The Golden Dove

by Jo Ann Wendt

  Pushing through the jostling, growing crowds, they made their way down a foul-smelling alley to the river steps at the Old Swan drinking house. Smoke mingled with the fetid alley smells, and distant shouts rang out upon the river. They could hear the crackling roar of a great fire. They went down the river steps in the growing crush of spectators and looked out, aghast.

  A blazing inferno engulfed the north end of London Bridge. The tight-packed mass of four-storied houses that had been built on the stone bridge over the centuries now blazed like logs on a hearth. In the fierce roaring heat, the ancient, seasoned house-timbers exploded with earsplitting cracks while chimney stones exploded like musket shot. It sounded as if the city were under seige.

  Hearts in throats, they watched the wall of fire slowly engulf the bridge, steadily advancing across it toward the south shore. Scared witless, residents on the bridge scampered to save their belongings. Bent double, some people carried their goods on their backs. Others tied ropes to their furniture and lowered the awkward pieces into barges and lighters that hovered under the bridge, waiting in the rippling water. Some residents simply hove axes into their second and third story walls and shoved their furniture out of the gaping holes, letting it splash into the Thames, in hopes of salvaging it. Stunned, Jericho watched pieces of people's lives drift by: a carved oaken bedstead, a baby cage, a beautiful pianoforte, a sugar chest, a livery cabinet, a cricket stool, a chair.

  Up on the burning rooftops, hapless pigeons huddled on their cot, loath to leave familiar roosts. And most of them left too late. They flew straight up into the flames and plummeted down into the river, wings burnings. Jericho put her hand to her throbbing throat.

  "Ah, no, please God," breathed an old gentleman who stood watching beside her.

  "What is it?" she demanded.

  He gestured just as a corresponding groan rose from the crowd. "The water wheel on London Bridge, lass. She's caught fire. 'Twill mean the city's pumps stop working. There'll be no water to fight the fire. None but what a man can dip up from the river."

  She swallowed. "W-what will happen?"

  "The lord mayor will order houses pulled down, I 'spect. To block the path of the fire. If he finds courage enough to give the order. London's a merchant's city, and merchants won't take kindly to pulling down their houses and shops and warehouses. But 'tis the only way to stop a fire as bad as this one."

  As they watched, the inferno advanced to the middle of the bridge, roaring so loudly that the sound of it filled their ears and they had to shout to converse. She could feel the heat, even at this distance. Then, suddenly, the fire halted in its path, stymied by a large open space on the bridge that had no buildings on it.

  "Huzzah!" The crowd cheered so lustily that the river stairs vibrated underfoot. Jericho cheered, too. But their cheers proved premature. For a gust of wind picked up a shower of fire drops and whipped them to the south shore. The crowd groaned as a haystack burst into flames in Southwark. Carried by the wicked wind, wisps of burning hay flew to surrounding roofs. Frantic cottagers scampered about with buckets, fighting the fire, but she and Black Bartimaeus could see their efforts would prove fruitless.

  Saddened by all they'd seen—and apprehensive—they made their way home through the agitated milling throngs.

  "We must pack up our belongings. Just in case."

  Black Bartimaeus nodded somberly.

  "What we can't hope to carry with us—" She tried to think. "—we'll bury in the backyard. In a trench."

  He nodded. "I dig the trench."

  "No! I'll dig it," she said too sharply, thinking of his heart. But then her own heart softened. What am I doing, what am I doing, depriving this proud old man of his manhood.

  "We'll dig it together," she said in a gentler voice. "You're right, Black Bartimaeus. I will need your help."

  Pleased, proud to be needed, he nodded, his treasured red beaver felt hat bobbing on his head.

  "But we won't leave our home unless it's absolutely necessary. I won't leave my dame school.'' Her throat constricted with sudden emotion. "It's mine. Mine and yours. I won't leave it. Not unless the fire comes to our very door."

  He nodded, his dark old eyes aglow with understanding.

  "I won't never leave it. Not never."

  She gave him a startled look as they walked along, wondering what he meant. It was hopeless to ask. Black Bartimaeus was a man of so few words that people often mistook him for mute. In the last few seconds, he'd already spoken more than he usually did in a whole month. So, reluctantly, she let it pass. They arrived home to find Pax baying. Another omen that something was dreadfully amiss in the city.

  The afternoon proved frantic. Hastily, they separated their few belongings into two piles, that which could be carried with them and that which must stay behind. Borrowing shovels, they dug a trench in the backyard, leaving it uncovered, ready.

  As Jericho rammed her shovel into the hard bone-dry soil, tears rose to her eyes and mingled with the perspiration trickling from her brow. Her books? The little dame school stools where the children sat so sweetly? She swiped at her eyes with a gritty palm.

  The afternoon escalated, flying at a dizzying pace. With black smoke wafting over the city, tainting the air with its scary smell, Wattling Street became alarmed. She and Black Bartimaeus ran on countless errands for neighbors too infirm or too elderly to help themselves. They lugged countless buckets of water from the river.

  By midafternoon the thing she'd dreaded, happened. Thames Street caught fire. Now, all London sat up and took notice. Feeding on naval stores and on hay and coal and spirits and lumber, the inferno roared into a holocaust. Belatedly, the hand-wringing lord mayor organized fire posts throughout the city, each volunteer to receive a shilling a day plus bread and cheese and beer. Black Bartimaeus chafed to volunteer, but Jericho forebade him. She feared for his heart. Childlike, he accepted her authority, but he was provoked with her and showed it by sulking.

  With Thames Street blazing and roaring like the fire pits of hell, the king rode into the city to take command. It was soon shouted in the streets that the king himself was manning spade and bucket, working shoulder to shoulder with volunteers, his clothes as ruined as any beggar's, his smoke- blackened face as dark as any African.

  Despite her anxiety, Jericho had to smile a little. His Majesty would behave like that. At Arleigh Castle, he'd impressed her as a man of mettle, a man's man. She breathed easier knowing he was in charge and not the timid hand- wringing lord mayor.

  Sleep was impossible that night. Exhausted but scared, she and Black Bartimaeus took turns keeping watch. The air they breathed grew smokier, and all night long the city clamored with noise. Horsecarts carrying tottering loads rumbled up Wattling Street, one after the other, heading for the city gates. Londoners who'd already been burned out surged by with their goods on their backs, heading for St. Paul's Cathedral, intent on taking refuge there. Jericho feared that was a mistake. Under repair, St. Paul's was covered with wooden scaffolding. If St. Paul's caught fire . . .

  People shouted that the city gates were jammed, cart traffic at a standstill and carters were making money hand over fist, gouging customers. The cost of hiring even a dog cart had risen to an outrageous fee, half the value of the load carried. Out on the Thames, watermen gouged their customers even more mercilessly.

  Morning came, but daylight did not. Enshrouded in smoke, the city remained dark, as if it were midnight. Whenever the sun managed to poke through, its color was red, like blood. The air grew gritty, unpleasant to breathe.

  Jericho fretted. Was she being foolish, staying? Should she take Black Bartimaeus and Pax and leave? But where would she go? John^s house was no safer than hers. And she couldn't go to Arleigh Castle. Twenty miles was too far for Black Bartimaeus to walk. Besides, Marguerite would scratch her eyes out.

  The prospect of being outside the city was more frightening than remaining in it. Multitudes of the burned-out were camping out in the open, in fields, prey
to unsavory riffraff who would cut a throat to gain a penny. Black Bartimaeus was too old for such dangers. So was Pax. Jericho felt easier when the wind suddenly shifted, blowing hard away from the city, blowing the fire toward the Thames, containing it at the waterfront.

  But that afternoon the unpredictable wind shifted again. It reversed directions and suddenly blew hard as a gale. Unfettered, unleashed, the roaring inferno leaped north with the noise of a whirlwind in it. Londoners who'd thought themselves safe had to grab their children and run, fleeing through burning alleyways, flames licking at their ankles, fire crackling overhead.

  Evil, capricious, the holocaust selected parishes of the city at random, leaping over some and sparing them, mercilessly devouring others. Advancing to a crossroads, the wall of fire would hover there, gaining strength, roaring. Then it would select a lane and roar down it. Raging on Cornhill, the fire incinerated the financial heart of the city, and, devouring the great spice vaults in the Royal Exchange, sent choking clouds of incense through London.

  Worried for John's shops, Jericho and Black Bartimaeus threw dampened shawls over their heads and ran through the pitch dark alleys to Cheapside street. The going was precarious. With London burning, the Londoners' mood had turned ugly. Vicious rumors swept the city. People shouted that the Catholics had fired the city, so ordered by the pope of Rome. Others shouted that the Dutch had fired the city and that the Dutch army waited outside the city gates, swords drawn, ready to slay anyone who survived the inferno. Cadres of angry housewives marched the streets with cudgels, attacking and beating anyone suspected of being Catholic or Dutch or even foreign.

  Jericho fervently prayed her own slight, Dutch New Amsterdam accent would not be detected, and, despite her anger with Dove, she was grateful he was not in the city. Dove was Catholic. Militantly so.

  She and Black Bartimaeus found Cheapside in chaos. Carts, wagons, and coaches choked every inch of this broad avenue. Harried merchants dashed in and out of their fine shops, emptying them, removing merchandise, taking it to safety. Jericho was relieved to find John's sensible shop steward doing the same. Busy, harried, the steward nevertheless took a moment to talk to them.

  "Cheapside burn? Nay, missus, it cannot. 'Tis only a precaution we're taking. The fire'11 never get to Cheapside. Even were that bloody, malicious, demon fire to change course and come west, it cannot jump Cheapside Street. Cheap- side's too grand and wide."

  "Cheapside Street won't burn," she said uneasily to Black Bartimaeus as they hurried home in the unnatural darkness, eyes stinging, streaming from the smoke, ash crunching underfoot.

  But it did. On Tuesday morning, the third day of the great

  London fire, the wind shifted again, picked up force and blew hard as a hurricane. Changing direction, the inferno roared into Cheapside and leaped that broad thoroughfare as easily as a child leaps a puddle.

  When the news reached Wattling Street, Jericho's heart grew faint. "We'd best bury our things," she said to Black Bartimaeus in a shaky voice. He nodded gravely.

  She was truly scared. But she got a much greater scare as they shoveled in the backyard by lantern light. Working beside her, Black Bartimaeus suddenly slumped, his sweaty black face ashen. With a stunned expression, he slowly folded himself to the ground and sat, clutching his chest.

  "Black Bartimaeus!" Flinging her shovel aside, she leaped and knelt before him. "What is it? Your heart?"

  Her own heart pounded in dread. Breathless, but smiling for her sake, he denied it with emphatic headshakes, and the spell passed in a moment. Getting to his feet, he reached for his shovel to continue working, but Jericho grabbed it and threw it aside. Grasping his elbow, guiding him, she coaxed him up to their rooms to rest.

  She was terrified. She didn't know what to do. When she'd given him his medicine and had coaxed him to sleep, she took their savings, their nest egg, from its hiding place behind the chimney brick, grabbed her shawl and ran out into the midnight-dark streets to fetch a doctor. As she ran, grit burned her eyes, smoke stabbed her lungs. Fire drops fell from above like rain.

  The errand proved fruitless and dangerous. The doctor had left his house, leaving it locked and shuttered, and, running home, she spied riffraff lurking in every alley, unsavory fellows waiting like jackals to loot abandoned houses. She felt lucky to reach home without having had her throat slit or worse.

  Worried, anxious, she ministered to Black Bartimaeus all that day, a prayer on her lips, fear in her breast. There was nothing she could do but wait, wait with the rest of Wattling Street to see where the fire would go next. Then, at nine of the clock that night, the wind died and a shout went up.

  "The fire! She's behind us!"

  Jericho ran to her bedchamber window. For excruciatingly long moments, she could see nothing in the smoky blackness. Then, suddenly, she saw it coming. Small tongues of blood red fire lapped at rooftops several streets away, coming, growing steadily larger. Even as she watched, the glowing murky tongues began to lap their way up Ludgate Hill. A rooftop below St. Paul's churchyard burst into flame.

  Her heart stopped. The fire would surround them if they didn't leave at once. She swung around to Black Bartimaeus, who'd come to look. "It's time to leave." He nodded.

  Grabbing Pax, she whipped a leading rope to his collar, then grabbed the heavy bundle she'd prepared. Black Bartimaeus weakly shouldered his bundle, and they hurried down the stairs. She shut the street door and locked it, a meaningless, empty gesture. It was going to burn. Her beloved dame school was going to burn. She gave Black Bartimaeus the key. He pocketed it. His breathing was so labored. She took his elbow to steady him.

  Shouldering their loads, they hurried up the street, eyes streaming from the smoke, throats choky with it. All of Wattling Street poured forth to join them. Men shouted commands, women scolded and clucked at their children as they shepherded them. Babies wailed. Dogs barked. The elderly tapped along on their canes, calmer than all the rest. At the top of Wattling Street, Jericho set down her load and turned for one last look at her dame school. She gazed at it in the smoky darkness, heavyhearted, until the last straggling neighbor had passed by and the street lay empty, desolate, like an empty dream. Above the rooftops she could see the flaming red glow, the fire approaching. She wanted to weep.

  "My hat," Black Bartimaeus said softly.

  She glanced at the rooftops in alarm. A tongue of orange fire jumped into view. Then she glanced at him. He treasured that hat. Adored it.

  "Give me the key. I'll run back for it."

  "Nay. I go."

  "No, Black Bartimaeus! Give me—"

  But he loved his hat, and he was halfway down Wattling Street before she could forbid him, sprinting as if he were eighteen and not eighty. For a bewildering moment, she saw him as he'd surely been in his prime—a magnificent young African chief, majestically sprinting through his jungle kingdom, conquering it.

  "Black Bartimaeus, hurry!" she shouted, coughing, eyes streaming. The smoke thickened.

  He vanished into the dame school. Another tongue of fire appeared on the roof. She waited, batting at her stinging streaming eyes, her nervous glance going back and forth between her street door and the flames.

  He didn't come. Pax began to bark in a frenzy, coughing, hacking. At the bottom of Wattling Street, in the crossroads, at the public pump, an immense wall of fire suddenly appeared, hovering, roaring. It was a malicious sight, and she shuddered.

  StilU he didn't come. She was frantic. Dropping Pax's rope, Jericho sprinted down the dark smoky street, running as fast as she could run in the thick blinding smoke. With the fire approching, the air grew hot as an oven. Pax galloped at her heels, barking his head off. Frantic, she threw herself into the doorway and groped her way up the dark stairs. Black Bartimaeus sat midway up the stairs, slumped, clutching his chest, struggling for breath. Terror chilled her.

  "Black Bartimaeus!" She threw her arms around him, then jumped up and clattered down the stairs to the street. She shouted in the directio
n her neighbors had gone. "Help! Come back, somebody! Help us! Help us!"

  With smoky air in her lungs, her shouts amounted to croaking h&ks. Pax barked wildly. She ran halfway up the dark street and shouted again. But the roar of the approaching inferno swallowed up her cries. Down at the crossroads, at the pump, the hovering wall of fire began to move up Wattling Street. It cast intense heat, heat that made her feel faint, heat that sucked up all the air. Smoke swirled so thickly, she could barely see through her streaming eyes. She ran back to the dame school and clattered up the stairs. Frantic, she tugged at him, trying to lift him, trying to pull him to his feet.

  "Black Bartimaeus, we have to run, we have to!"

  "Go," he gasped weakly.

  "No! Not without you!"

  Reflections from the approaching fire spread like smeared red paint on the stairwell walls. Terrified, she seized his limp arms and tugged them over her shoulders. Then, she put her back into the effort, trying to lift him to his feet. Her back nearly broke. With wild, frustrated sobs, she tried again and again. The smoky air was getting hot. The fire crackled and roared. Pax barked frantically, hoarsely. At last, she got him up. His crushing weight nearly toppled her. Her legs buckled. She strained to keep him upright. Ramming her shoulder under his armpit, using every ounce of her strength, she inched him down the stairwell and into the burning street. The smoke was so thick, she couldn't see more than an arm's length ahead. Her eyes streamed. She had no breath left. She had to gasp encouragement.

  "That's right—walk—try—walk—we'll make it—to the top of the hill—one more step—one more—"

  With the fire roaring behind them, they staggered through the murky darkness. But Black Bartimaeus collapsed a few feet past the grog shop, clutching his chest as his heart attacked again. Pax howled and ran in frantic circles.

  "Jer'cho," he gasped. "Run."

  "No!"

  Frantic, she raked her wits. Lifting the bottoms of her skirts, she ran back to the dame school, stumbling up the stairs in the darkness, coughing, eyes streaming. The ceilings had already sprouted with tiny tongues of fire. It was so hot she felt faint. Grabbing Black Bartimaeus's pallet mattress, she wrenched it through the doorway, pulling it down the stairs with fierce, desperate sobs. Smoke singed her lungs, her throat, her eyes. Wrenching it along she had a moment of sheer panic when she couldn't find Black Bartimaeus in the darkness. But then she did. She positioned the mattress and strained to roll him onto it. He was so heavy.