'The fire must be checked,' said Jonathan. 'They must pull down a row of houses in its path and create a firebreak.'
'The Lord Mayor has forbidden it.'
'Why?'
'He fears the cost involved in rebuilding.'
'Would he rather lose the entire city?'
'Sir Thomas would not give the order.'
'Somebody must,' insisted Jonathan. 'Where did the fire start?'
'Who knows?' said the man. 'I was fast asleep when the alarm was raised. By the time I got here, Fish Street Hill was ablaze and the houses at the northern end of the bridge were alight. In the past half-hour, we have been driven back a hundred yards or more. We are powerless.'
'Fire posts must be set up at once.'
'Tell that to the Lord Mayor.'
'More water!'
'What is the point?'
'We must fight on!' urged Jonathan, exhorting the others in the chain. 'More water there! Keep the buckets coming! We must not give in. Something may yet be saved.'
It was a forlorn hope. Though he tossed gallons of water at the fire, he made no discernible impact. It blazed up defiantly in front of him and encroached on both sides. Hysteria mounted. Many people fled west along the crowded thoroughfare but most scurried towards the river with their belongings, hoping to put the broad back of the Thames between themselves and certain extinction, only to find the myriad boats and lighters already filled with frightened refugees. Quick to take advantage of the situation, watermen doubled and trebled their prices before rowing their passengers to the uncertain safety of Bankside. When they scrambled ashore with their money, their furniture, their musical instruments and anything else they had salvaged, they looked back at a fire which seemed to engulf the whole of the riverfront from London Bridge to Dowgate and beyond. Flames danced madly on the water as the Thames mirrored the calamity.
Jonathan Bale struggled on against impossible odds for well over an hour. His hair was singed, his face was running with perspiration and holes had been burned in his coat by flying sparks. His whole body ached and smarted but he would not give up. Only when the water supply ceased did he have any respite. He looked down the long line of exhausted bodies between him and the conduit.
'More water!' he ordered, panting from his exertions.
'There is none!' called a voice at the far end. 'It has dried up.'
'How?'
'Someone must have cut into the pipe further up to fill buckets of their own. There is barely a trickle down here.'
'We have done all we can, my friend,' gasped the man next to Jonathan. 'We must look to our own salvation.'
'There is too much to do here. That is why I came.'
'Where do you live?'
'On Addle Hill.'
'Near Baynard's Castle?'
'Yes.'
The man was surprised. 'You came all this way to help?'
'I was needed.'
'You and a thousand like you are needed, my friend, but there would still not be enough of us to put out this fire. I'll home to Cornhill. I have done my share here. It is time to worry about my own house. Do likewise.'
'The fire will never reach Addle Hill,' said Jonathan.
'Do not be so sure,' warned the other. 'If this wind holds, the blaze will spread all the way to the Palace of Westminster to burn the royal breeches. And so it should,' he added with bitter reproach, 'for the King is the true cause of this fire.'
'That is treasonable talk.'
'It is the plain truth.'
'Fires are caused by folly and neglect.'
'The King's folly and the King's neglect.'
'I will not listen to such nonsense.'
'Then look around you,' urged the man, waving an arm. 'See for yourself. This is no ordinary fire. It is a judgement on us. King Charles and his vile Court have corrupted the whole of London. The fire has been sent to purge the city. We must all suffer for his sins.' He gave Jonathan a nudge. 'Go home, my friend. Return to Addle Hill. Protect your family. Save yourself while you still may. Nothing can stop this blaze now.'
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 was Henry Redmayne? And what of Christopher's friends? His neighbours? His parish church? What happened to all those magnificent buildings he so admired and from which he drew his inspiration?
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.'
'We have been blessed, sir. We escaped.'
Tears trickled down the old man's face and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. Christopher held him in a token embrace then led him across to a stool and lowered him on to it. Jacob was patently harrowed by the experience. The hollowed cheeks and the deathly pallor showed that he had enjoyed very little sleep and there was still a glint of terror in his eyes. Christopher felt guilty that he had not been there to share the ordeal with his servant and help him through it. There was much more to tell and he listened patiently while Jacob unfolded his tale at exhaustive length. As the old man unburdened himself, he was shaking visibly and his whole body twitched at the conclusion of his narrative. Christopher left a long, considered pause before addressing himself to his own concerns.
'What news of my brother, Henry?' he said.
'He has sent word, sir.'
'Was his own house affected?'
'No, sir,' said Jacob, rising to his feet. 'The fire stopped well short of Bedford Street. Covent Garden was untouched. Your brother wants you to call on him as soon as you may. He is most insistent.'
'Henry always is.'
'Messages have come every day.'
'I need to get my breath back before I go running to my brother,' said Christopher, dropping into a chair. 'I have been in the saddle for hours on end. Do we have any drink in the house, Jacob?'
'Yes, sir. The last of that wine is still in the cellar.'
'Fetch a bottle. And bring two glasses.'
'Two, sir?'
'I think you need sustenance as much as I do. Besides, we have something to celebrate. The house is still standing. That is a small miracle. Bring the wine, Jacob. We will raise a glass together.'
'If you say so, sir.'
The servant's face recovered some of its ruddy glow and his eyes glistened. It was a rare privilege to be allowed - however briefly - to step across the line which separated master from man and Jacob appreciated it. A smile touched his lips for the first time in a week.
'Hurry along,' said Christopher with a flick of his hand. 'I need a restorative drink if I am to face Henry. Conversations with my brother can be wearing at the best of times.'
There was never any danger of Henry Redmayne indulging his servants. He treated them with a lofty disdain, reasoning that they were fortunate enough simply to be in the employ of so august a gentleman and that they deserved no further encouragement lest it give them ideas above their station. Accordingly, the barber who shaved him expected no word of approval, still less any hint of gratitude. Achievement lay in performing his duty without eliciting too many grumbles from his testy customer. His razor moved swiftly but carefully. The sallow face of Henry Redmayne was not one over which he cared to linger. When his work was done, he held up a small mirror while a detailed facial examination was carried out. Henry kept him waiting a long time before giving a dismissive nod.
As soon as the barber quit the room, the manservant entered to help his master to dress. It was a silent ritual in front of a large gilt-framed mirror. Henry preened himself at every stage, lavishing particular attention on his petticoat breeches and his new long multi-coloured waistcoat. When he put on his embroidered coat, he stroked it lovingly with both hands then shifted his stance to look at it from several angles before giving a grunt of satisfaction.
It was only then that the manservant dared to speak.
'Your brother has arrived, sir.'
'How long has he been here?'
'A little while,' said the other tactfully.
'Tell him I will be down in a moment.'
The man nodded and withdrew. He knew better than to interrupt his master while the latter was being shaved or dressed. The visitor had been understanding. He had already waited for almost half an hour. Henry added five more minutes to the delay before he pirouetted in front of the mirror for the last time. When he descended to the parlour, he found his younger brother reclining in a chair and gazing intently at a painting of a naval battle. Christopher was still in his du
sty travelling clothes. Henry strode across to him and struck a pose.
'So?' he said with a note of reproach. 'You have come at last. We can always rely on your absence when you are most needed.'
Christopher stood up. 'I had work to do in Oxford.'
'Have you finally discovered the concept of work?'
'Do not be so cynical, Henry. We cannot all have a sinecure at the Navy Office, as you do. Besides,' he added, running an admiring eye over his brother's fashionable attire, 'I had a more personal reason for being in Oxford. Father was visiting the city to attend a convocation there.'
'How is the old gentleman?'
'In excellent health.'
'That means he is still preaching interminable sermons.'
'He spoke much about you, Henry.'
'Fondly, I hope?'
'Alas, no,' said Christopher. 'With some asperity. Reports have reached him that you live a dissolute life in London, quite unbecoming to the elder son of the Dean of Gloucester. The fact that you have reached the age of thirty without the companionship of a wife is also of deep concern to him. In Father's mind, that serves to reinforce the truth of the rumours. He demanded to know if you were indeed the seasoned voluptuary of report.'
Henry winced. 'What did you tell him?'
'What he wanted to hear. That you led a Christian life which kept you completely away from the snares of lust and drunkenness. I assured him that you were regular in your devotions and often expressed regrets that you yourself had not taken the cloth. In short,' said Christopher with an amiable grin, 'I lied outrageously on your behalf.'
'Did he believe you?'
'Only up to a point.'
'Oh dear!' said Henry with a sigh. 'In that case, I will soon receive one of his stern letters, chastising me for my sins and urging repentance. How does he gather all this intelligence about me? Can a man not enjoy the pleasures of the capital without their echoes reaching the cloisters
of Gloucester? I will need to be more discreet.'
'Or more restrained.'
'That is out of the question.'
They shared a laugh. It was difficult to believe that they were brothers. Both were tall, slim and well-favoured but the resemblance ended there. Henry's long face was already showing signs of dissipation and the moustache which he took such trouble to cultivate somehow added a sinister quality. Christopher, by contrast, had a more open countenance and a clearer complexion. While he exuded health, his brother looked as if he was well acquainted with disease, especially the kind which might be contracted in a bedchamber. Handsome and clean-shaven, Christopher had dark brown hair with a reddish hue which hung in natural curls. His brother's hair, lighter in colour and straighter in texture, was thinning so dramatically that he had ordered a periwig.
The King's Evil Page 2