‘I’ll see to it right away sir. By the way, how is Sir John?’
‘My grandfather insisted on coming to welcome you home… he’s in our coach over there,’ I said pointing.
He smiled and said, ‘Excuse me gentlemen, I must not keep the great man waiting.’
The Great Fire of London
The meeting with the senior officers of the Rose was cordial and informative, the most surprising element being Captain Watson’s report on the war.
When asked by my father if he encountered any difficulties with the Dutch, he replied, ‘No more than usual, and certainly no violence or hostility.
‘In Calcutta, I was moored up alongside an old friend of mine… a captain on one of the many Dutch traders there at the time. He invited me onto his vessel and we shared a jug of his finest claret. We had a lively and animated conversation about the war… him putting all the blame on the English, and I on the Dutch, we parted good friends.’
I asked the first officer how the ship had performed, and he took the time to give me a full and accurate assessment, which was mostly positive, with only trivial things he thought should be changed or altered.
Huxley asked about the crew.
‘They were handpicked by me,’ said Captain Watson, ‘I have known them all a long time, and I would trust any one of them with my life.’
The meeting ended with my father handing the quartermaster enough money to pay his officers and the crew in full, plus a generous bonus. They all took a short break with their families while the ship was being checked and restocked with provisions… and by mid-January, the Tudor Rose was well into her second voyage to India.
The Breeze, working around our coast, was consistently outperforming all our expectations, returning to her home port loaded, and faster than we could ever have imagined.
***
It was hoped that the cold winter months would kill off the plague that had now been ravishing London for almost a year. The number of deaths were receding slightly but despite the colder nights, there were still casualties.
Hygiene became impossible to maintain as people feared leaving their home. Slops and waste had been thrown out onto the streets as people were too ill or too afraid to take it down to the dung barges, there was no proper sanitation and the narrow winding streets were like open sewers with animal dung and shit covering the slippery cobbles.
The few people that did venture out in search of food, covered their faces with masks or carried nosegays pressed against their nostrils. And how sad it was to see the once busy streets now so empty of people.
Lord Craven became the most respected man in London during the plague, for while the majority of his contemporaries had fled the city, he had remained to help and maintain order, providing land and property for the burial of the victims. He was later, quite rightly, rewarded with an Earldom.
Around 70,000 people perished in London during the summer of 1665 and there was still people dying, albeit at a slower pace.
I had offered many times to take Veronica to see the graves of George and Elizabeth, but it wasn’t until March she felt able to face the ordeal.
We went in the family coach. My mother Charlotte, Veronica, Thomas and me… young Felix at the reins.
A few people were beginning to return into the city centre, perhaps to check their houses or, like us, to visit the graves of their loved ones. There was still a foul smell, but possibly not as bad as the last time I was here… there had been some heavy rain in January which had washed away much of the filth and grime, but my mother and grandmother still felt the need to carry nosegays. There were tears at the graveside as Thomas read a most poignant emotional sermon.
I asked Veronica if she would like to visit her house in Fleet Alley. She shook her head and through the tears said, ‘I don’t think I will ever want to go there again. Take me home Toby.’
***
I was of the opinion that most of the English problems with the Dutch were of our own making, and that my old boss James, Duke of York, was deliberately provoking them into battle because he believed we were so much stronger than they.
He seemed to believe that with the support of English merchants like our own BH Shipping, and chartered companies such as the East India Company, he could steal enough business off the Dutch to make us the most powerful trading nation in the world.
To achieve his ambition, I believed that he deliberately provoked them into a series of naval battles knowing full well that eventually they would agree to a peace deal which would be more favourable to us than themselves.
Because of the plague, our economy was beginning to suffer and in January, France and Denmark, believing we were losing the war, swore allegiance to the Dutch. Fortunately for us it was only half-hearted support as neither country had the resources to help in a tangible way. What the Dutch needed the most was ships, but none were forthcoming from their so-called friends. The Dutch were now beginning to blame us for the plague in London. Saying that it was divine retribution. Meanwhile… the war rumbled on.
***
Despite the downturn in the economy caused by the war with the Dutch, and the uncertainty over Tudor Queen, the accounts of BH Shipping for the first year of business were encouraging.
I was convinced that there was so much business available around the coast of Britain and Ireland that we could quite easily double our capacity if we purchased a second Bilander or something similar.
When I proposed the idea at the next meeting there were numerous complimentary platitudes thanking me for the sterling work I had done, but the conclusion was that we should wait until we had positive news of Tudor Queen before investing that kind of money.
On a happier note, in Brocklehurst House preparations had begun for the June wedding of my sister Hannah to Robert Huxley.
They were to be married on Saturday 10th June in the Parish Church of St Mary Magdalene, Richmond, by Thomas Hudson… the same church where I was married.
If I had to choose between my sisters I would have to say that Hannah was my favourite, she was such a happy bubbly person that everybody loved her, and Robert had fallen completely and wholly in love, almost from the first day they met.
The weather on the 10th of June was kind with the sun high in a clear blue sky. The bride looked beautiful and the groom with a permanent smile on his face triumphant.
I cannot remember my grandmother looking so happy and relaxed, it was almost as if she was a different woman.
She wore fine new clothes and expensive jewellery, and was happy that she was now able to spend time with her family… me, my mother Charlotte, and her granddaughters Eleanor and Hannah. The granddaughters she knew existed, but who she could not care for, or love when they were babies, kiss their wounds, or play with them.
Veronica was not the only one that for so long had been deprived of a family, the same applied to me, my sisters, my parents, and perhaps most of all, my grandfather Pop.
No one ever suggested that my father was to blame, but I think he always believed he was. And yet we now all knew that the threat from his brother Richard was real, and that he would most certainly have gone to any lengths to achieve his misguided belief that he was just as entitled to inherit the family title as his older brother… and if that meant killing us all, then so be it.
Since moving to Barnes, Veronica had found a friend for life in Thomas Hudson. He had helped her through the shock and distress of losing George and Elizabeth, and given her the strength through prayer to continue the journey through life, surrounded by her loved ones.
She also found a good friend in grandfather Pop, they sat for hours together talking secretly about God only knows, constantly being interrupted by loving relatives, their grandchildren and sometimes their great-grandchildren.
The difference in their ages was twelve years, Veronica now 58 and Pop 70, but age didn’t
seem to matter. Somewhere in the distant past their paths had crossed, and now they found comfort in each other’s company again, Veronica was more relaxed, the shock of losing Elizabeth and George was behind her, and the memory less painful.
***
I have never been one to stay in bed in a morning, especially on Sundays, and Sunday the 2nd of September, 1666, was no different to any other.
While Anne was feeding baby John, I went down to the stables to check that Felix was preparing the horses, and making ready to take us to church for the morning service. Young Felix took his job as stable boy very seriously and was already there, polishing the brasses.
‘I think London is on fire boss,’ he said in a quite matter of fact way while pointing to the east. ‘Look at the smoke.’
Richmond to London is twelve miles as the crow flies, and he was right about the smoke. Slightly worried that there was a fire in the city… to get a better view I returned to the house and climbed up to the attic, the highest point in the house. From there I could see for miles, and what I saw was black smoke rising over London.
I hurried down to our bedroom on the third floor to tell Anne who was sat up in bed… baby John still sucking on her breast.
‘Come to the back room and tell me what you think?’
She put John back in his crib. He grunted disapprovingly then went to sleep.
‘It may be someone burning waste on the Richmond Park,’ she said.
‘I think it’s farther away than that. I think I should go and take a look.’
‘I think you should wait until after church. If it is a fire, it will probably have been extinguished by the time you get there.’
There was a rather strong wind coming from the east, with a few scattered clouds hurrying across the sky, but the temperature was quite warm for the time of day.
We went to St Matthias Church, but instead of being inspired by Thomas’s sermon, which is always moving and inspirational, my thoughts were twelve miles away in the city of London. The main theme of his sermon was centred on the poor souls who had perished in the plague. But it was hard for me to concentrate, and I was not the only one, the whole congregation was muttering in the background about smoke over the city.
After the service I told Veronica and Thomas that I was going to London to see if the city really was on fire, and if it was, to see if I could help in any way.
‘Is there anything you want me to bring back from your house?’ I asked Veronica.
‘Just the harpsichord if you can manage it. It was your mother’s, it’s what she learned to play on.’
‘May I come with you?’ asked Thomas.
‘I will be glad of the company,’ I said. So while still in surplice and cassock, he climbed up next to me and we set off on a pony and trap at a trot, anxious to see for ourselves the extent of the fire. The nearer we got to London, the stronger was the smell of burning timber, and the darker the smoke-filled sky. By the time we reached Wandsworth we could see the flames shooting 300 feet into the sky… but it was only when we reached Southwark and saw the bridge for the first time that we realised we could go no further. The houses on the north side of the bridge were burning, and some buildings on the bridge had been knocked down to prevent the flames spreading across the river.
It was two in the afternoon when I pulled on the reins and stopped the trap, the pony was tetchy and nervous so I didn’t want to take him any nearer to the fire. Shocked and spellbound Thomas and I sat speechless looking at the blaze that must have been burning all day and through the night. From where we were watching, in the relative safety on the south bank, we could see that Pudding Lane was completely consumed by fire as far back as Canning Street, and 200 yards each side of the bridge, warehouses were blazing.
The area behind the warehouses was where most of the poor lived in overcrowded narrow cobbled streets and alleys… typically in high buildings made of wood, many with illegal thatch roofing, some as tall as six storeys high with projecting upper floors that almost touched their neighbours’ opposite. The fire hazard was all too obvious but had generally been ignored.
Every inch of space was needed to house the growing number of people moving into the city, many bringing with them cottage industries. Blacksmiths, metal workshops and bakers… all working and living in wooden buildings and all needing fire to survive.
I had not seen so many vessels on the river since the day Queen Catherine sailed down from Windsor. Barges stacked high with furniture, wherries ferrying people across the river mostly from north to south. Small double-masted fishing ketches, sailing up and down just watching the fire, but no one seemingly prepared to help in anyway. Even some of the wealthy in their own vessels, cruising back and forth as if enjoying a day at the theatre.
The south bank of the river was crammed with hordes of people just watching spellbound, just as Thomas and I were.
‘I’m going to take a wherry across to Westminster and from there walk to Veronica’s house. I suggest you return to Richmond. Tell as many people as you can what has happened here. It will be dark in a few hours so we can’t do much today, but see if you can rustle up some volunteers to come back with me tomorrow.’
‘I will do the best I can,’ said Thomas, ‘and then I will open an appeal. I should be back by six pm. I’ll cross the river upstream and come the long way round. I will wait for you at Westminster Hall. Do be careful Toby.’
Being on my own, I was able to run all the way to Fleet Alley. The last time I was here was to bury George, and when I left the house on that day I made sure it was securely locked… but when I arrived, the door was hanging off its hinges. I have not carried a sword since the day I stood over Richard Leeson and watched him kill himself rather than face trial for treason, but I always carry my knife. So just in case the miscreants were still inside, I removed it from its sheath and cautiously stepped inside. Everything that could have been removed had gone including the harpsichord. I checked out the backyard, and the cart had gone too… obviously used by the thieves to carry away their plunder.
As there was nothing more I could do here, I decided to check if the fire had reached St Paul’s Square. Apart from the Tower of London, the Cathedral is the largest structure in the city. Being built of stone you would expect it to survive a fire, but I was slightly worried about the timber scaffolding that at the time was completely encasing the building, floor to roof.
It was early afternoon, and I could feel the heat of the fire moving slowly and uncontrollably from a westerly direction. In St Paul’s Square, people who had earlier tried to extinguish the flames were now abandoning their homes and pushing their handcarts piled high with furniture and valuables through the square, towards safety. The narrow lanes and alleys soon became impassable… not only for the people escaping the fire, but also for the firemen and their heavy machines filled with water.
A wealthy merchant who had stayed in the city, hoping the fire could be extinguished, had now given up and was also on the move… trying to escape across the city to Whitehall with his coach and four. But when he realised he was trapped in the square, he abandoned his coach and set off on foot, causing even more congestion and confusion. My thoughts though were for the poor horses left to perish in the fire. All I could do for them was to set them free, and hope they would run in the right direction and survive.
It was then that I spotted my old friend John Martin, the bookseller carrying a box to the Cathedral.
‘Can I help?’ I asked.
‘The Bishop says I can use the crypt to store my books.’
It took the two of us an hour to move all his stock, by which time the heat was almost unbearable so we headed away from the fire to Westminster Hall where I found Thomas was waiting for me.
‘Have you somewhere to go?’ I asked John Martin.
‘Yes, don’t worry about me. I have friends, I will be alright.’
‘Do you think he was telling the truth?’ asked Thomas as we made our way homeward.
‘I suspect not, but we cannot force charity on him. He’s a proud man.’
At daybreak the following morning, I crossed the river at Richmond with a cart full of enthusiastic, but perhaps nervous, volunteers.
I had my team and was proud of how quickly they had stepped forward, not knowing fully what was at stake. It was at that point, with my team anxious to get started, that I realised I had no idea what I was going to do with them.
The strong easterly wind was fanning the flames in our direction, and when we stopped at the Temple Bar gate, I could already feel the heat, now no more than half a mile away.
It was young Felix who asked, ‘Where do we start boss? What do you want us to do?’
I was saved the embarrassment of admitting that I didn’t know, when King Charles and James, Duke of York, arrived with a platoon of soldiers and a bunch of his new courtiers, none of whom I knew.
‘Toby, good man Toby, I take it you have come to help.’
‘Yes my Lord, I was here yesterday too. Where do we start?’
‘Have you found any water hydrants round here?’
‘I haven’t looked, we were going to take water from the river.’
‘There’s a reservoir and a water tower at Cornhill that supplies the city with water, some directly to homes, but for those less fortunate there should be hydrants on every corner. If you can find one of those you may be able to connect a hose to use on the fire… there must be one somewhere round here.’
‘I will get a couple of my team to look for one my Lord.’
‘I am setting up eight command posts around the city walls with two courtiers and a couple of soldiers in charge of a dozen pressed men. The River Fleet is a natural firebreak, so you and your team can cover this area… from here to Fleet Bridge and down to the Thames. Pull down the house on the west bank to extend the fire barrier if you have to. If you get any trouble from the tenants, just tell them you are just carrying out my orders. Pay your men and claim the money back from James.’
Courtier in the Royal House of Stuart Page 44
