Paul Lawrence - Hearts of Darkness

‘Where are your buckets?’ the portly fellow bellowed into my face. ‘You may save your goods, but what about your property?’ His gaze fell to our hands, where still we wore our ropes. Then something caught his eye.

‘Stop that man!’ he yelled, pointing at a small thin fellow scuttling along Cheapside clasping something to his chest. The thin man cast a frightened gaze over his shoulder and tried to run faster, but whatever he had beneath his shirt slowed him down.

‘Stop that Frenchman!’ our protagonist shouted again, attracting the attention of all on Cheapside.

Two burly fellows pulling a wagon by hand dropped their load and spread their arms wide, attention fixed upon the poor unfortunate. His hair was straight, black and well oiled, and he wore it pulled back and tied behind his neck. He danced from foot to foot, no chance of escape. As the two big fellows jumped at him, he fell to the cobbles in a ball, knees tucked up to his chest.

The portly fellow rolled his sleeves further up his arms and marched up like a great waddling bulldog to where the little man lay cowering. ‘What does he hide in his shirt?’ He squinted.

The little fellow peered up. His face was thin and angular. A big black mole sat tucked beneath one nostril. ‘My dog,’ he exclaimed, pulling forth a small black creature with hair over its eyes. ‘It is just my dog.’ His accent indeed sounded foreign, but many foreigners lived inside London’s city walls. He clambered to his knees and sat crouched, holding up the dog with both hands like it was a sacred offering.

Dowling shoved his way to the front of the small gathering. ‘What did you think it was?’

The big ugly fellow stood feet astride, gazing down on the smaller man like he hated him with all his soul. ‘They found a Frenchman with a trunk full of fireballs out at Moorfields.’

‘You thought he carried fireballs in his shirt?’ Dowling snorted. ‘He is as frightened as the rest of us. Let him go.’

‘Frightened you say?’ The portly fellow turned to Dowling, thick black eyebrows halfway to the top of his balding head. ‘I am not frightened, nor should any of us be. We must put out this fire.’ He turned again to the little man and his dog. ‘The only ones that have

need to be frightened are those that fear being caught.’ He held up a hand high into the air, with great ceremony. One of his colleagues handed him a thick iron bar. ‘The French have started fires all over the City and are descending upon us now, an army of French and Papists, four thousand men.’

Before any could stop him he swung the bar through the air and hit the little man hard across the temple. The short fellow fell to the ground instantly, eyes closed and body limp. The little dog landed sideways upon the cobbles before righting itself. It began to bark: short, snapping yelps aimed at no one in particular. The gathering crowd stood in a silent circle watching blood pour from the small man’s head, trickling between the cobbles in a meandering stream.

‘This is revenge!’ the portly fellow snarled, clasping the iron bar tighter in his fist. ‘Holmes burnt Westerschelling and now the Dutch are trying to burn London.’

Dowling pushed him in the chest. ‘I thought you said it was the French?’ he said. ‘Dutch or French? Make up your mind.’

The portly fellow recovered his poise and took a step back towards Dowling. ‘Who are you, anyway, sir?’ he sneered. ‘Why do you wear rope?’ he nodded at Dowling’s wrists. ‘What prison have you escaped from?’

The crowd now turned to us, murmuring amongst themselves, faces unfriendly and unsmiling. All were terrified, desperate for assurance that someone might save their homes and possessions, and ready to tear to pieces whosoever it was started the blaze.

Why hadn’t we just slunk back into Gutter Lane, I asked myself? Why did we always find ourselves at the midst of every conflagration? Withypoll’s soldiers would be here soon, if they weren’t already watching at the fringes of the mob now surrounding us.

‘We were imprisoned by the Dutch,’ I called out, an unformed lie. ‘Which is why we know it was not the French.’ I waved a hand at the dead man upon the ground. ‘This man was guilty of no crime.’

Which speech did nothing to settle the atmosphere. I realised, too late, that to suggest a murder took place was to suggest all were party to it. I would have to work twice as hard.

‘We came back from Colchester yesterday.’ I held up the rope for all to see. ‘The Dutch attempted to land at Hythe but were thwarted. Their spies captured us in the Dutch Quarter, and Lord Arlington’s men rescued us. We are members of Lord Arlington’s secret service.’

The portly man didn’t know what to say. He stood with mouth open, eyes gleaming, still holding his iron bar. I did my best to look like a battle-hardened soldier, staring back, expressionless.

‘We don’t have time for this,’ said Dowling, breaking the silence. ‘Stand aside, all of you. The army will root out the perpetrators of this great fire, if perpetrators there be. Gather your possessions and leave, else stay and fight the fire.’

He shoved the portly man aside and strode with great confidence towards the Little Conduit.

‘Who speaks of Arlington?’ shouted a voice from behind. Withypoll’s voice again.

‘Fish teeth!’ I exclaimed, running fast afore any could think to stop us, diving into the crowd that thronged about the Little Conduit pumping water into buckets.

Opposite the Little Conduit stood a gate, a passageway into St Paul’s Churchyard, which swarmed busier than Cheapside. All of London carried their possessions here, it seemed, assuming like me it could never burn down.

‘God help the good people of Colchester,’ Dowling grumbled,

slowing to a walk, rope bundled in his fists in an attempt to hide it.

‘God help the good Dutch people of London,’ I retorted. ‘What should I have said? Or should I have stood there silent, like a big fish, with my mouth wide open? Like you.’

He muttered something beneath his breath and shook his big head, ruefully, eyes moist. I thought of the poor Frenchman, if Frenchman he was, lain dead upon the street. ‘I hope someone looks after his dog,’ I said.

‘The dumb ass speaking with man’s voice forbad the madness of the prophet,’ Dowling grumbled.

Did he call me a dumb ass?

No matter; we had to get to St Paul’s.

The old cathedral was in a sorry state. Already falling to pieces before the Civil War, Cromwell allowed his military to brick off the choir from the rest of the building, converting the nave into a stable for eight hundred horses. They dismantled the scaffold set up in the south transept and the vaulting collapsed. They destroyed the bishop’s throne and the choir stalls and demolished the Bishop’s Palace. The walls leant and the tower stood crooked, supported by a complicated trellis of timber.

We entered the nave through the Little North Door with a crowd of others. Huge columns towered high above our heads. Every voice sounded thin and shrill beneath the formidable, vaulted ceiling, blackened arches hanging above our heads like a terrible judgement. A steady stream of men, women and children scuttled about, carrying

their possessions into the nave from all directions, hunting for a bare patch of floor to claim for their own. A notice instructed all who passed to deposit a penny into a box for every burden fetched into the building, but the box was empty. The mercers, goldsmiths and booksellers hurried faster than everyone, bustling impatiently, fetching their stock down into St Faith’s where they might guard their wares against thieves. We stood, backs against the cold stone wall, searching for Josselin.