Winsor, Kathleen (104 page)

"Come
on!" cried Amber, and they swept off, galloping down the road.

Amber
did not want to stop at all that night for she was afraid that when she got
there not only her money but the Earl too would have disappeared in the
confusion. But it would have been all but impossible to reach the City, for
travel by night was much slower and more dangerous than by day. When supper was
over she went immediately to her room and without taking off more than her hat
and boots and doublet threw herself onto the bed and fell fast asleep. Before
dawn the hostess was rapping at the door and by five they were on the road
again.

At
each village they asked for news of the fire and heard the same thing
everywhere: it was taking all the town, burning the Bridge, churches, houses,
sparing nothing. And the closer they got to London the more people they saw on
the roads, all going in the same direction. Farmers and workmen were throwing
down their shovels and leaving their fields, setting out for the capital with
carts and even wheelbarrows; vehicles of transportation were at a premium and a
man might hire himself and cart at forty of fifty pounds for a few hour's
work—as much as a farmer was likely to make in a whole year's time.

When
they had gone fifteen more miles they could see the smoke, a great moving pall
that hung in the distance, and soon little charred fragments of paper and linen
and plaster began to drift down upon them. They galloped on and on, as fast as
they could go, not stopping even to eat. The day was windy and the closer they
got to London the fiercer it blew, whipping their cloaks about them. Amber lost
her hat. They had to squint their eyes for the wind blew specks of tinder into
them. As the afternoon began to fade the flames could be seen more clearly,
leaping in great streaks, casting a threatening red glare over all the land.

It
was almost night when they reached the City because for the last ten miles the
roads were so congested that they could not move at even a walking pace. From
far off they could hear the roar of the fire, like thousands of iron
coach-wheels crashing
together over cobblestones. There was a continuous echoing thunder as buildings
collapsed or were blown up. From the churches that still stood, within the City
and without, the bells rang frantically—sounding a wild call of distress that
had never ceased since the fire had been discovered two days and a half before.
As darkness settled the sky glowed red—like the top of a burning oven.

Just
without the walls were the great open spaces of Moor Fields, already crowded
with men and women and children, and more were constantly arriving—forcing the
first comers back into the middle of the fields, packing them in tightly. Some
had already pitched tents made of sheets or towels tied together. Women were
suckling their babies; others were trying to prepare a meal with whatever food
they had been able to save in those few awful moments before the flames had
seized their houses. Some sat and stared, unable and unwilling to believe.
Others stolidly stood and watched, the heat scorching their faces, though the
glare of the fire made it impossible to see more than black silhouettes of the
burning buildings.

At
first no one had believed that the fire would be any more destructive than were
dozens of fires London had every year. It had begun at two o'clock Sunday
morning in Pudding Lane, a narrow little alley near the waterfront, and for
hours it fed on the tar and hemp and coal that were stored beside the river.
The Lord Mayor was brought to the scene in the early hours and said
contemptuously that a woman might piss it out; for fear of making himself
unpopular he refused to begin blowing up houses. But it swept on, terrifying
and ruthless, destroying whatever lay in its path. When London Bridge caught,
the City was doomed—for it was covered with buildings and as they collapsed
they blocked that means of escape; charred timbers falling into the water
destroyed the water-wheels underneath, and the one efficient means of fighting
a great fire was gone. From then on it must be done with buckets of water
passed from hand to hand, pumps, hooks for dragging down burning buildings and
hand-squirts.

Unalarmed,
the people went to church as usual on Sunday though some of them were brought
running into the streets by a man who galloped along crying, "Arm! Arm!
The French have landed!"

But
complacency began to vanish as the fire backed up into the City, crawling
steadily, leaping sometimes, driven and fed by the violent east wind. As it
advanced it drove the people before it. Many of them refused to make any
preparations for leaving until the flames had actually caught their houses, and
then they seized whatever they could and ran—often taking articles of no value
and leaving behind what was most important. Helpless, confused, they moved
slowly through the narrow alleys. First they stopped at Cannon Street, which
ran along the crest of the hill above the river, but the fire came on and by
afternoon they were forced to move again.

The
King was not informed until eleven o'clock. He and York came immediately and at
his order men began to blow up houses. It was too late to save the City by that
means, but it was all they could do. Both the brothers worked hard and without
stopping for rest or food. They helped to man the pumps, passed water-buckets,
moved from place to place offering what encouragement and sympathy they could.
More than anything else, it was their courage, energy and resourcefulness which
prevented widespread panic and rioting.

Even
so, the streets became unsafe for any foreigners who were obviously Dutch or
French. In Fenchurch Street a blacksmith knocked down a Frenchman with a heavy
iron bar, smashing his cheekbones and his nose. A woman who was believed to be
carrying fire-balls in her apron was attacked and badly mauled and bruised
before they found that the fire-balls were only chickens. Another Frenchman
with an armful of tennis-balls was seized upon and beaten unconscious. No one
cared whether they were guilty—the mounting hysteria demanded an explanation
for this terrible calamity, and they found it in the three things Englishmen
most feared and hated: the French, the Dutch, and the Catholics. One or all
three must be responsible—they were determined not to let the guilty escape
with the innocent. King Charles ordered many foreigners jailed for their own
protection and the Spanish Ambassador opened his house to others.

The
Thames was aswarm with little boats, smacks and barges, which plied back and
forth—carrying people and their goods to safety in Southwark. Shooting sparks
and pieces of burning wood fell hissing into the water or started new fires in
blankets or clothing. Sometimes a boat overturned and spilled out an entire
family—the river was so crowded that it was like coming up under ice and trying
to find an open space.

Finally
Amber and the five men had to abandon their horses and continue on foot.

They
had been riding for almost thirteen hours and she was sore and stiff: she felt
as though she would never be able to make her knees touch again. Her head swam
with fatigue. She longed to drop where she was and stay, but she forced herself
to go on. Don't stop, don't stop, she told herself over and over. Take another
step. Go on. You've got to get there. She was afraid that she had missed
him—that he would be gone or the house burned and though tortured by fatigue,
she pushed ahead.

She
grabbed at people as they passed, shouting to ask if Cheapside had burnt. Most
of them shoved on by, ignoring or not even hearing her, but finally she got an
answer.

"Early
this morning."

"All
of it?" He was gone and she accosted several more, dragging at their
shirt-sleeves. "Is
all
of Cheapside burnt?"

"Aye,
lad. Burnt to the ground."

The
answer gave her a plunging shock of despair, but it was not as great as what
she would have felt under any other conditions; for the hysterical energy that
was in the moving groping crowds had communicated itself to her. The fire was
so gigantic, the destruction so wide-spread and terrible that it assumed a
strange unreality. Shadrac Newbold had been burnt out and with him probably all
the money she had on earth— but she could not just then fully realize what it
meant and might mean to her. That must come later.

Nothing
mattered now but to find Radclyffe.

Outside
the gates in Chiswell Street and the Barbican and Long Lane the people were
still waiting dubiously. They were hoping, as those who had lived in Watling
Street and Corn Hill and Cheapside had hoped, that the fire would stop before
it reached them. But the flames had already broken through the walls and the
wind had increased to such fury it seemed impossible anything at all could be
spared. Some ran distractedly in and out of their homes, unable to make a
decision. But others were moving what they could, throwing pieces of furniture
and piles of bedding out of upper-story windows, stacking carts with dishes and
silverplate and portraits.

Amber
hung closely to Big John Waterman as they shoved their way along Goswell
Street, for they were going against the crowd and the irresistible tide of
people sometimes forced them backward in spite of their efforts.

There
were mothers who balanced great loads on their heads, holding in one arm a
suckling baby while they tried wearily to watch other children and keep them
from being crushed or lost. Husky porters, arrogant and rude, shouted and swore
and elbowed their ruthless way—for once it was they who gave the orders.
Bewildered animals were everywhere. A bleating frightened goat tried to butt
his way through. Cows were hauled along with yelling children astride their
backs. There were countless dogs and cats, belled pigs, squawking parrots in
their cages, monkeys perched on the shoulder of a master or mistress,
chattering angrily and snatching at a man's wig or a woman's necklace. There
were men who carried on their heads a feather-bed and on top of that a trunk
that shifted perilously and sometimes went crashing to the ground. Others had
everything they had been able to save tied into a sheet and slung over their
backs. There were a great many pregnant women, desperately trying to protect
their awkward bellies, and several of the younger ones were crying, almost
hysterical with terror. The sick were carried on the backs of sons or husbands
or servants. A woman lying in a cart rolled slowly by; she was groaning and her
face was contorted in the agony of childbirth; beside her knelt a midwife,
working with her hands beneath the blankets, while the woman in her pain kept
trying to throw them off.

Their
faces were desperate, apathetic, bewildered. Some of the children laughed and
played games between the legs of the
crowd. Many of the old had become
perfectly lifeless. But all of them had lost everything—the savings of a
lifetime, the work of generations. What the fire took was gone forever.

With
Big John's arm about her Amber slowly fought her way. She was too small to see
over the heads of the crowd and she asked him again and again if Aldersgate
Street was burning; he continued to tell her that it did not look as if the
flames had reached it yet, but they seemed near.

If
only I can get there! If only I can get there and find him!

Cinders
got into her eyes and when she inadvertently rubbed them they became inflamed.
She choked and coughed on the smoke, and the hot scorching air that the wind
blew into her nostrils and lungs made every breath painful. It was only by
tremendous effort that she kept from bursting into tears of sheer baffled rage
and weariness. She might have fallen if Big John had not held her up. Somewhere
they had lost the other men—who perhaps had gone off to join the looters, for
thieves entered the houses even before the masters had left.

At
last they came to Radclyffe House.

The
flames were just below it in St. Martin le Grand and had almost reached Bull
and Mouth Street at the corner. Loaded carts were lined up in front and there
were servants— and perhaps thieves too—carrying out vases and portraits
and" statues and furniture. She forced her way in. No one tried to stop
her or even seemed to know that she was there. Certainly they could not have
recognized her with her soot-smudged face, her hair in long dirty snarls, her
torn and blackened clothes.

The
hallway was in a turmoil. The broad center staircase was covered with men and
furniture—one carrying a small Italian couch, another bundled in ornate golden
drapes, someone with a Botticelli painting on his head, another balancing one
velvet-seated Spanish chair on each shoulder. Amber approached a liveried
footman who carried one end of a gigantic carved chest.