Fire Catcher

by C. S. Quinn

Jacob turned, thinking now was the time to take flight. He risked a glance back over his shoulder to see Blackstone’s ice-blue eyes trained on him.

  ‘You think to run,’ said Blackstone.

  Jacob shook his head to deny it.

  ‘I have a pistol trained on you,’ said Blackstone. ‘If you run you will regret it.’

  Jacob sagged visibly. He hadn’t counted on a pistol. His escape plans needed to be revised. A weapon. Get close. But the idea of striking Blackstone filled him with paralysing terror.

  Blackstone was crooning an eerie tune, working The Thing into her new dress.

  He fitted the green sleeves and cloak, talking all the while. Jacob noticed one of the corpse’s arms was now broken at a bizarre angle.

  ‘Sleep now,’ Blackstone was saying. ‘This pyre will send you to heaven. I will make the last signal and you will be at peace.’ He glared up at Jacob suddenly.

  ‘Why do you stare?’ he demanded.

  Jacob looked away. ‘I . . . no reason,’ he said, searching for a suitable answer. ‘I thought your wife wore a black gown,’ he said, ‘on your wedding day.’

  Jacob didn’t know why he said it. Only that it was one of those stories the boys told. As soon as the words were out of his mouth he regretted them.

  But Blackstone looked thoughtful. ‘Who told you that?’ he asked.

  ‘’S just . . . a story,’ Jacob managed. ‘The boys said it when I joined.’

  Blackstone’s gaze had switched to another dress. A black one, hanging by the body.

  ‘That wedding,’ he said, deep in memory, ‘that wedding cursed us. But the marriage gave us great powers too.’

  He gave a strange little smile.

  ‘At least it should have,’ he said. ‘Were King Charles a man of his word.’

  Blackstone’s face twisted at the memory.

  He and Teresa had stood solemnly at the altar. She’d worn a black dress, tears streaming down her face. Torr stood before them. The air was filled with smoking crucibles and the smell of chemicals.

  The exiled Charles had arrived late, wearing a wine-stained shirt, with silly half-dressed Lucy Walter on his arm. Despite their smiles and promises only a few days before, both were clearly disturbed by Torr’s dark laboratory. They’d been warned of the alchemy, but not been prepared for the reality.

  Lucy eyed the strange tools in horror and flashed Blackstone a quick look of distaste. And when Charles caught sight of Teresa, silently sobbing, Blackstone had feared he would have the marriage aborted.

  But the King-to-be had made the right smiles and empty promises. Promises he had no intention of keeping. The unholy marriage had taken less than a minute.

  Lead into gold, Torr had said. His hands were shaking as he recorded the union which would change the world. People will say we made the philosopher’s stone.

  But the legend they’d forged was far more powerful.

  Blackstone remembered his wife’s face and wondered if it was that day which had truly broken her. The day they’d unleashed the potential for wealth untold.

  Chapter 117

  ‘The firestorm!’ said Charlie as the ceiling split above them. ‘It’s come to Guildhall.’

  ‘The vaults can withstand it,’ said Lily. ‘Those pillars are thick enough to . . .’

  Her words were drowned out by a crash as a portion of stone ceiling broke free.

  ‘Better we don’t wait to find out,’ said Charlie. His eyes were ranging the crypt, assessing for the best escape. The stonework had collapsed in the direction they had come in. Above them a split was running into a river of cracks.

  ‘The fire comes so quickly,’ said Lily. ‘It must be a fierce flame.’

  Charlie held up a finger, feeling the airflow.

  ‘There’s fire above, in St Lawrence Poultney,’ he decided, ‘over there, where we came into the vault.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I know how fire moves,’ he said. ‘Trust me.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  Charlie was looking in the other direction. Using the airflow he could picture the fire above. It was settling itself over the church, like a great hulking monster, sucking up the air.

  ‘It’s not yet in Guildhall,’ he muttered. Air beneath that part was dead and still.

  ‘This way,’ said Charlie. Weaving between the piles of possessions he headed towards the Guildhall exit. ‘Everyone will have fled the flames,’ he said. ‘We can break the door and come up in the main courtyard.

  Behind him he heard Lily fall in step.

  ‘You can get us out safely?’ she asked nervously as the ceiling made an ominous groan.

  ‘I can,’ Charlie promised. His eyes slid to a pile of Carpenters’ Guild merchandise. Wooden furnishings and half-finished carvings.

  ‘Safer to climb over this pile than go in-between,’ said Charlie, clambering up. He swung himself over the brink of swaying tables as Lily brought up the rear.

  Charlie rolled and tipped himself down from the pile to the stone crypt floor. Above him Lily was balancing atop a pile of chairs. Judging the base of the pile Charlie grasped a table leg and pulled hard. The chairs vanished beneath Lily, sending her tumbling headlong down the side of the pile. Charlie stepped forward and neatly caught her in his arms.

  ‘You did that on purpose,’ she accused, straightening up and removing his hand from where it had slid down. ‘There was no need to climb over that pile.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d fall for it,’ grinned Charlie, assessing their escape. ‘Card sharp like you. Losing your touch?’

  ‘Just get us out of here.’

  They were by the main door out of Guildhall crypt now. It had been sealed tight. Guildsmen had used wax to stop up the edges of the door, so no spark could get inside.

  ‘The door must be a foot thick,’ said Lily. ‘Can you pick the lock?’

  Charlie shook his head. He glanced around. There was a stone statue by the door and he levelled a kick at it. Charlie stepped back as it toppled. The neck shattered and he stooped to pick up the stone head.

  ‘Big locks sometimes have a weakness,’ he explained, taking aim with the stone head. ‘Hit them at the right point and they spring.’

  ‘Have you ever sprung one before?’

  ‘A few times. If they’re badly made.’

  Eyeing the lock he fixed on the top right corner.

  ‘What makes you think this lock is badly made?’ asked Lily.

  ‘I’m an optimist.’ Charlie smashed the stone head against it. Nothing happened.

  Lily raised her eyebrows.

  Charlie examined the dent he’d made in the lock.

  ‘It’s too well made,’ he admitted. ‘Push at the door,’ he said, directing Lily. ‘Putting pressure on the catch will help.’

  She leaned her little body against it and Charlie smashed again.

  ‘It’s no good,’ he said, ‘the door’s too big. We’d need three big men to lean on it.’

  Charlie glanced towards the way they’d entered the vault. He turned the stone head, an idea forming. Smoke had begun filtering in.

  ‘We can use the fire,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ Lily sounded alarmed.

  ‘Fire moves air,’ said Charlie. ‘We use it to pin the door.’

  He glanced back to the other side of the vault, where smoke was creeping in.

  ‘The pressure might be enough,’ he decided. ‘But we need to get some airflow here.’ He drew out his eating knife and worked it into the keyhole.

  Wax flaked free. Then a cloud of dust spat out towards them.

  ‘It’ll work,’ said Charlie, starting work on the edges of the doors. ‘There’s a big fire up there. It’s hungry for air.’

  On the far side of the vault a few tongues of flame peeked inquisitively through, drawn by the new air flow.

  ‘You’re bringing in flame,’ said Lily, taking out a knife of her own and helping to flake away the wax. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.
’

  ‘Nearly enough air,’ said Charlie as the door creaked in protest. ‘Stand back,’ he added. ‘When I break the lock fire will rush towards us.’

  ‘You never mentioned that part.’

  ‘Just stand back.’

  Wielding the head like a club, Charlie staggered back and took aim at the wooden door. Lily flattened herself against the wall.

  ‘Make it count,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to be down here when it burns.’

  ‘It’s burning hot,’ muttered Charlie as air whistled past them. He raised the statue head. ‘Where we stand is about to become a fireball.’

  Taking aim he hit the top corner of the lock. A roaring could be heard as the fire surged. Then the lock sprang with a loud click.

  ‘Thank God,’ said Lily, moving to the door.

  Charlie pulled her back and as he did the door flew open.

  Fire roared through the long vault, crossing the entire length in a single stride.

  ‘Keep to the wall!’ cried Charlie, shielding Lily with his body.

  A ball of fire rolled up the stair beyond, setting the wooden steps alight.

  Charlie waited a moment for the airflow to subside. The fireball died back, but now several piles of possessions were alight.

  Lily was looking in horror to the flaming stair.

  ‘It’s burning!’ she said.

  ‘Orange flame,’ said Charlie. ‘It gives more light than heat. We can get through it, if we’re fast.’

  He grabbed at Lily’s clothing.

  ‘Ready!’ he shouted. ‘Now!’

  Without waiting for her reply he hurled them both through the flame and on to the burning stair.

  ‘Move fast,’ gasped Charlie, pulling her behind, ‘Don’t give the flames time to catch you.’

  Gasping for air they staggered up, with the fire seething beneath them. There was another door at the top, bolted but not locked. Guildhall courtyard was on the other side.

  Charlie threw the bolt across and flung open the door and landed on the warm flagstones of Guildhall. Lily arrived behind him.

  ‘You were right,’ she said, taking in the deserted space. ‘Everyone fled the fire.’

  Behind them flames were licking at the mighty hall. The wide courtyard seemed strangely calm.

  ‘The firestorm has passed over,’ said Charlie. ‘It burrows deeper into the city’s heart.’ He was looking west where flames were driving high.

  They stood for a long moment, breathing hard and watching the fire.

  ‘You’re bleeding,’ said Lily. She moved to touch his face, where a line of blood ran from under his hair.

  Reflexively his fingers went to touch the injury and met hers. Lily pulled her hand away quickly and reddened. But she didn’t move her eyes from his.

  ‘It is only a scratch,’ he decided.

  ‘You still have the head,’ said Lily, after a moment, eyeing the statue head under Charlie’s arm. ‘Who is our rescuer?’

  He turned it and examined the face.

  ‘Emperor Brutus,’ he said with a half smile. ‘Looks like Brutus has given some protection after all. Even after his giants have been toppled.’

  He dropped it on to the floor.

  ‘We should get to Puddle Dock,’ he said. ‘We may still have time before Blackstone’s house burns.’

  Chapter 118

  Details were assailing Charlie as they raced through burning rubble to Puddle Dock. A brick chimney and hearth. Wooden walls. They needed to move fast.

  As they ran down St Andrew’s Hill they could see ugly flames streaming up from the breweries. Londoners were openly looting the nearby wharfs. There was a great boom to the west and a cascade of flames erupted.

  ‘The Coopers’ Hall,’ said Charlie. ‘Blackstone draws the fire on towards the Palace.’

  From the crest of the hill Charlie could see the rooftops of a little street. His heart skipped a beat. Thick brick chimneys enclosed by wood. He must have seen them twenty times or more on his way into the city walls. But now he was seeing them in a new light.

  ‘We’re not too late,’ Charlie pointed. Fire had started up on the street, making a high crackle as the wood houses began to burn. ‘I can still get in with those flames.’

  ‘I’m an old cinder thief,’ he added as Lily shot him an unbelieving look. ‘I’ve got furniture out of worse fires without a blister.’

  They pelted down towards the riverfront as the wind switched direction. A wall of black smoke rolled over them and they coughed and choked.

  ‘It comes,’ said Lily. ‘The firestorm comes.’

  From all directions air currents began to lift. Charlie felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His skin prickled.

  As the smoke passed, they saw flames towering high from the wooden rooftops. Houses were already being reduced to ash.

  Lily slackened her pace.

  ‘There’s still time!’ shouted Charlie over the smoke. But Lily was bent double and fighting to breathe.

  ‘You go!’ she managed.

  Charlie ran through the graveyard of a burned-out church. Where the ground had been over-filled with plague victims the scourge of flames had burst apart the soft earth. He vaulted over broken tombs and haphazard corpses, their skin turned to charcoal and clothes burned away.

  Stone crypts were shattered open. Dismembered limbs of statues were scattered all about with human ones. A man was prodding in the dust with a stick and pocketing chunks of the melted church bells.

  Charlie passed the smoking remains of the church. He saw charred bodies inside where people had hidden.

  As Charlie swung to the edge of Blackstone’s street, several houses at the far end were already burned to ash. Others were wreathed in flame. Brick chimneys had pitched away and smashed on to the cobbles.

  Charlie skidded to a halt, taking in the carnage. But he couldn’t distinguish from the blazing fronts the house of his childhood.

  Then he saw it. The sign of the Merlin’s Head. He blinked in disbelief. It was still there, after all those years. All beyond the sign had burned to the ground and the house next to it was in high flame.

  Charlie let out a breath. The picture in his mind was of the Merlin’s head swinging next to Blackstone’s house. The flaming building. This must be it.

  The windows were simple cottage style, open holes barred with wood. Charlie grasped a bar and pulled himself up to see inside. The interior was thick with flames and smoke. It wasn’t familiar at all.

  Lily arrived by his side panting.

  ‘Is this it?’ she gasped. ‘This is Blackstone’s house?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know,’ he admitted, drawing back a little. Something didn’t feel right.

  ‘The Merlin’s Head.’ Lily was pointing. It was swinging violently back and forth in the high breeze. And then Charlie saw his mistake.

  ‘It has two sides,’ he said, drawing back from the blazing house. ‘The Merlin’s Head is a two-sided sign.’

  He switched his attention to the house on the other side of it. The one which was burned to ashes.

  ‘That was Blackstone’s,’ he said. ‘We’re too late.’

  The house had been burned to the ground. Nothing remained but smoking ruins.

  Fire had beaten them.

  Chapter 119

  Flames were roaring through the Post Office roof.

  Monmouth’s face was blank terror.

  ‘We can’t save it.’ The guard was shaking his head. ‘We should have pressed men, Your Grace. Now there aren’t enough troops.’

  ‘Send a message to my father the King,’ said Monmouth. ‘Tell him the Post Office is defended well and we’re beating back the fire.’

  The guard looked at him dumbstruck. ‘The flames . . .’ he began.

  ‘It will hurt my father’s morale,’ said Monmouth, ‘to be told the Post Office burns.’

  ‘But he must know for tactical reasons,’ said the guard. ‘Your Grace, he must be told. The Duke of York defends
the Fleet. If fire comes unawares from the south . . .’

  But Monmouth’s lip was curling petulantly. ‘Do as I say,’ he said. ‘The King made me commander here. I’ll not have him think his son a failure.’

  Monmouth coughed. ‘The smoke is too thick,’ he said. ‘My lace and cuffs are already dirtied.’ He looked with disdain to the filthy men, sweating and daubed with soot. ‘I mean to retreat a little,’ said Monmouth. ‘We can’t have Palace guards see their nobility shabbier than they. Keep the men fighting the fire. I’m sure they’ll best it soon.’ He was already turning his horse.

  ‘The men will work harder if they see their leader!’ called the guard. But his words fell on deaf ears. Monmouth was already beckoning for an exhausted guard to pass him a tankard of ale.

  Monmouth tilted his head slightly. Men were racing from the Post Office, clutching bundles of mail. Screams could be heard on the high breeze.

  The guard arrived at his side, tugging the reins of his horse.

  ‘We must make haste, Your Grace,’ said the guard. ‘A church burns two streets away. People are still inside.’

  Monmouth glared at the guard and tugged his reins free.

  ‘My father wants me to hold the Post Office,’ said Monmouth. ‘The west wing can still be saved,’ he said, ‘we must keep men here.’

  ‘There’s nothing in that part,’ said the guard. ‘We’ve taken as much post as can be carried. Fire has breached our defence. Monmouth, we can save those people.’

  ‘They are commoners?’ inquired Monmouth, ‘in the church?’

  The guard nodded.

  ‘Then their deaths won’t be recorded,’ said Monmouth. ‘We’ve no way to know which commoners died and which lived.’ He looked to the blazing Post Office. ‘But people will know,’ he said, ‘that Monmouth’s efforts saved the west wing.’

  The guard sagged a little on his horse. He was too old for this. ‘The King makes you commander,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll not be short of commoners once this fire is out,’ said Monmouth. ‘Look to the Post Office.’

  Chapter 120

  ‘All is burned,’ said Charlie, studying the ashen remains. ‘Everything.’

  The burned-out building glowed with heat. Half the upper storey had fallen in and all the roof was burned away. The blackened walls of the ground floor were lit in the red glow of the Great Fire.