The Great Plague

by Pamela Oldfield

  Papa is once more engrossed in his work and late home from his office most days. We still have Maggie tho’ she will leave us as soon as she is with child. I do most of the cooking which I now practise most diligently for the day when (I hope) I shall be Mistress Bell. With such a scholarly husband we shall doubtless entertain and I must have some recipes which cannot go awry in the cooking.

  On Saturday Papa and I go by hackney to Dartford. ’Tis Mistress Bell’s birthday and we shall walk in the fields if the weather is fine and eat a supper with them. Last time we did so, we made music with them after (Edward has a fine voice) and returned late which pleased me. ’Tis always an adventure to travel at night.

  September 2nd

  Lordsday. We returned from a short visit to Uncle John’s very early this morning. Although the moon was out we were amazed to see a bright glow in the sky above the river. As we drew near the river the driver of the carriage cried out, pointing across the water.

  “See there. Close to the bridge. Another fire.”

  We saw at once that he was right. Fires are not uncommon where wooden houses are crammed close. By the direction of it, Papa thought it in New Fish Street or Pudding Lane above Thames Street. We took to the river and made our usual crossing, admiring the dazzle of flames reflected in the water. Papa shook his head, saying that the buildings would burn like a funeral pyre by reason of the pitch that covers all the wooden beams.

  We came home. I am too tired to write more.

  Later the same day

  Up again to church to find much excitement among the congregation. It seems the fire we saw earlier still burns and has spread. The rumour was whispered from pew to pew that the blaze was started by a Papist hoping to destroy the city. Another rumour we heard on the way into the church claims ’twas an accident started in a baker’s oven. They say the fire was not properly drawn after baking bread and re-ignited while the baker slept. It seems that the poor man, (Farynor by name), escaped with his family by way of the roof but a maidservant died. Papa believes this to be the true version. (But if ’tis the Papist then I hope they can arrest the wretch.)

  On leaving the church we made our way towards the blaze but could not get near enough except to see smoke billowing up from the area. The thoroughfares were clogged with people carrying their goods and chattels away from the fire. They say ’tis spreading and has consumed an inn and St Margaret’s church in Fish Street. The wind is strong from the east and everywhere about us in the air there were sparks and large burning flakes which might be paper or cloth.

  When we reached home we could still smell smoke.

  We were eating our midday meal when Mistress Capperly came in greatly distressed. She told us the fire was quite out of control and had spread on to London Bridge. We looked at her with horror.

  “The houses on the bridge are all ablaze,” she told us, “and falling into the water. The streets are thronged with people, carts and carriages, all laden with furniture, bedding and clothes. Everywhere people are fleeing their homes.”

  She held a hand to her heart and breathed deeply.

  I said, “Luke will be busy. He now has his own horse and cart.”

  “Then he will make another fortune,” she cried, “People are paying five and ten pounds to have valuable goods carried to safety.”

  This was such a large sum I thought she exaggerated but said nothing.

  Papa’s colleague, Master Waybold, lives off Philpot Lane, nearby the area of the fire, and Papa decided he must make his way there and offer help. He told Maggie and I that we were to stay in the house and departed with much haste.

  Mistress Capperly returned to her own house and Maggie and I cleared the table and washed the dishes.

  Maggie grinned. “How will he know where we are? As long as we are home before he returns.”

  Thinking myself no more a child I nodded. Aunt Nell would have needed no permission. “I was thinking the selfsame thing,” I told Maggie.

  We slipped from the house and were at once aware of the heavy pall of smoke that hung above the city, hiding the sun. A fine grey ash fell like a soft rain and we shielded our faces with our hands for fear of breathing it in. As we hurried towards the water in search of Jon we could hear the dull roar of the flames. I felt a prickle of unease but said nothing. Together we pushed our way to the front of the crowd that thronged the boat stairs but there was no sign of Jon. Instead we saw a scene which rivalled the worst days of the plague. The riverside was littered with bags, boxes and items of furniture. More was being unloaded from carts and wagons. Faces were grimy with smoke and dust and many were streaked with tears. All eyes were wide with fear as the boats jostled for position. They left the stairs, heavily loaded with goods as others arrived empty to be immediately fought over by the desperate crowd.

  “There he is,” cried Maggie and we saw Jon passing, his boat as loaded as the next. Maggie waved but he did not see her. “He, too, will make his fortune by this evening.”

  Beside me an elderly man clutched a rolled bundle of blankets and pillow. A sudden surge in the crowd knocked him sideways and, losing his balance, he fell into the water with a cry of terror.

  “Save me!” he screamed.

  His wig floated free and some heartless wretches laughed at the sight. I crouched down, reaching out my hand for his but the distance was too great. He would not release his hold on the bedding and was rapidly carried some yards from the landing stairs.

  “Help him,” I shouted, turning to face the men in the crowd. “Pull him from the water.”

  His expression was one of extreme terror but the bundle was keeping him afloat.

  “He’ll be run down by a boat,” cried Maggie. “Or crushed between two of them.”

  It seemed very likely. I wished I could swim but knew that to go in after him would mean certain death for both of us. Fortunately, at that moment, a young man pushed his way forward and dived into the swiftly flowing water. A great cheer went up from the crowd as the rescuer reached the drowning man and brought him to safety further along the bank.

  I straightway moved back from the water’s edge lest I be the next one to fall in. I was very shaken by the incident for it brought back some of the horrors of last year’s plague when death was an everyday occurrence. I knew that we should have stayed at home and blamed myself for allowing a maidservant to take such foolish risks.

  “We cannot stay here,” I told her and pushed my way back up the steps dragging Maggie by the hand.

  We went elsewhere but could only draw near to the fire by fighting against the press of people who stumbled about in panic. We saw the Lord Mayor and several Aldermen but they, too, seemed unsure what to do.

  “Pull down some houses,” a man urged them. “Create a barrier for the fire. Then the flames will not jump from one house to the next. Pull them down, I say. Order it now.”

  But the mayor hesitated saying that if he did so the town would be liable for the cost of rebuilding them and that would be a heavy burden. We loitered, waiting on his decision and after much argument it was agreed. Three houses were chosen for demolition and willing men were organized. With long metal firehooks they gripped projections in the structure of the first house and began to shout.

  “Stand clear.”

  “Back. Further back.”

  We needed no second bidding and moved well back. They tugged and tugged as sweat ran down their faces. Suddenly a gable loosened and swayed forward. Then the top half of the façade, the front of the building, fell into the street with a crash. It sent up clouds of dust which set us coughing. Fragments of plaster flew and bounced in all directions. One of the men was struck on the arm by a piece of debris and cursed as blood began to flow from the wound.

  “We’ve seen enough, Maggie,” I said firmly. Ignoring her pleas, I moved away. Maggie followed reluctantly, glancing over her shoulder all the while.


  “They were too late,” she cried. “See how the flames have jumped the gap.”

  I nodded but I longed to be gone from the scene. The heat was intense, my throat was painfully dry and my eyes hurt. We made our way thankfully home.

  Papa returned, exhausted. The Waybolds have fled the city with their valuables, for unless the wind changes direction their home may soon be consumed by the flames. They pray their house will still stand on their return but Papa fears the worst. The Mayor is to call out the Trained Bands to keep order and prevent looting.

  Late that same day

  I took Poppet for a walk to hear news of the fire and came almost at once on a small crowd. They were listening to a large, swarthy woman who was haranguing them. She carried a bundle of goods on her head and carried pots and pans tied across her shoulders.

  “Believe me or believe me not but I speak the truth. The Dutch have fired London by way of revenge and have burnt our houses to the ground. Mine’s gone and—”

  “Revenge for what?” asked a young woman who carried a baby in her arms.

  The speaker rolled her eyes, despairing of the woman’s ignorance. “Why, for our successes at sea. Can’t you understand? Didn’t our sailors win a mighty victory over their fleet? Hundreds of our sailors set fire to their ships in Brandaris and burned the town. We killed thousands of their men.”

  I said nothing but I had heard this rumour from Papa who heard it from Master Pepys.

  A young man asked why he had heard nothing of the affair.

  “ ’Cos you don’t listen,” she cried, wagging a finger at him. “My son’s a sailor under Prince Rupert and he told me.” She looked around in triumph. “Now they send mischief makers to fire London. And such as me are on their way to Moorfields because I’ve no roof over my head. Thank the Lord for fine weather for we’ll sleep under the stars tonight.”

  She turned on her heel and strode away and for a moment the crowd watched her go in silence. Moorfields. I thought about the laundry that is daily spread to dry there. ’Tis hoped the owners collected it long since for the falling ash would dirty it again. We are fortunate to have a small yard in which to dry our washing.

  One said “We should pray for rain to douse the flames.”

  We eyed each other nervously.

  An elderly man shook his head. “I heard tell ’twas the Papists.”

  I asked him, “But what grudge do they have against us? They live among us in friendship.”

  Now everyone hung on his words as he tapped the side of his nose with a stubby finger. “Friendship?” He sucked in breath. “Never trust a Papist. They want a Catholic country. That’s their grudge. If that’s what you want to call it. Me, I call it a plot. They want England the way ’twas before King Henry the Eighth broke with the Pope. They’ve been waiting for their chance and now they’ve got it.”

  All around me angry murmurs broke out.

  “But the fire was started accidentally,” I protested hastily for the talk was beginning to alarm me. “In a baker’s shop in Pudding Lane.”

  He tossed his head. “So it did, but who started the baker’s fire? He swears he had raked out his oven before he went to his bed. I’ve heard they’ve arrested several Papists who were seen to throw burning fireballs in to the churches. They thought to get away scot free but were seen and accused.”

  Poppet chose that moment to chase after a cat, nearly jerking my arm from its socket, so that I heard no more of the accusations. I shall ask Papa what more he knows when he returns from his office.

  To my surprise I learned that the fire, far from being out, was still burning and growing stronger. No longer confined to the riverside but being blown north by a changed wind. Folk said it was all along Thames Street and westward. If it should go east and reach Cheapside it seems the goldsmiths will be hard put to save their valuables. I walked nearer but found it uncomfortable going. The air was hot to breathe and full of ash and burning flakes which swirled in the air. The smell of burning wood was unmistakable and there is a dull roar in the background as the flames and heat rise skyward. The huge pall of smoke drifts overhead, so that even the sun’s light is dimmed. Panic is in the air and on every face there is a mixture of despair and loss. The latter not only for personal possessions but for London which some swear is one third burned away.

  I returned home to eat a thin and tasteless stew which Maggie had prepared. She was in a bad humour, complaining that, being confined to the house, she is missing all the excitement. I write this sitting on my bed with Poppet beside me. I hope there are no dogs and cats burned by the fire. There most certainly will be many homeless animals after this.

  Ten o’clock the same day

  My head aches abominably and my shoulder is badly bruised but I will come to that. . .

  After the meal I gave in to my curiosity and Maggie and I ventured out. Maggie had cheese and bread in a cloth and was determined to find Jon Ruddle, insisting he will have no time to find food. I was hoping for a letter from my own dear Edward but ’tis now unlikely. Overnight the Post Office at Dowgate was taken by the fire. I wonder what Edward thinks of the fire. No doubt he will worry about me and pray for my safety as I do for his.

  I hoped we might get closer to the fire but the press of people in the streets made it impossible – men and women scurrying hither and thither with what belongings they could salvage. The narrow streets were crammed to bursting and most people are frightened, angry or confused. The Mayor has now called in the Trained Bands to help wherever they can. We learned also that King Charles himself is in the midst of it. His beautiful clothes are blackened with soot and his fine boots ruined from the water with which they try to douse the flames. Elsewhere they said that the Duke of York is helping also, passing buckets of water as part of a chain.

  Parted company with Maggie who made her way to the river and I homeward, having had enough of disaster for one day. Why, I wondered, was God punishing us yet again. Whatever our sins we should all pray for forgiveness. I thought to spend a few moments in earnest prayer and without more ado entered the first church I came to. To my surprise ’twas quite noisy, being filled with refugees from the fire. They sat in dazed groups but some were alone, surrounded by their belongings and many red-eyed from weeping. I felt like an intruder and would have fled but at that moment a scuffle broke out near the font close to where I stood.

  All heads turned but, sunk in lethargy and hopelessness, no one moved. I saw a poor woman clinging to a large bundle which a burly ruffian was trying to take from her. He was dishevelled with a bushy beard and very little hair. I clutched his sleeve. He jerked his elbow into my stomach which winded me for a moment but I returned to the fray, more angry now than frightened.

  “Leave her be,” I shouted, “or I shall call for your arrest.”

  For my impudence he slapped me across the mouth and I felt the sour taste of blood which startled me. (My lip was cut by a tooth.) The woman began to scream at him but with a final tug he wrested the bundle from her and turned to run away. I again caught hold of his arm and held on grimly so that my weight hindered him. He turned with an oath and punched me on the side of my face. As I stumbled, he kicked my shin for good measure.

  By this time another man was making his way up the aisle in our direction. Seeing that help was on its way I grabbed the bundle and clung to it like a leech. The wretch thrust out an arm and threw me backwards so that I fell against the stone font. I struck my head and lost consciousness. When I regained my wits, the wretch had been caught and held and was dragged away to be delivered to the authorities. The woman was once more clutching her belongings. She smiled down at me as she wiped away her tears and mumbled her thanks. The bundle contained all that she owned in the world now that the fire had burned her home by the river. Our rescuer helped me to my feet.

  “This is all I have in the world,” she told me as her eyes filled once more with tears. �
�I watched my home burn. ’Tis no more than charred wooden beams upon the ground.” Here she gulped for air. “All that remains is the brick chimney stack.”

  I could imagine the sight, a forest of sooty chimneys where once there were dwellings. My own tears were not far away as we made our farewells. Still a little dazed, I made my way home.

  So now I ache in various places, my jaw is swollen and my lip is split but will heal. Papa was horrified when he saw me but not surprised by my story. It seems thieves are flocking to the city to take advantage of the chaos and steal where they may. Please God the fire will be out by morning. I am thankful that Edward will not see me in this sorry state.

  Mistress Capperly knocked on our door, searching for Sooty, and discovered him in our yard. Hearing of my struggle in the church she took me to her house and gave me a dish of lemon cream which slipped down easily and eased my parched throat.

  Papa returned late saying that Lord Craven has been charged by the King to organize further demolition of houses. They hope to starve the fire and will do all else necessary for the protection of the people.

  “He will do all that is needful,” he told us. “I have the highest opinion of the man. He stood by us throughout the plague when others had fled. Londoners owe the man a great debt of gratitude.”

  Papa believes the worst is over. By morning the fire should be under control.

  September 4th

  Tuesday. London still burns. I can scarce believe it. Today Papa was not required at the office so he and I ventured out together. We spent more than an hour watching the tragic end of London’s greatest church which was a great sorrow to us. St Paul’s has burned all day, fanned by a rising wind. We were told it first caught at the top, and the wooden roof timbers were soon ablaze. We spoke with one of the stonemasons who had worked on it from time to time, doing small repairs.