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 t
heir 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.
"Where's your master?" He ignored her and would have gone on by without answering but she grabbed him roughly by the arm, angry enough to have slapped his face. "Answer me, you varlet! Where's your master?"
He gave her a surprised look, without recognition, as though he had heard her for the first time. Radclyffe had probably been working them for hours. He gave a jerk of his head. "Upstairs, I think. In his closet."
Amber ran up the stairs, dodging around servants and furniture, with Big John close at her heels. But now her legs were weak and trembling. She felt her heart begin to pound. She swallowed but her throat was dry. Nevertheless her exhaustion was suddenly and miraculously gone. - They hurried down the gallery to his Lordship's apartments. Two men were just coming out, each of them bearing a tall stack of books, and as they went she signalled Big John to turn the lock. "Don't come till I call you," she said softly, and then walked swiftly across the parlour toward the bedchamber.
It was almost empty—but for the bed, too big and unwieldy to be moved—and she went on, toward the laboratory. Her heart seemed to have filled all her chest now and it hammered so that she expected it suddenly to burst. He was there, going hastily through the drawers of a table and stuffing his pockets with papers. For once his clothes were in disarray—he must have ridden horseback to have arrived so soon—but even so he presented a strangely elegant appearance. His back was turned to her.
"My lord!" Amber's voice rang out like the tolling of a bell.
He started a little and glanced around, but he did not recognize her and returned instantly to his work. "What do you want? Go away, lad, I'm busy. Carry some furniture down to the carts."
"My lord!" she repeated. "Look again. You'll see I'm no lad."
For a moment he paused and then, very slowly and cautiously, he turned. There was a single candle burning on the table beside him, but the glare of the flames lighted the room brilliantly. Outside the fire roared like unceasing thunder; the constant booming of explosions rattled the windows and burnt buildings toppled to the ground, crashing one after another.
"Is it you?" he asked at last, very softly.
"Yes. it's me. And alive—no ghost, my lord. Philip's dead— but I'm not."
The incredulity on his face shifted at last to a kind of horror, and suddenly Amber's fears were gone. She felt powerful and strong and filled with a loathing that brought out everything cruel and fierce and wild in her.
With an insolent lift of her chin she started toward him, walking slowly, and the riding whip in her right hand flicked nervously against her leg. He stared at her, his eyes straight and steady, but the muscles around his mouth twitched ever so slightly. "My son's dead," he repeated slowly, fully realizing for the first time what he had done. "He's dead—and you're not." He looked sick and beaten and older than ever before, all confidence gone. The murder of his son had completed the ruin of his life.
"So you finally found out about us," taunted Amber as she stood before him, one hand on her hip, the other still flicking the riding-crop.
He smiled, a faint and reflective smile, cold, contemptuous, and strangely sensual. Slowly he began to answer. "Yes. Many weeks ago I watched you together—there in the summer-house —thirteen times in all. I watched what you did and I listened to what you said, and I got a great deal of pleasure from thinking how you would die—one day, when you least expected it—"
"Did you!" snapped Amber, her voice taut and hard, and the whip flickered back and forth, swift as a snake. "But I didn't die—and I'm not going to either—"
Her eyes flared to a wild blaze. Suddenly she raised the whip and lashed it across his face with all the force in her body. He jerked backward, one hand going up involuntarily, but the first blow had left a thin red welt from his left temple to the bridge of his nose. Her teeth clenched and her face contorted with murderous fury; she struck at him again and again, so blind now with rage she could scarcely see. Suddenly he grabbed hold of the candlestick and lunged toward her, heaving all his weight behind it. She moved swiftly aside and as she dodged gave a shrill scream.
The candlestick struck her shoulder and glanced off. She saw his face loom close and his hand seized the whip. They began to struggle and just as Amber brought up her knee to jab him in the groin Big John's cudgel came down on his skull. Radclyffe began to double. Amber jerked the whip out of his hand and lashed at his face again and again, no longer fully conscious of what she was doing.
"Kill him!" she screamed. "Kill him!" She cried it over and over again: "Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!"
With one hand John swept off the Earl's periwig and with the other he smashed again at his skull. Radclyffe lay sprawled grotesquely on the floor, his naked head streaming blood. A strong revulsion swept Amber. She felt no pity or regret but only a violent paroxysm of satisfied rage and hatred.
All at once she became aware that the draperies were on fire and for a horrified moment she believed the house was burning and that they were trapped. Then she saw that the candle he had thrown at her had fallen beside the window, the draperies had caught, and now flames roared to the ceiling and licked along the wooden moulding.
"John!"
He turned, saw the flames, and both of them started out of the apartment in a
rush. At the door they glanced back, briefly, before John shut and locked it. The last they saw of Radclyffe was a broken and bloody old man who lay dead on the floor, with the flames already approaching him. John put the key into his pocket and they began to run down the gallery toward the rear of the house. But Amber had not gone ten yards when she suddenly pitched forward, unconscious as she fell. Big John swooped her into his arms and ran on. He went clattering noisily down the little back staircase, Amber held limp and flopping before him, and halfway down he met two men who would have pushed past him. They wore no livery and must have been thieves.
"Fire!" he shouted at them. "The house is afire!"
Instantly they turned and rushed down, the three of them making a furious noise in the narrow echoing cavity. One stumbled and almost fell, recovered himself and burst out into the courtyard. Big John came close on their heels, but they had disappeared. He glanced around once, and saw that the flames from the upstairs window already were casting a reflection into the courtyard pool.
PART FIVE
Chapter Forty-six
When Amber returned to London in mid-December, three and a half months after the Fire, she found almost all the ancient walled City gone. The ground was still a heap of rubble and twisted iron, brick debris, molten lead now cooled, and in many cellars fires continued to smoke and burn. Not even the torrential October rains had been able to put them out. Most of the streets had been completely obliterated by fallen buildings and others were blocked off because chimneys and half-walls which still stood made them dangerous. London looked dead and ruined.
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