed!' The mayor wiped his face again. ‘And I thank the king. But the numbers he has sent so far will suffice. Why, as soon as this deuced wind drops –' He broke off. ‘We will have it under control, have no fear, sir. Reassure His Majesty that I will tend to it in person just as soon,' he swayed in his saddle, ‘as soon as I have had a little rest.' His voice rose in complaint. ‘They woke me at three in the morning, damn it.'

With that, Bludworth flicked his reins and rode off, the other two horsemen following.

‘Bloody fool,' said Pepys, not softly.

‘He is indeed, sir,' said Pitman.

The fellow turned, without much of a start. ‘Ha! I know you. It's, uh, Mr Pitman, is it not? I've seen you in the company of the Duke of York.'

‘I've had the honour to do him some service, yes.'

‘Some?' The serious face was transformed by a boyish smile. ‘Didn't you save his life? From those damned Fifth Monarchists, eh?'

Pitman shrugged. ‘Will you be returning to the Palace, sir?'

‘I will. The royal brothers asked for immediate report.'

‘My suggestion is to bypass Bully Bludworth. More soldiers are essential and bugger the city's prerogatives. And I say that as an old Parliament man myself.'

‘I will take the message once I have checked on my home.' Pepys extended his hand. ‘They said you were a singular fellow, Mr Pitman. And they were right.'

Pitman engulfed the other's small hand in his huge one. ‘That's Pitman to you, sir. Pitman to all, as His Royal Highness will vouch to you.'

‘Where do you make for now, uh, Pitman?'

‘Thames Street. I have some experience of this kind of fight, sir. If we can tear down many houses afore it, as the mayor should be doing, we may deprive the beast of what it would devour, and curb its appetite. Good luck to you.'

With a shake, he turned and walked down St Laurence Pountney Lane, his constables following. Soon he halted before
the church, craning his neck to peer up. In addition to the hill, St Laurence Pountney had one of the tallest steeples in London, and so was visible from all around. Perhaps that was why so many constables had gathered there. He recognised James Morrow, headborough of his old parish of St Leonard's, and was crossing to speak with him when sudden movement drew his eye.

Pigeons were fleeing their roosts on the waterfront. One he noticed was flying most strangely, taking little lurches through the air, flapping hard. Then suddenly it simply ceased flying and plummeted down. If he had not stepped back, it would have crashed onto his head.

Puzzled, he bent down to look – and saw what had killed the bird, beyond the fall. Both its wings and its tail feathers were singed. ‘Poor thing,' he muttered, ‘did you not think to leave your nest before it burned?'

A cry came. ‘The steeple! St Laurence is fired.'

He looked up. One of the tallest towers in London was ablaze. Which was odd, as the fire itself was still three hundred yards away.

He looked again at the pigeon, its feathers still smouldering. Then that same voice who'd screamed out – not ‘on fire', Pitman realised now, but ‘fired' – shouted again. ‘It's the Dutch! The French! They're trying to burn our city down.'

They were wrong. The evidence was at his feet. He tried to bend to pick up the bird but was jostled aside in the rush. When he saw it again, the pigeon had been trampled and men were running in every direction. Several were calling, ‘The Dutch! The Dutch are come! To arms! To arms!'

Pitman pushed his way to his old headborough. ‘Ah, Pitman,'
the man cried, ‘an old soldier like you, unarmed? Go fetch your musket.'

‘Mr Morrow, I need no musket to fight a fire.'

‘But you do to kill Dutchmen. Or Frenchmen. Or Papists, begod. They say this fire is an unholy alliance of all three. Does this church's firing not prove that there are incendiaries ahead of their forces?'

He looked up, so Pitman did too. The church tower was now strongly ablaze, flames streaming from it and forming a second red-yellow steeple. Both men stepped back hastily, as something liquid fell, splashing onto the ground where they'd been standing. Pitman saw an oily, shiny reflection of fire on the cobbles. Christ preserve us, he thought, the lead's melting.

He took Morrow's arm. ‘Hear me. The fire began in a bakery. And it's spreading by flying embers. Or pigeons. I found one burning –'

‘Pigeons? The dastards have trained pigeons to burn for them?' Morrow cried.

‘You misunderstand –'

But the man would listen no more. ‘The devilish Dutch are upon us!' he bellowed. ‘They seek revenge for our burning of Brandaris a fortnight past. Back to the parish. Each man to his musket!' He broke Pitman's grip and led his troop away. Indeed, all the constables gathered there were running off, apart from his own, less terrified perhaps of the flames than of their leader's temper.

Householders near the now-fiercely burning church – melting lead must have carried flames down into the body of the building for they were now issuing from the windows – were out upon the street, gazing up in terror. But for every man or woman who seized
a bucket and fire-pole, five more ran for their own homes, flung their doors wide, and began to throw valuables out onto the street.

For a moment, as lead continued to drip near him and people ran, shouting all about, Pitman was uncertain where to go. To his own parish where his family was, nursing the newcomer? It was tempting. ‘Steady, Pitman,' he said to himself. His home was beyond the reach of any fire – as long as it was stopped. He'd helped fight one in '55 in Threadneedle Street. People had cried then that it could destroy the whole city, but they'd put it out at the cost of thirty houses. Men had rallied then and would be rallying today, and he knew where, for the man who'd stumbled from the lane had told him.

‘Follow me, lads,' he said, striding off. ‘We'll stop this bastard at Thames Street.'

As they set off, another huge gust of wind rattled the eaves around him, dislodging tiles that smashed onto the cobbles. Even with his great size he felt as if a ghostly hand was in his back, pushing him along. I'd not be on a deck for the Crown Jewels this day, he thought. Alas, poor William. Rather you than me.

Greenwich. 3rd September, 3 a.m.

They left their horses, exhausted from the all-night ride, in the post-house and to the grumbling care of a stable boy roused for the purpose.

‘This glow,' said Captain Coke, as the lad took the bridles and prepared to lead the hired nags away, ‘we've seen it for the last ten miles. What means it?'

The boy stopped, yawned widely. ‘Where've you been?' he paused, looked at the horses. ‘Oh, Carabine's mounts. Sittingbourne, eh?' He ran a hand down the chestnut's foamy flank. ‘Did you not rest along the way? These uns ‘ull not be fit for ‘ire for many a day, you drove 'em so 'ard.'

Coke took a breath and kept his temper. He was near as tired as his mount, he'd vouch for that. At his side, Dickon had already lain down upon some alluring hay. And they'd come a lot further than Sittingbourne. They'd only changed horses there. ‘The glow, boy. What is it?'

The stable hand yawned again, as he led the horses into a barn. ‘It's a fire in London,' he called over his shoulder. ‘All the docks are ablaze, or so they say.'

Coke looked down at Dickon in the hay and had to resist the near overpowering urge to join his ward. They'd had maybe two hours' sleep on the entire ride from Dover, though he'd held Dickon in his saddle while the lad dozed. Twice he'd woken with his mount's nose in a hedge, chewing. But he could not stop now. Not when they were so close.