Claire Thornton - The Vagabond Duchess

Half an hour later he wandered down to the coffee room. The serving boy had finished sweeping the floor and was scattering fresh sawdust over the boards.

‘Morning, Tom,’ said Jack.

‘Sir!’ The boy set aside his pail of sawdust at once. ‘There’s rumours of a fire in the City!’

‘A fire? Where’s your master?’

‘He went out to hear more. Three hundred houses burned already, so one fellow told me,’ Tom said, following close behind as Jack went to the door.

The coffee house was located in Covent Garden, well away from the heart of the City, but when Jack went outside he saw the street was unusually busy for an early Sunday morning.

‘It’s down by London Bridge,’ said Tom at his elbow. ‘They’re saying the Dutch started it. Do you think they did? I know you’ll want to see for yourself. I’ll come with you—to…to summon the lighter if you want to go by water.’

‘What about your duties here?’ Jack asked, looking at the half-finished floor.

‘Oh, Mr Bundle just wanted me to be here to wait on you,’ Tom replied. ‘Now you’re up I can wait on you wherever you like. And I’m sure you’d like to see the fire.’

Jack laughed at the boy’s opportunism. ‘Fetch me some bread and cheese, then. I can eat while we walk, but I’m not going fire-chasing on an empty stomach.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Tom tore off to the kitchen.

Jack frowned thoughtfully, then went to get his sword. He didn’t put much credence in rumours—at the end of a hot summer fires were a predictable hazard in the crowded timber buildings of the City—but he made it a habit to be prepared for the worst. If the Dutch were about to launch an attack on London, he’d not go to meet them unarmed.

‘Even the pigeons are burning.’ Tom sounded close to tears.

‘Yes.’ As Jack watched he saw a pigeon hover too close to its familiar perch. A sudden gout of fire singed its wings and it tumbled down through the smoke-filled air.

‘Why didn’t it just fly away?’ Tom said.

‘I don’t know. Most of them are.’ Jack offered the small comfort without taking his eyes off the horrific scenes all around them.

They were in a lighter on the Thames. All around them the river was full of lighters and wherries loaded with household goods, but some people were as reluctant to leave their homes as the pigeons. Jack saw a man shouting from a window only yards from where a house was already being consumed by the leaping flames. Other people clambered about on the waterside stairs. Even from a distance Jack had the impression they were scrambling from place to place without clear purpose, too confused and shocked to know what they should do.

Some people trembled in silent fear and others shouted and cursed. The roar of the fire made it impossible to distinguish one cry from another. In this area of London the wooden houses were packed tightly together and the narrow alleys made it impossible to get close enough to the fire to fight it. There were timber warehouses near the river, some of which were thatched, and many of which were filled with dangerously combustible goods: pitch, oil, wine, coal and timber. The fire had taken a strong hold, and it burned hot and savage. To make matters worse, a strong easterly wind was driving the flames relentlessly into the City.

The houses on the northern end of London Bridge were also ablaze. Only a break in the buildings caused by a fire over thirty years earlier saved the whole bridge from destruction. The gale blew hard across the flames, sweeping a searing rain of fire droplets over the boats below. The waterman Jack had hired cursed and manoeuvred the boat closer to the south bank. Smoke swirled around them in choking clouds.

Jack covered his mouth and nose with his handkerchief. He heard Tom coughing beside him. The surface of the river was full of objects that had fallen from the overladen boats. A chair smashed against the side of the lighter. Jack pushed it away, then looked up. Above him smoke coiled around the rotting heads of traitors displayed over Bridge Gate. The dead features were hideously illuminated by sulphur bright flames.

‘’Tis hell on earth!’ Tom gasped. ‘It was prophesied. ’Tis the year of the number of the beast.’

‘Sixteen sixty-six,’ Jack murmured. ‘Six, six, six.’ He was aware that many almanac writers had predicted the year would be significant. But until he had evidence to prove otherwise, he would continue to assume the fire had been caused by human actions—either accidental or deliberate.

‘I’ve seen enough here,’ he said to the waterman. ‘Take us back upriver.’

The streets were in chaos. Temperance found her way blocked over and over again by people, carts and horses. A man in front of her, carrying a huge load on his back, tripped and sprawled headlong. One of his packs broke open as it hit the ground. Bits of broken pottery, spoons and a couple of iron pans rattled on to the cobbles. Before Temperance could offer to help, he pushed himself upright and collected the unbroken utensils, cursing continuously. All around people shouted and pushed and got in each other’s way—but there were others who wandered or stood aimlessly, clutching their hands and doing nothing of use at all.

The wind plastered Temperance’s skirts against her legs and whipped her hair across her eyes. The smell of smoke pervaded everything. The fire was still far away from Cheapside, but it was devouring everything in its path. Temperance pushed her way through the crowds until she was close enough to see the fire leaping and roaring towards her. Even at this distance the heat was intense and the noise deafening. She was so shocked she stared into the horrible, mesmerising flames for several seconds, her thoughts emptied of everything except blank horror.

She gasped and shook herself back into a more practical state of mind, but she understood better now why some people did nothing but huddle close to their threatened homes and wring their hands. The fire was a hideous monster, beyond the scale of everyday human imagining. How could anyone hope to defeat it or even comprehend it?

She headed back to Cheapside. She was nearly home when she heard a shrill shout cut across the confused babble around her.

‘It was him! He’s one of the devils who started it!’ The accusatory voice was so filled with panic and rage Temperance didn’t immediately recognise it.

‘I saw him here yesterday. With my own ears I heard him call on the devil! He’s not English. He hates England!’

Temperance suddenly realised it was her neighbour, Agnes Cruikshank. For an instant she didn’t understand, then she remembered Jack Bow’s exasperation at her comments on his hair.

‘He’s a papist French devil!’ Agnes shrieked. ‘He wants us all to burn in our beds. I saw him throwing fireballs…’

Horror gave Temperance added strength as she forced her way through the increasingly hostile crowd. She broke through a gap to see Jack surrounded by angry, suspicious men and women. The threat of violence crackled in the air. Her neighbours—quiet, reasonable people she’d known all her life—were on the brink of turning into a lynch mob.

T emperance flung herself forward, almost throwing herself into Jack’s arms in her urgency to reach him before anyone else. He reacted to her presence faster than any of his accusers. She saw the flash of recognition in his eyes, then he caught her shoulders and steadied her. She pulled out of his grasp and spun to face her neighbours, holding out her arms to either side to create a barrier between them and Jack.

‘He’s not French! He’s English!’ she shouted. ‘His great-grandfather was a grocer! Here, in the City. You’re an idle gossip, Agnes Cruikshank. But it’s evil to accuse an innocent man of such a sinful crime… What?’ she demanded over her shoulder at Jack. ‘Why do you keep pushing me?’