“You are not going to betray us?” cried Chowles, suspiciously.
“Why should I betray you?” rejoined Grant, sternly. “I am too anxious for the event to disclose it.”
“True, true,” replied Chowles.
“I do not mistrust you, brother,” observed Solomon Eagle, giving him the key.
“I know whither you are going,” observed Judith Malmayns. “You are about to warn Mr. Bloundel and his partner — apprentice no longer — Leonard Holt, of the approaching conflagration. But your care will be thrown away.”
“Does she speak the truth, brother?” demanded Hubert, raising his eyes from the Bible which he was reading in the corner of the vault.
“I will do nothing to endanger the design,” rejoined Grant; “of that rest assured.”
With this, he strode forth, traversed Saint Faith’s, and, notwithstanding the gloom, reached, without difficulty, the little door by which he had entered the cathedral. Issuing from it, he took the way, as Judith had surmised, to Wood-street, and pausing before the grocer’s door, knocked against it. The summons was presently answered by Blaize; and to Grant’s inquiries whether his master was within, he replied, “Which of my masters did you mean? I have two.”
“The younger,” replied Grant, “Leonard Holt.”
“So far you are fortunate,” rejoined Blaize. “Mr. Bloundel has retired to rest, but Mr. Holt is still downstairs. Pray what may be your business with him at this hour? It should be important.”
“It is important,” rejoined Grant, “and does not admit of a moment’s delay. Tell him so.”
Eyeing the stranger with a look of suspicion, the porter was about to enter into a parley with him, when Leonard himself cut it short, and learning the nature of the application, desired Grant to follow him into the adjoining room. The nine months which had passed over Leonard’s head since he was last brought under notice, had wrought a material change in his appearance. He had a grave and thoughtful air, somewhat inclining to melancholy, but in other respects he was greatly improved. His health was completely restored, and the thoughtful expression added character to his handsome physiognomy, and harmonised well with his manly and determined bearing. He was habited plainly, but with some degree of taste. As Judith Malmayns had intimated, he was now Mr. Bloundel’s partner, and his whole appearance denoted his improved circumstances. The alteration did not escape the notice of the stranger, who regarded him with much curiosity, and closed the door behind him as he entered the room.
“You are looking much better than when we last met, Leonard Holt,” he said, in tones that made his hearer start, “and I am glad to perceive it. Prosperity seems to attend your path, and you deserve it; whereas misery and every other ill — and I deserve them — dog mine.”
“I did not recognise you at first, Mr. Thirlby,” replied Leonard; “for, in truth, you are much changed. But you desire to speak with me on a matter of importance. Can I aid you? You may need money. Here is my purse.”
“I do not want it,” replied the other, scornfully rejecting the offer.
“I have a proposal to make to you.”
“I shall be glad to hear it,” replied Leonard. “But first tell me how you effected your escape after your arrest on that disastrous night when, in self-defence, and unintentionally, I wounded your son, Lord Argentine?”
“Would you had killed him!” cried the other, fiercely. “I have lost all feelings of a father for him. He it was who contrived my arrest, and he would have gladly seen me borne to the scaffold, certain it would have freed him from me for ever. I was hurried away by the officers from the scene of strife, and conveyed to the Tun at Cornhill, which you know has been converted into a round-house, and where I was locked up for the night. But while I was lying on the floor of my prison, driven well-nigh frantic by what had occurred, there were two persons without labouring to effect my deliverance — nor did they labour in vain. These were Chowles and Judith, my foster-sister, and whom, you may remember, I suspected — and most unfairly — of intending my betrayal. By means of a heavy bribe, they prevailed on one of the officers to connive at my escape. An iron bar was removed from the window of my prison, and I got through the aperture. Judith concealed me for some days in the vaults of Saint Faith’s, after which I fled into the country, where I wandered about for several months, under the name of Philip Grant. Having learnt that my son though severely hurt by you, had recovered from his wound, and that his sister, the Lady Isabella, had accompanied him to his seat in Staffordshire, I proceeded thither, and saw her, unknown to him. I found her heart still true to you. She told me you had disappeared immediately after the termination of the conflict, and had not been heard of till her brother was out of danger, when you returned to Wood-street.”
“The information was correct,” replied Leonard. “I was dragged away by a person whom I did not recognise at the time, but who proved to be the Earl of Rochester. He conducted me to a place of safety, thrust a purse into my hand, and left me. As soon as I could do so with safety, I returned to my master’s house. But how long have you been in London?”
“Nearly a month,” replied Grant. “And now let me ask you one question.
Do you ever think of Isabella?”
“Often, very often,” replied Leonard. “But as I dare not indulge the hope of a union with her, I have striven to banish her image from my mind.”
“She cannot forget you, Leonard,” rejoined Grant. “And now to my proposal. I have another plan for your aggrandisement that cannot fail. I am in possession of a monstrous design, the revelation of which will procure you whatever you desire. Ask a title from the king, and he will give it; and when in possession of that title, demand the hand of the Lady Isabella, and her proud brother will not refuse you. Call in your porter — seize me. I will offer a feigned resistance. Convey me before the king. Make your own terms with him. He will accede to them. Will you do it?”
“No,” replied Leonard, “I will not purchase the daughter at the price of the father’s life.”
“Heed me not,” replied Grant, supplicatingly, “I am wholly indifferent to life. And what matters it whether I am dragged to the scaffold for one crime or another?”
“You plead in vain,” returned Leonard, firmly.
“Reflect,” cried Grant, in an agonised tone. “A word from you will not only win you Isabella, but save the city from destruction.”
“Save the city!” exclaimed Leonard. “What mean you?”
“Swear to comply with my request, and you shall know. But not otherwise,” replied Grant.
“I cannot — I cannot,” rejoined Leonard; “and unfortunately you have said too much for your own safety. I must, though most reluctantly, detain you.”
“Hear me, Leonard, and consider well what you do,” cried Grant, planting himself before the door. “I love you next to my daughter, and chiefly because she loves you. I have told you I have a design to discover, to which I am a party — a hellish, horrible design — which threatens this whole city with destruction. It is your duty, having told you thus much, to arrest me, and I will offer no resistance. Will you not turn this to your advantage? Will you not make a bargain with the king?”
“I have said I will not,” rejoined Leonard.
“Then be warned by me,” rejoined Grant. “Arouse your partner. Pack up all your goods and make preparations for instant flight, for the danger will invade you before you are aware of it.”
“Is it fire?” demanded Leonard, upon whose mind the denunciations of
Solomon Eagle now rushed.
“You will see,” replied Grant, with a terrible laugh. “You will repent your determination when it is too late. Farewell.”
“Hold!” cried Leonard, advancing towards him, and trying to lay hands upon him, “I arrest you in the king’s name.”
“Off!” exclaimed Grant, dashing him forcibly backwards. And striking down Blaize, who tried to stop him in the passage, he threw open the street-door, and disappeared. Fearful
of pursuit, Grant took a circuitous route to Saint Paul’s, and it was full half an hour after the interview above related before he reached the cathedral. Just as he passed through the small door, the clock tolled forth the hour of midnight, and when he gained the mid aisle, he heard footsteps approaching, and encountered his friends.
“We had given you up,” said Chowles, “and fearing you intended us some treachery, were about to do the job without you.”
“I have been unavoidably detained,” replied Grant. “Let us about it at once.”
“I have got the fire-balls with me,” observed Hubert.
“It is well,” returned Grant.
Quitting the cathedral, they proceeded to Thames-street, and tracking it to Fish-street-hill, struck off on the right into an alley that brought them to Pudding-lane.
“This is the house,” said Chowles, halting before a two-storied wooden habitation, over the door of which was suspended the sign of the “Wheat Sheaf, with the name THOMAS FARRYNER, BAKER, inscribed beneath it.
“And here,” said Hubert, “shall begin the great fire of London.”
As he said this, he gave a fire-ball to Solomon Eagle, who lighted the fuze at Chowles’s lantern. The enthusiast then approached a window of the baker’s shop, and breaking a small pane of glass within it, threw the fire-ball into the room. It alighted upon a heap of chips and fagots lying near a large stack of wood used for the oven, and in a few minutes the whole pile had caught and burst into a flame, which, quickly mounting to the ceiling, set fire to the old, dry, half-decayed timber that composed it.
II.
THE FIRST NIGHT OF THE FIRE.
Having seen the stack of wood kindled, and the flames attack the building in such a manner as to leave no doubt they would destroy it, the incendiaries separated, previously agreeing to meet together in half an hour at the foot of London Bridge; and while the others started off in different directions, Chowles and Judith retreated to a neighbouring alley commanding a view of the burning habitation.
“At last the great design is executed,” observed Chowles, rubbing his hands gleefully. “The fire burns right merrily, and will not soon be extinguished. Who would have thought we should have found such famous assistants as the two madmen, Solomon Eagle and Robert Hubert — and your scarcely less mad foster-brother, Philip Grant? I can understand the motives that influenced the two first to the deed, but not those of the other.”
“Nor I,” replied Judith, “unless he wishes in some way or other to benefit Leonard Holt by it. For my part, I shall enjoy this fire quite as much on its own account as for the plunder it will bring us. I should like to see every house in this great city destroyed.”
“You are in a fair way of obtaining your wish,” replied Chowles; “but provided I have the sacking of them, I don’t care how many are saved. Not but that such a fire will be a grand sight, which I should be sorry to miss. You forget, too, that if Saint Paul’s should be burnt down, we shall lose our hoards. However, there’s no chance of that.”
“Not much,” replied Judith, interrupting him. “But see! the baker has at last discovered that his dwelling is on fire. He bursts open the window, and, as I live, is about to throw himself out of it.”
As she spoke, one of the upper windows in the burning habitation was burst open, and a poor terrified wretch appeared at it in his night-dress, vociferating in tones of the wildest alarm, “Fire! fire! — help! help!”
“Shall we go forward?” said Chowles. Judith hesitated for a moment, and then assenting, they hurried towards the spot.
“Can we give you any help, friend?” cried Chowles.
“Take care of this,” rejoined the baker, flinging a bag of money to the ground, “and I will endeavour to let down my wife and children. The staircase is on fire, and we are almost stifled with smoke. God help us!” And the exclamation was followed by fearful shrieks from within, followed by the appearance of a woman, holding two little children in her arms, at the window.
“This must be money,” said Judith, utterly heedless of the fearful scene occurring above, and taking up the bag and chinking it; “silver, by the sound. Shall we make off with it?”
“No, no,” replied Chowles, “we must not run any risk for such a paltry booty. Let us bide our time.”
At this juncture, the baker, who had disappeared for a few seconds from the window, again presented himself at it, and, with some difficulty, forced a feather bed through it, which was instantly placed by Chowles in such a position beneath, as to break the fall of the descending parties. Tying a couple of sheets together, and fastening one end round his wife’s waist, the baker lowered her and the children to the ground. They alighted in safety; but just as he was about to follow their example, the floor of the room gave way, and though he succeeded in springing through the window, he missed the feather bed, and broke his leg in the fall. He was picked up by Chowles and Judith, and placed upon the bed in a state of insensibility, and was soon afterwards conveyed with his family to the house of a neighbour.
Meanwhile, the fire had spread to the houses on either side of the unfortunate man’s habitation, and both of them being built entirely of wood, they were almost instantly in flames. The alarm too had become general; the inhabitants of the adjoining houses were filled with indescribable terror, and the narrow street was speedily crowded with persons of both sexes, who had rushed from their beds to ascertain the extent of the danger. All was terror and confusion. The fire-bells of Saint Margaret’s, Saint George’s, and Saint Andrew’s, in Botolph-lane, began to toll, and shouts were heard on every side, proving that the whole neighbourhood was roused.
To add to the general distress, a report was raised that a house in Fish-street-hill was on fire, and it was soon found to be true, as an immense volume of flames burst forth in that quarter. While the rest of the spectators, distracted by this calamity, and hardly knowing what to do, hurried in the direction of the new fire, Chowles and Judith eyed each other askance, and the former whispered to his companion, “This is another piece of Hubert’s handiwork.”
The two wretches now thought it time to bestir themselves. So much confusion prevailed, that they were wholly unobserved, and under the plea of rendering assistance, they entered houses and carried off whatever excited their cupidity, or was sufficiently portable. No wealthy house had been attacked as yet, and therefore their spoil was but trifling. The poor baker seemed to be the bearer of ill-luck, for he had not been many minutes in his new asylum before it likewise caught fire. Another house, too, in Fish-street-hill, and lower down than the first, was observed to be burning, and as this was out of the current of the wind, and consequently could not have been occasioned by the showers of sparks that marked its course, a cry was instantly raised that incendiaries were abroad, and several suspicious-looking persons were seized in consequence.
Meantime no efforts had been made to stop the progress of the original conflagration in Pudding-lane, which continued to rage with the greatest fury, spreading from house to house with astonishing rapidity. All the buildings in this neighbourhood being old, and of wood, which was as dry as tinder, a spark alighting upon them would have sufficed to set them on fire. It may be conceived, therefore, what must have been the effect of a vast volume of flame, fanned by a powerful wind. House after house caught, as if constructed of touchwood, and the fire roared and raged to such a degree, that those who stood by were too much terrified to render any effectual assistance. Indeed, the sole thought that now seemed to influence all was the preservation of a portion of their property. No one regarded his neighbour, or the safety of the city. The narrow street was instantly filled with goods and furniture of all kinds, thrown out of the windows or pushed out of the doors; but such was the fierceness of the fire, and the extraordinary rapidity with which it advanced, that the very articles attempted to be saved were seized by it, and thus formed a means of conveying it to the opposite houses.
In this way a number of persons were inclosed for a short time bet
ween two fires, and seemed in imminent danger of being burned to death. The perilous nature of their situation was, moreover, increased by a sudden and violent gust of wind, which, blowing the flames right across the street, seemed to envelop all within them. The shrieks that burst from the poor creatures thus involved were most appalling. Fortunately, they sustained no greater damage than was occasioned by the fright and a slight scorching, for the next moment the wind shifted, and, sweeping back the flames, they were enabled to effect their retreat. Chowles and Judith were among the sufferers, and in the alarm of the moment lost all the booty they had obtained.
Soon after this the whole street was on fire. All idea of preserving their property was therefore abandoned by the inhabitants, and they thought only of saving themselves. Hundreds of half-naked persons of both sexes rushed towards Thames-street in search of a place of refuge. The scene was wholly without parallel for terror. Many fires had occurred in London, but none that raged with such fierceness as the present conflagration, or promised to be so generally destructive. It gathered strength and fury each moment, now rising high into the air in a towering sheet of flame, now shooting forward like an enormous dragon vomiting streams of fire upon its foes. All at once the flames changed colour, and were partially obscured by a thick black smoke. A large warehouse filled with resin, tar, and other combustible matters, had caught fire, and the dense vapour proceeded from the burning pitch. But it cleared off in a few minutes, and the flames burnt more brightly and fiercely than ever.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 277