Coke looked back. Dickon was engaged in a tug of war with Achilles over a banana. ‘Away, lad,’ he called.
‘Aye, aye, Cap’n.’ Surrendering the prize, Dickon skipped from the cabin.
‘I warrant that he will spend most of his time aloft, and sleep beneath my hammock when he needs to,’ Coke continued, following.
When they reached the deck, he and Bohun leaned on the rail, watching Holmes’ cutter make its way over to Admiral Monck’s flagship, the Royal Charles. Even with the wind, they could hear the Irishman damning the rowers for their indolence.
‘A rare diamond, he,’ said Coke.
‘Aye, but one who will honour his promise to you when he can. He seems all bluster, but he has a mind like a clock, forever ticking. He’ll remember what you told him about this Irish fellow – what, Blood? Perhaps send the news with ye – for cutters go back to England with dispatches, ships of the line need repairs. He’ll see you home soon enough. Would I could join you.’ He gestured aft. ‘Those clothes?’
‘Could you give me a moment?’
‘Of course. Just ask for Bohun’s billet.’ He smiled. ‘But you’ll probably nose it by the rum.’
As the officer headed aft, and Dickon climbed up into the rigging, Coke moved to the other taffrail. Now he was facing away from the lowlands of Holland. Beyond sight, but there was England. ‘Home soon, Sarah,’ he murmured into the wind. ‘Home soon.’
A sudden wind, after days of calm, brings so much that is good.
It stirs the sails of merchant ships, makes them pregnant and potent again, powering them across the oceans to the realm’s profit. It wakes Admiral Holmes aboard his flagship by the creak of his rigging, has him out of his bunk and shouting, for he knows that if he gets this easterly behind him, he will gain the weather gauge and then may fall like a fury upon the Dutch. It drives a cutter towards the English coast, bearing his intentions to his commander, the Duke of York, and to the king; while in the cutter’s hold, a captain and his ward smile at the wind’s song, and in spite of a mountainous sea.
In the fields of southern England, other sails that had drooped now fill and spin again. The longest, hottest summer in memory has brought an early harvest and farmers rise early to rush their bounty to the windmills for grinding. After a shortage there will soon be an abundance of flour for the realm’s bakers to transform to bread, pasty and pie. Across seven counties, boys rouse themselves, then grin; for this is a wind to fly kites upon, and with their bellies full.
In London, a baker stands on the threshold of his house and his business, his eyes closed, his face turned to the breeze now surging up narrow Pudding Lane. He smiles, tasting the salt in it, thinking of his country’s mighty fleet surging across the waters into battle. His interest is not just patriotic – Thomas Farriner bakes the Navy’s biscuit. This wind tells him that, even though tomorrow is the Sabbath, yet he must work. Indeed, he must do a double batch of hardtack, for fighting sailors are hungry sailors.
Eager now for his bed, knowing he will be up even earlier than usual, he pulls the door to – nearly to. His beehive oven is cool, only a trace of residue warmth in its brick. He rakes the ashes out into a bucket, yawning as he does; tips them onto the bakehouse hearth, and sets a grille before its faint glow. He returns and fills the oven with faggots against the morning’s labour and looks about one last time. All is safe. Now the glass rattles in his windows, draughts coming through it. Reminding himself yet again to renew their leading, he picks up his candle and shuffles to the stair.
As he climbs, he is too tired to note that his candle’s flame streams away from him, not towards.
He is asleep a minute after he lies down beside his wife. Thus he does not hear the wind’s voice still rising; does not hear the front door, that he didn’t quite close, blowing open, nor the sound of the very last embers, those he failed to sweep from the oven, reigniting. Fanned into life, they swiftly catch and consume the fuel set out for the morning’s baking. Then a gust not only shakes the windows, it lifts a glowing faggot from the oven and drops it onto its fellows in a tub beside. All is gone in moments and flame falls to the floor, seeking other things to feed on.
Thus at two on a Sunday morning, on the second day of September, in the year of our Lord, also the year of the Beast, 1666, London begins to burn.
17
THE GREAT FIRE OF LONDON
2nd September, 4 a.m.
At her third deep sigh, Pitman turned to her. ‘Can you not sleep, dearest chuck?’
Bettina sighed again. ‘Nay, love, I cannot.’ She reached and took his hand, placing it on her vast belly. ‘Your son will not allow it.’
It took only a moment for his hand to be almost lifted from her skin. It was a feeling that never failed to thrill him. ‘You are sure it will be a boy?’
‘This hard a kicker? Aye, I’m certain. Only Josiah beat his poor ma like this. Both our girls were ever gentle.’
He turned on his side. Moonlight through their window lit the fleshy mountain. ‘Is there anything I can fetch to ease you?’ he asked. ‘Some water? Some of your cordial?’
‘Nay, it will only make me want to piss like a mare,’ she replied, then belched. ‘Oh, pardon I.’
Pitman smiled. For all her chapel ways, Bettina was still in some respects the crude-mouthed wanton he’d met in the Ranters’ camp in ’47. Indeed, this last fortnight, that same wantonness had returned. If she’d not already been big with child, they’d have made another one for sure. ‘Can I rub your back?’ he said.
She pushed his hand off her. ‘Nay, Pitman, it’s too hot for all that nonsense.’ She sighed again. ‘I tell you what I’ve been dreaming about, during the odd snatches of sleep I’ve had. One of Master Farriner’s sweet buns, hot from his oven. That, and a pot of tea to dip it in, would do me nicely.’
Pitman laughed. His wife was moderate in all things, and frugal with it, her only extravagance being a new-found passion for tea. It was yet rare and thus expensive, but he could not grudge her it. ‘I will fetch you the one, and boil up t’other on my return,’ he said, swinging his legs off their bed, sitting up and reaching for his breeches. They both slept naked, especially in this heat, a habit from their Ranter days when they rarely wore clothes be it daytime or nighttime.
‘Will he be up, the baker?’
‘If not yet, then soon,’ he said, pulling his shirt over his head. ‘I heard three bells, and he always bakes them buns first.’
‘Hurry back,’ she said, as he closed the door.
In the other room, he stepped softly past the sleeping forms of his two daughters, Grace and Faith, entwined together on a mattress, little Benjamin between them. Josiah slept in the attic, claiming it was cooler and his sisters too noisy. Pitman suspected it was because the attic window gave onto a window opposite, only a hand’s breadth away, and his neighbours there had a daughter, at fifteen just three years older than his boy, and she was wont to leave her curtains undrawn.
Like father like son, he thought, stepping out onto the cobbles of Bow Lane, pulling his door to. The moon was near full and bright, and looked as if it was balancing atop the spire of St Mary-le-Bow right behind his house. He took a deep breath through his nose. There was the faintest tang of a fire. Almost no one was burning them for heat, while the summer continued so hot and so long. Another baker, he thought, setting out. He would pass several far closer than Farriner’s. But they had lived near Pudding Lane for a time, and Bettina would know instantly if he brought home a rival’s sweet bun. Besides, it was not too long a walk to Farriner’s bakehouse. He’d take Bow Lane to Thames Street and walk parallel to the water, and so get the breeze off the river. By the time he got to his destination, his leg, always stiff on waking, would have eased.
He was just crossing Fish Street, pausing to look down it to the bridge, when a swirl within what he now recognised to be a strong easterly wind brought enough smoke to make him cough. Looking ahead and slightly north, he saw, over the warehouses and dwelli
ngs on the bridge’s approach, a spiralling cloud in the clear sky and, within that, sparks. Coughing again, he increased his pace, using his stick to help propel him along.
The entrance to the road he sought took just fifty of his great strides. Turning the corner, he saw straightway that a building halfway up Pudding Lane was afire.
‘Christ preserve us!’ he muttered, hastening forward. There was already a crowd upon the street, and he espied a man he knew amongst them, a constable of the parish, one Salmon, who was organising a line of men with buckets. He limped up to him. ‘When did this start?’
‘Ah, Pitman.’ The man wiped a sleeve across his sweaty brow. ‘An hour or so since. In the baker’s.’
‘Farriner’s? My wife will be sad to hear it. She most especially wanted one of his sweet buns.’
‘Well, perhaps you’d care to reach in and pluck one out?’ Salmon gestured to the burning structure opposite. Flames had breached the roof and were spilling out from the burst windows.
‘Nay, truly, I am sorry to hear of it. Farriner is a good man. Did he escape?’
‘He’s there,’ replied the constable, pointing to a huddle of people about twenty paces further on. ‘He and his family are safe. They crawled out along the eaves, though there’s talk of a maid too scared to make the journey. She’s within. Or not, now.’ He shook his head. ‘You’ll excuse me? I’ve a fire to fight. The Lord Mayor’s been sent for, so we can hope he’ll bring more men. Grab a bucket if you’ve a mind. Come, lads,’ he suddenly shouted, striding off to a bunch of milling men.
Pitman went on, to the next group, arriving in time to hear the baker lamenting. ‘I swear ’tis so. I came down at midnight, seeking to light a candle. There was not a flame in the bakehouse to fire it.’ He looked up at his blazing home and business and bellowed, ‘ ’Twas fired deliberate, I tell ye. Some rival seeks to put me out.’
‘Let’s have no talk of arson, thank ye,’ said another man, coming up. Pitman turned and recognised Thomas Bludworth, the Lord Mayor, who he’d had dealings with in city matters before. It was always best to broach those with him sometime between eleven and one because he was usually drunk by two. He appeared nearly as wide as Pitman was tall, the floridness of his jowly face showing what he’d been up to mere hours before.
He looked less than pleased with what was in front of him. ‘This?’ he cried, turning to slap hard the shoulder of a man beside him, who cringed and stepped away. ‘You wake me for this? Pish, a woman might piss it out.’ Salmon came up then, giving the mayor a short bow. ‘Have you enough men for this, constable?’ Bludworth continued. ‘Buckets, syringes and whatcha-ma-call-’em? Have the New River stopcocks been opened for your use?’
‘Aye, sir, they have. But we could use –’
‘Good, good,’ said Bludworth, turning away. ‘Then I’m for my bed again. You,’ he pointed at the unfortunate he’d slapped before, ‘stay here and bring me a full report when it’s out. But not before ten, mark ye.’ He yawned. ‘I think I’ll sleep in late on the morrow.’
Salmon went away to organise his men and Pitman was about to join him, when he felt his sleeve tugged. He turned and saw Josiah. ‘You’re to come straight, Father,’ his son said. ‘It’s begun.’
‘All’s well?’ he said, gripping the boy.
‘Aye, but Ma says you’re to hurry.’
They set off at a good pace, Pitman making speed despite the odd gait caused by stiff leg and stick. There was an alley three houses up from the blazing bakehouse and they cut left through this, passing a side entrance to the yard of the Star Inn, whose main door was upon Fish Street Hill. Pitman glanced – and saw that the yard was filled with hay, piles of timber to fire the inn’s brewery, a wagon loaded with barley. The landlord was there, with some apprentices about him, staring over his back wall at the flames in the sky and the floating, burning debris rising from it. Pitman paused. ‘You’ll want to shift all that, and have some water ready,’ he shouted.
‘Go boil your ’ead,’ the landlord called back. ‘Think I ain’t seen one of these before?’
Yet even as he spoke, one of the youths with him yelped and began slapping at his own head. Before he moved away, Pitman saw another pick up a broom and start beating a pile of hay that was against the back wall.
They hurried on, passing the few people who were about and staring up at the over-lit dawn sky, into the alleys of a city still asleep.
The cry greeted him as soon as he pushed open the door. It was one he’d heard many times before. Uttering one himself, he took the stairs in a few short leaps.
‘Don’t make a fuss, Pitman,’ she said. ‘This one’s making enough for us all.’
Bettina held up the little squalling bundle, then ended his yells by clamping him to one breast. ‘A boy, I told you, and so anxious to join us he came in a rush. I barely had time to call the girls up and it was “whoosh, jug, and catch me”.’
She laughed, and he did too, kneeling by the bed, one hand for his wife, one for his new child. ‘Little Eleazar,’ he said, stroking both damp heads, ‘welcome to the Pitmans. May God have mercy on you!’
They both laughed then, their children rising to put arms around them and laugh too. Then, while the girls set about tidying and cleaning, Bettina washed the babe in a bucket of warm water Josiah fetched. ‘You know, chuck,’ she said, scooping the water over Eleazar and rubbing gently, ‘my first thought after I knew the babe was hale was of dear Sarah. She was as near her time as I. We oft talked of having our babes side by side, but now with her in that terrible place –’ She broke off, sniffed and continued. ‘I feel I should go to her, and soon.’
‘You will not stir,’ he said, raising his hand against her protests. ‘Nay, I know you think you’re like your old ma in Kent who dropped you in a field, then returned to the hop-picking,’ his voice rose over her squawk, ‘but I will not risk you on those dirty streets, and in that foul place, where illnesses thrive. I will go see Mrs Chalker…Coke! And I will bring her such relief as I am able.’
Bettina sighed, sitting back against the headboard. ‘Well, perhaps I do need a little sleep first. But you shall not prevent me bringing her aid on the morrow, Pitman, you shall not. Does Jesus not urge charity for a stranger? How much more so are we urged for such a friend?’ She glanced down at the babe, suckling again. ‘Mind, I am near as hungry as this mite.’ She looked up at him. ‘Where’s my sweet bun?’
‘Burnt.’
—
Poultry Compter. 9 a.m.
Sarah screamed. Like everything else of the night and the long morning too, it drained her and she flopped back onto the straw. It felt like her guts were ropes being twisted tight between twin devils. Earlier there had been some respite, a few minutes’ gap between each bout of torment. The gaps had shrunk in length until it seemed that her insides were being continuously torn apart.
Yet no effort she made could expel what caused the agony. ‘I’m worried,’ said Jenny, bending to wipe a soaked cloth across Sarah’s fevered forehead. ‘This isn’t right. Your waters haven’t come but the cramps are so frequent.’ She shook Sarah’s shoulder gently. ‘Let me fetch her.’
‘For fuck’s sake, fetch ’er,’ yelled someone in the chamber. For the hundredth time, Sarah wished that she’d kept the tiny room the Pitmans’ little money had allowed her. But she’d chosen to spend it instead on the one inside her, on more food to sustain him or her, though she hadn’t told the Pitmans so.
Other voices came.
‘For the love of God, squeeze it out, woman!’
‘We can’t breathe.’
They’d pressed clothes and blankets into the grille on the door. Even the keyholes had straw stuffed into them. All knew that vapours could hurt a woman giving birth. More of them shouted now, and Jenny turned back into the room and snarled. ‘Go into the yard if you want air, you bitches. Leave ’er be.’
‘Yard stinks o’ smoke, you whore,’ said the first woman who’d shouted, coming forward, a sullen child
on her hip. ‘There’s a fire on the river, in case you ’adn’t ’eard.’
‘Yeah, and you want to let that all in ’ere?’ Jenny stood, looming over the other who shrank back. ‘Go out, the lot of ya, close the door behind ya – and send in the wise woman.’ She said this last as she looked back and down at Sarah.
She’d shunned the midwife so far. As a child Sarah remembered seeing others like her come to their room in St Giles; watched their fumblings, listened to her mother’s screams. Not one baby had survived more than a week, since Sarah had been born. But as another surge ripped through her, she moaned and managed a small nod. What choice did she have?
With much muttering, the rest of the women left, dragging their complaining children. ‘ ’Ere, take little Mary,’ said Jenny, handing her child to one woman who picked the infant up, grudgingly.
Even in the small moments the door was open, Sarah could smell the smoke on the wind. ‘Fire?’ she croaked, and coughed.
Jenny knelt, helping her raise her head to drink from a flask of water. ‘Big one, they say. But she’s right, it’s down by the river. Never reach us ’ere. Stinks, though, eh?’
The door opened again, admitting more foul air – and an older woman. She had a shawl over her head, wisps of grey hair straying out from under it. Her face was pale, except for two reddened and pockmarked cheeks ‘Well, my dears,’ she said, smiling, closing the door behind her, ‘and about time too.’
She came over to the corner of the room and its bed of heaped-up straw, then, with a little difficulty, knelt. Immediately, the smell of smoke was overwhelmed by the reek of whisky. She smiled, her mouth a wilderness of gum, one tooth on the bottom like a solitary gravestone. ‘Let’s have a feel then,’ she wheezed, as Sarah convulsed again.
Jenny pulled up the shift, and the midwife ran her hands over the distended belly, pressing hard. Then she reached between Sarah’s legs. ‘Dry as a virgin’s slit,’ she laughed, then licked her fingers. Sarah winced as first one, then two of them entered her, probing.
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