Chapter XXI London on Fire
The summer of 1665 had been hot, but the summer of 1666, if possible, was hotter. In the month of August there had been a long drought, and many people wondered that the plague did not reappear; but there had been no signs of it.
The Dutch War was the principal topic of conversation and excitement. The court and home affairs were gradually settling down; the evil days seemed well-nigh forgotten.
So it came to pass that on the first of September a group of men and women was assembled on the leads of the roof of Somerset House, to breathe the air which came up from the river; indeed, an east wind was blowing, but the day had been so excessively hot that it hardly seemed to bring freshness with it.
Patience was there, looking so fragile that the very sight of her made Parson Ewan’s heart ache. He and Jessie had come down from the north to see if they could persuade her to return with them. They had heard of Agnes’s disappearance, and it was so long ago that they had ceased to entertain anything but a shadowy hope of her return. Mr. Ewan could therefore see no reason why Patience should remain alone in London. Indeed, looking at her as she lay on a couch which had been brought up on to the leads for her especial use, it seemed to him that she would not be long with them. The patient face was so white and still, the eyes had that strange, far-away look in them which we see in the eyes of the dying.
Jessie was sitting beside her holding her thin, white hand, and talking to her of that home among the hills which they both loved so well, telling her all the little village gossip, which brought a smile to Patience’s sad face. Ann and George Delarry were there also; but for them, indeed, Patience’s life would have been unbearable. They had done all they could to comfort her.
To Parson Ewan especially the sight of London, as viewed from the roof of Somerset House that night, was wonderful. Indeed, they were all destined never to forget it. The sky was absolutely clear and cloudless, of that pure blue peculiar to it when an east wind is blowing. Every bit of colour stood out distinctly. The grey of the stone of Somerset House, and of other buildings looked white from the dry heat; the river below shone like silver. Looking towards the city they could see the spires and turrets of a hundred churches rising in the clear air. St. Paul’s seemed very near to them. It was now under repair and surrounded by a net-work of scaffold poles, all exceedingly dry, almost as if dried in an oven, so hot had the summer been. In the city of London itself there were many picturesque wooden houses, so close one to another in the narrow streets that they almost touched. They were very dry, except here and there, where the tar with which some were covered was oozing down because of the heat.
In these narrow streets there was much buying and selling, eating, drinking, and making “mighty merry”. A few hackney-coaches were returning with family parties who had been out on excursions refreshing themselves at Islington or some other suburb, from the heat of the city. Many people were singing, girls were playing on virginals. There was much laughter and merriment, and even dancing in the streets. No one seemed to think of going to bed, the night air was so refreshing.
To those on the leads of Somerset House the scene was inexpressibly fascinating. The sun had long set; there hung over the city the strange beauty and mystery of what is called the ‘raven’s twilight’. They did not speak much, but stood or sat and watched the city until night fell. Then the moon rose and once more lit up that marvellous vision. It was so lovely no one desired to leave it. There was not a trace of any mist. The moon mounted to her highest noon, in cloudless majesty, while the city was hushed to sleep. Midnight chimed from St. Clement’s, and the bells of a hundred other churches rang out. The watchman’s call was heard:
“Past twelve o’clock and a windy morning. All’s well. It is the Lord’s day.”
Stooping over the parapet, Delarry said carelessly, addressing himself to Mr. Ewan:
“Do you see, sir, down yonder by the river, near London Bridge, that light? It is not the light of the moon. It is a fire. Well, we need not be anxious, fires are frequent; it will be nothing. My Lord Craven will be at his best, he never misses a fire. It is said his horse is so used to take him to fires that he knows the smell of it a long distance off, and will gallop to it as soon as he feels his master’s foot in the stirrup.”
“I have heard that a fire is a very fascinating sight,” said Mr. Ewan. “After all, it is a battle with the elements. But it would not be a good thing to-night, with this east wind blowing.”
As they watched that little light they saw that by degrees the sky grew red and strong flames came driving westward. The east wind blew a fierce gale; cries rose up from the streets; there was much rushing about and confusion even in their neighbourhood, though the fire was certainly at a great distance.
“I think we had best go down and see what is happening,” said Delarry. “Shall we take you ladies into the house? We shall not be long absent.”
“No; we will abide here,” said Patience. “It would be intolerable to be below and see nothing.”
Indeed, even as she spoke many of the servants came up, anxious also to witness the conflagration.
“You need have no fear,” said Delarry, “I am going to the king.”
“I wish you would not go,” said Ann. “See how the flames are riding, and how quickly they spread!”
“It is my duty to go to the king, Ann,” he said, “but I will be back as quickly as possible. In the meantime, Mr. Ewan,” he continued, “if the ladies are fearful it would be well to put them into a barge and send them out into the river. You had better see if the barges are in order,” he added to the chief steward of the household, “and Peter Kemp, you will help Parson Ewan with the ladies; but there can be no haste, the fire will be cut off in no time.”
Even as he spoke these words he looked anxiously at the great flames which kept rising from amidst volumes of smoke.
“Courage, dearest,” he said, kissing Ann, “I shall be back immediately.” And without more ado he left her.
Martha was in tears. Patience had risen and was standing leaning upon Jessie, looking at the wonderful sight. By this time the whole centre of the city seemed to be one mass of flames, driven in long tongues of fire westward, spreading quickly along the water side.
“Do you think it will come this way?” asked Mr. Ewan of Peter Kemp, who stood beside him.
“Lor’ no, sir,” answered the man; “it’s a pretty long way off yet, but the houses be so dry and so near together, and many of them are tarred, so that they set one another on fire.”
Peter Kemp was right. The chronicles of the time tell us that the fire broke out in the house of one Farryner, the king’s baker, in Pudding Lane, where the Monument now stands, and that it spread so quickly that before three o’clock in the morning three hundred houses were down. St. Magnus, by the bridge foot, was alight, and the houses near it in flames; the wind was so strong it seemed to sweep everything before it.
Unfortunately no one knew what to do, and the first few hours were lost. The lord mayor was at his wits’ end, and when he received the command from the king to spare no houses, but pull them down before the fire, he exclaimed:
“Lord! what can I do? I am spent; people will not obey me. I have been pulling down houses, but the fire overtakes us faster than we can do it.”
People were wandering about the streets distracted, and there was no efficient means of quenching the fire.1
Delarry found the king leaving Whitehall in his barge with the Duke of York.
“You had better come with us, Delarry,” he said; “you have a steady head, and we may need your services.” And so Delarry went down on the king’s barge to Thames Street, where they landed. And the king and the Duke of York behaved splendidly, encouraging the men, speaking cheerfully and with authority to the distracted people; their presence did much to control the populace.
Almost as soon as they had landed, the king had said to Delarry, “Go back and bring soldiers and gunpowder; we must stop it even if we blow up half the town.” And Delarry had gone.
He came back with a score of men, and it was done as the king desired.
Suddenly there came running into the very midst of this scene of destruction a tall, fair man in the dress of a naval officer, and with him a dozen or more blue-jackets with axes in their hands; they looked like men who had both the will and the power to do good work. A cry went up from the crowd:
“Hurrah for the ‘blue-jackets’!” And the men answered the greeting with a shout and a wild hurrah. The Duke of York, who had taken his part in the Dutch wars, left the king’s side, and, riding forward, greeted the young officer, who paused in his running, and by a word of command drew up his men in front of the duke.
“You’ve come in the very nick of time, Commander Newbolt,” he said; “I wish we had more men like you.”
“Others are following, your highness,” answered Newbolt. “My ship, the Orient, anchored in Harwich this morning, and the news reached us that London was burning, so I got permission from Prince Rupert to come on and see if we could help, if help were needed.”
“It is needed,” said the duke, “and badly; go to work. Do not spare the houses; it is the king’s order. The fire must be cut off, but above all things save as many lives as you can. Away with you!”
No second bidding was needed; from that moment Reginald Newbolt and his blue-jackets did such strenuous work that he and Delarry together were the heroes of the day. Many were the women and the children whom they carried out of danger; many were the poor wretches, sick, and halt, and maimed, whom they took to places of refuge.
It is impossible to relate here the agony of that first day of the fire, a Sabbath day never to be forgotten, the Lord’s day as it was called then. The river was crowded to excess with lighters and boats taking in goods of every description. The water itself was thick with baskets, boxes, anything that would float, and above in the air there was the screaming of birds, of pigeons which would not leave their houses, and which hovered about the windows and balconies licked by the flames, until they burnt their wings and fell down.
Black with smoke and grime, almost beyond recognition, Lord Craven and Reginald Newbolt came face to face, and, strange to tell, recognized each other. It was no time for ceremony, they clasped hands.
“You here!” said Lord Craven; “it is well, for we need brave men, and I have been hearing all day long of the blue-jackets and their commander.”
They had no time to say more, for even as they spoke there was a great crash, and a block of houses fell as in a burning pit, and such a cloud of smoke and dust arose that for a few seconds they were in darkness, half smothered in the suffocating furnace of heat and dust. When they recovered themselves, they found that they were still together.
“Can you tell me anything of Ann?” asked Reginald quickly.
“She is safe with Patience Beaumont at Somerset House,” said Lord Craven. “You know she is Delarry’s wife; he will see after her.”
“I know nothing,” said Reginald, “but I have one bit of news—Mistress Agnes De Lisle is, or rather was, safe a week ago. She was to start for England; let us hope she has not done so. You can carry the news to Patience; she must have had a hard time of it.”
“She is dying of it,” said Lord Craven. “Who knows, this may make her live!” But another burst of flames, another rush of half-distracted men and women separated them, and each went his way, brave men and true, ready to face every danger, not thinking of themselves, doing their duty to God and man as Christian knights and English gentlemen.
At Somerset House, as the danger increased, Mr. Ewan and Peter Kemp decided that as the rapidity of the fire was so great that at any time it might sweep up westward and render even Somerset House untenable, they had better get the women on to a barge and go out into the river. It was difficult to steer, as there were so many other vessels filling the river. The heat was intolerable, and they were almost burnt by the shower of fire-drops which fell continuously. It was by these fire-drops that the fire spread. They fell into the barges, beyond the range of the actual fire. It was as if the heavens showered down burning coals. Many persons threw themselves on the ground or into the river itself, saying it was the last day, and that the judgment of God had fallen upon the city.
The sky was a lurid sheet, like the top of a burning oven. The fall of houses, the sudden collapse of the churches, was hideous to hear and see.
The air was so hot and inflamed, that at last no one was able to approach the radius where the fire raged fiercest. This circle of fire was nearly two miles in length and one in breadth, and because of the long trail of smoke the whole town and country for six miles round was in total darkness, so that at noonday travellers could not see each other, though there was no cloud in the sky! The Guildhall was a fearful spectacle. It stood in view for several hours after the fire had taken hold of it, a great lurid body without any flames, because the timber with which it was built was of solid oak. It shone forth a bright mass, as if it had been a palace of gold.
St. Paul’s was under repair as has been said, and the scaffolding helped to set the cathedral on fire. The great stones of which it was built were calcined.
Patience, Jessie, and Ann watched the scene with terror. They had only Mr. Ewan, Peter, and the house steward with them, along with one bargeman. Martha and one or two maid-servants had followed them.
We have already said that the heat was so fierce, the shower of fire-drops so continuous, that but for the water which surrounded the barge they would of necessity have been burnt up. The water in the river was almost boiling, and hissed and bubbled as the red-hot drops fell into it. At last, overcome with fatigue and fear, Patience became unconscious. Heavy drops of perspiration were pouring down the faces of all; it was intolerable.
“Cannot you steer the barge across to the other side?” asked Mr. Ewan of the bargeman.
It was late in the afternoon when he made this proposition.
“I will try,” he answered, “but you can see for yourself, sir, the river is covered with craft and with floating bales; it is not easy.”
Mr. Ewan had been an oarsman when he was a student at Oxford, and with his assistance at steering they succeeded in crossing the river and reaching the Surrey side, which put them comparatively out of danger. It was called “the Bank side” in those days.
“I know of a little ale-house where, if not overcrowded, they would take us in,” said Peter.
“Then for God’s sake guide us there,” said Mr. Ewan, as he lifted Patience in his arms and carried her out of the barge on to land.
The refugees swarmed along the river front, but, guided by Peter, the little party found its way at last to the ale-house, which stood back in a garden of its own.
As good fortune would have it, there was one room still unoccupied. Of this the women took immediate possession, and where Patience could be tended. Late in the afternoon they were able to join the men in the little garden, and witnessed the fire growing ever more and more vivid, creeping up the steeples, appearing between the churches and the houses, as far as they could see up the hill on which the city stands, a most horrid, malicious, bloody flame, not like the fine flame of a fire, but in fashion like a bow—a dreadful bow it was, a bow which had God’s arrow in it with a flaming point.2
It was an awful sight, and throughout Monday and Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, the fire continued, at times seeming to die down, and then bursting forth again with redoubled fury. Up and down the city the Duke of York rode. Lord Craven, Delarry, Reginald Newbolt, and many other brave men fought the fire as they had never fought a living enemy. There was no thought of rest, no thought of staying their hand—desolation, ruin, surrounded them on every side. The town itself was in those days hardly more than a mile wide at any point; open country was all around, and the people who had made their escape camped out on Moorfields and in the meadows of the hillside slopes.
Fortunately the weather continued warm and dry, and there was bright moonlight. By mid-day on Friday all danger was past; but what had been the most picturesque city in Europe, was now a heap of ruins and ashes. Few lives had been lost, but old London had ceased to exist.
Notes
1 Pepys’s account.
2 Vincent.