The man staggered off. Jonathan watched him go and reflected on what he had said. His position as a constable obliged him to reprimand the fellow but he had considerable sympathy with the view expressed. England was ruled once more by a Stuart king. A monarchy which Jonathan had been pleased to see ended was now emphatically restored. As a result, London was indeed a wicked city and nobody was better placed to see the extent of its depravity than someone who patrolled the streets in the office of constable. Jonathan was a God- fearing man who always sought guidance from above and he was bound to wonder if the conflagration really was a sign of divine anger. There were Biblical precedents of cities being punished for their corruption.
The problem was that the innocent would suffer along with the guilty. Jonathan thought about his wife and children, still asleep, quite unaware that their blameless lives might be under threat. Their safety came first. He had to get back to them. The fire now raged totally out of control and buildings were crashing to the ground all around him. Smoke stung his eyes and caught in his throat. Scorching heat pushed him back like a giant hand.
Chaos reached a new pitch and he was heavily jostled in the ensuing tumult. Brushing some sparks from the sleeve of his coat, Jonathan pushed his way through the seething mass of bodies and trotted back down Thames Street in a futile attempt to outrun disaster.
Chapter Two
Christopher Redmayne could not believe what he saw. On the journey from Oxford, they encountered a number of people who had fled from London but their tales of woe smacked too much of wild exaggeration to be taken seriously. The evidence of their own eyes robbed Christopher and his companions of their scepticism. They were still miles away when they caught their first glimpse of the rising smoke which sullied the clear blue sky and hung over the city like a pall. The travellers reined in their horses to stare open-mouthed at the phenomenon ahead of them. It was truly incredible. London was destroyed. The most vibrant city in Europe had been burned to the ground.
As they considered the dreadful implications, everyone was struck dumb. It was minutes before an anguished voice shattered the silence.
'Dear God!' exclaimed Christopher. 'How did this happen?'
He had joined the others for security on the journey but he now spurned all thoughts of safety. Kicking his horse into life, he rode off at a steady canter to cover the remaining distance alone. Anxieties crowded in on him. What of his own house? Had that perished in the blaze? Were his possessions burned to a cinder? His precious drawings lost? Was Jacob, his servant, still alive? Did the fire reach his brother's house? Where
How much of his London survived?
As he rode towards the smoking ruin, his mind was also ablaze.
The consequences of the Great Fire were soon all too apparent. Desultory groups of refugees trudged past him to uncertain destinations. The outer reaches of the city seemed to have been colonised by gipsies for there was hardly a spare patch of land which did not have its tents or its makeshift huts. Some families had no shelter whatsoever and simply sat by the roadside amid their vestigial belongings. Fires had been lit to cook food. Water was drawn from every stream or pond. A sense of fatigue pervaded the whole scene. Less than a week earlier, these same people all had homes, occupations and the promise of a future. Now they were nomads, exiled citizens of a capital which no longer existed.
When he reached St Giles's Fields, he saw what looked like the population of a small town, huddled together in sheer bewilderment, torn between protest and resignation, trying to make sense of a tragedy which had struck them so unexpectedly and wondering how they could fend for themselves without a place of work. Clergy moved assiduously among them but their words of comfort went largely unheard by people who were trapped in their private griefs. A thousand different stories of pain and suffering were scattered across the grass. Christopher was deeply moved by the sight of so much undeserved sorrow.
His attention turned to the city itself and he shuddered. Buildings, spires and pinnacles which usually rose above the walls to delight his eye were now wreathed in smoke and all he could make out of the dominating majesty of St Paul's Cathedral was the empty shell of its tower. Christopher tore his gaze away from the devastation and goaded a last burst of speed from his mount as he went along High Holborn. He steeled himself in readiness. It was more than possible that he, too, had been dispossessed. Holborn itself seemed largely undamaged but he could not answer for Fetter Lane until he swung into it. The scene which met him caused Christopher to bring his horse to a sharp halt.
He gaped in dismay. The left hand side of the lane had been gutted by fire at the far end and smoke still curled from the debris. Several of his neighbours were now homeless. Sympathy welled up in him but it was tempered with relief that his own house had somehow escaped. Situated near the Holborn end of the lane, it was marginally outside the circle of damnation. He offered up a silent prayer of thanks then nudged his horse forward.
Christopher was soon admitted to his home by his servant.
'Bless you, sir!' said Jacob, eyes watering with pleasure. 'You've come back at last. I am so glad to see you.'
'And I am so grateful to see you, Jacob.'
'We were spared, sir. God, in His benevolence, took pity on us.'
'I have not observed much sign of benevolence out there,' said Christopher, stepping into the house and closing the door behind him. 'Nor much indication of pity. Every step of the way was lined with poor wretches who have lost the roof over their heads.'
'Sad times!' sighed the old man. 'Sad and sorry times!'
'Tell me all.'
Christopher led the way into the parlour and cast a glance around it to reassure himself that it was completely intact. Only when he saw that his portfolio of drawings was unharmed did he begin to relax. He doffed his hat and turned back to face Jacob. The old man was much more than a servant to him. Honest, reliable and eternally willing, Jacob was a rock in the shifting sands of his master's career and Christopher had developed such an affection for him that he even endured his flights of garrulity without complaint. At a full six feet, he towered over the podgy little servant and had a perfect view of his bald pate. Jacob peered up at him from beneath bushy eyebrows.
'It has been a nightmare, sir,' he said.
'When did the fire start?' asked Christopher.
'Early on Sunday morning.'
'And how long did it rage?'
'Four days.' Jacob sucked in air through his few remaining teeth. 'Four long, terrible days. It would still be burning now if the wind had not dropped on Wednesday. Rain fell and slowed the blaze down. They were able to fight it properly for the first time. Rows of houses were blown up with dynamite to make fire breaks. That stopped it spreading.' He jabbed a gnarled finger towards the window. 'Yet here we are on Saturday and the city is still smoking. They say it will be weeks before the last embers are put out. All is lost, sir.'
'All?'
'St Paul's is gone and over eighty churches with it. There is talk of at least ten thousand houses brought down, probably many more. They are still counting them. The Guildhall went up in flames, so did the Royal Exchange and I doubt if there is a livery hall still standing.'
'What of the Tower?'
'That survived - thank Heaven! It had the wind at its back and the fire never reached it though much of Tower Street Ward was afflicted. It has been an ordeal for all of us, sir,' said Jacob with a sudden shiver. 'I feared mightily for the safety of this very house for the blaze was moving west with a vengeance on Tuesday. A fire post was set up at the bottom of Fetter Lane but our parish constables with a hundred men and thirty foot-soldiers to help them could not stop some of the houses being burned down.'
'So I saw.'
