by Ann Turnbull
I sealed the letter quickly, before I could change my mind. After it was given to the post, I thought I should tell Will what I had done. But now my courage failed me. He might be angry, and I could not bear that. And his father might not – probably would not – reply; and then it might be better for Will not to have known anything. So the days slipped by, and I said nothing. And no letter came from Henry Heywood.
The summer continued hot and dry, but the plague declined, at least in London, and the traders and gentry had now all returned to the city. Those Friends still surviving in Newgate were gradually released; it seemed the authorities had other concerns now than to persecute us, and for that we were thankful.
Nat took over the premises in Stepney, and began setting up his print shop, buying an old press and getting the cases made for the letters. He put word about that he’d be needing an apprentice.
At the beginning of September, Will said he and Nat planned to go on first-day to a meeting in Kent where a travelling Friend was to speak: one well known for his visionary preaching. It was a long walk. They’d go with several others from our meeting and would not be back till late. He asked if I would come, but it sounded tiring, the weather being so hot. Much as I liked to be in the countryside I said I’d go instead to the Bull and Mouth meeting with Rachel.
In the early hours of first-day morning, the second of September, the wind grew to gale force; our shutters rattled, and the sign over the hosier’s shop below squeaked as it swung; the whole house seemed to creak and groan as the wind found its way through every crack. We slept fitfully, woken by the wind and the heat in the room, and were up before dawn.
I packed Will a dinner of bread and bacon, an early apple from the market, and a leather flask of beer. I went downstairs with him, and we stepped outside together. Beyond the Tower the dawn sky was obscured by a haze of smoke from early-morning hearth fires. The day was as yet cool, and the gale still blew from the east, making me shiver.
Will wrapped his arms around me. “There’s smoke on the wind.”
“Always is.”
But now we heard in the distance the reverse peeling of bells, and drums beating, and shouts and cries.
“Another fire,” said Will.
We withdrew into the shelter of the doorway and embraced.
“Take care, love,” I said. I hated being separated from him, and half wished, now, that I’d agreed to go too. “Will thou be back by sunset?”
“Sooner than that. And I’ll bring thee some country flowers.”
We kissed goodbye, and he set off uphill; he paused to wave on the corner of Watling Street, and then was gone from view.
I wrinkled my nose against the smoke and went back indoors.
William
I met Nat in Creed Lane, and from there the two of us walked to Paul’s Wharf. A clamour of firefighting came from the east, and we saw a cloud of smoke streaming towards us on the wind. More boats than usual were out, some crowded with people, but these had come from the fire area; Paul’s Wharf was quiet. We found a boatman, and embarked. As we pulled away from the shore into the centre of the river I saw with shock that the northern end of the bridge was in flames.
“The bridge!”
We stared, horrified, at the gap where a row of tall houses had stood. With the pall of smoke rushing towards us, it was difficult to see what else might be aflame.
Our boatman was full of news.
“Fire broke out in Pudding Lane, in the small hours. It’s hot as Hell over there: melted lead from St Margaret’s roof running down Fish Street Hill. Huge explosion in Pudding Lane; blew the street open. If you ask me, it’s the French or the Dutch behind it…”
Nat and I exchanged a sceptical glance. There were always rumours of invasion, but the war was not something that much affected us: it took place mainly in the North Sea, and we read about its progress in the Gazette.
“Flames’ll fly along the docks in this wind,” the boatman said, almost with relish – and I felt a moment’s unease.
But we had reached Southwark, and from here the fire looked less. It was too common a sight to worry us for long. We met with others at a Southwark Friends’ house, and a group of us set off south for Beckenham, where one Ebenezer Trembath, a Friend from Cornwall, was visiting and might speak if the spirit moved him. He was, by all accounts, not a quiet seeker after the light but a fiery character, much given to prophecy, and I was eager to hear him and to take note of what he said for circulation around our meetings.
On the way, Nat and I talked about plans for his business. He’d written to Mary Faulkner, who encouraged him in the venture. He wanted to print and sell Friends’ writings – perhaps eventually to have a bookshop, like hers. But that was all in the future.
“I’m stretching myself,” he said – and he grinned and walked with arms spread wide. “The equipment has cost so much there’s little left to employ others, except an apprentice. I’ll have to work all hours.”
“But it’ll pay for itself in time,” I said, “once thou become known.”
“Yes. And thou might write some more. Think how pleased Mary would be to receive a pamphlet written by William Heywood and published by Nathaniel Lacon, Printer, of Stepney in Middlesex.”
We laughed, but it could happen. I’d begun writing while I worked for James Martell: commentaries, reports and reflections. It had been strange and exciting to see one of them printed by Amos Bligh, and my name on it, and to know it would be circulated among distant Friends. What would my father make of it, I wondered, if it found its way to Mary’s bookshop in Hemsbury? Would he be proud – or would he be enraged and think I’d brought his good name into disrepute? Well, he’d be unlikely to see it; and I had no connection with him now, except his name.
We walked on. The day should have been fair for walking, but the gale from the east made it uncomfortable. We were glad at last to reach our destination: a village not far from Beckenham. Nearly a hundred people were gathered there. The plan had been to meet outside, but the wind drove us indoors, where we remained for several hours.
What can I say of that meeting? It was deep, certainly, and silent for a long time; later, several were moved to speak, and Ebenezer Trembath held us with his visions. But all this was overshadowed, cast into the recesses of memory, by what happened afterwards.
The village was isolated, and it was first-day, when few people travel, so we had no warning until we were on our homeward journey. At Herne Hill a countrywoman who let us draw water from her well said she’d heard there was a great fire burning in London – and, indeed, we saw a dark cloud to the north that must mean the fire had spread.
“It was prophesied,” the woman said, and spoke of the comet and a blazing star, and a neighbour who’d seen a cloud shaped like an angel with a flaming sword pointing towards London. “It’s God’s punishment for the evil ways of the city.”
I felt a touch of fear, a presentiment. Ebenezer Trembath’s utterances had unnerved me and heightened my imagination. He had called London “the great Babylon” and quoted from Revelation: “‘Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen, and is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit, and a cage of every unclean and hateful bird… Therefore shall her plagues come in one day, death, and mourning, and famine; and she shall be utterly burned with fire.’”
It might be true, I reflected, that the King and his court were deep in sin, but also in that great Babylon were many good people, and innocent, among them my love, Susanna, and our unborn child. I longed for wings to reach her. But we were on foot, and could make our way only slowly. All my thoughts were now on home. I would not stop to rest or eat, and I forgot to pick the flowers I’d promised Susanna.
As we approached Southwark we saw clearly, in the distance, a great mass of smoke, reddened underneath with flame, but could not tell how far it had spread. It was not until we came, at last, within sight of the river that we realized an area west of the Tower was all ablaze, smoke streaming
on the wind, and a line of flame along the docks. Now we heard the sound of the fire: a deep, thunderous roar, and felt its heat, even from across the river. Smouldering fragments showered down upon us. I saw that the flames had spread west along the waterfront almost as far as the Vintry. Only a few streets north of there was my home.
“Nat! We have to get a boat!” I turned to the wharves where boatloads of shocked and clamorous people were struggling ashore with their possessions.
Our Southwark Friends began to look to how they might help those coming off the boats and find shelter for them. We left them to their work and made our way through the crowds to the waterside.
It was easy enough to find a place in a boat going the other way. All the boats and lighters were out, crossing and recrossing the river – the cost of the passage no doubt rising each time. We were over-charged on the grounds of danger. Nat wanted to argue, but I brought out enough money for both of us and thrust it at the man. I was desperate and would not delay further.
We asked for Three Cranes Stairs, but the boatman said we’d never get through the throng there. “The King and the Duke of York are at Three Cranes. They’ve ordered houses to be pulled down to make a firebreak. I’ll take you to Paul’s.”
As we drew closer to the northern side, fire drops fell like rain upon us, stinging our faces and smouldering on our clothes so that we had to beat them out. Smoke filled my throat. The roar of the fire was now the background to a hungry crackling, as if some great beast were devouring the wooden buildings. We heard explosions and saw gouts of flame leap up where none had been before.
At Paul’s Wharf a crowd was waiting to embark. We sprang ashore and began to squeeze our way through the crush of people. Only now, as I saw the streets blocked with carts, horses and panic-stricken citizens, did I realize how long it might take me to reach Susanna.
Nat came with me, for it was clear that the Corders’ house in Creed Lane was not in danger, and we thought best to stay together. There was anger in the crowd, a need to blame someone, and it could easily turn against Dissenters.
A frightened man ran past us, his breath coming in great gasps. He was pursued by others, shouting.
“That Frenchman! I saw him put something through the window and then the house went up in flames!”
They surged along the street. What would become of the Frenchman if they caught him, I wondered? Could there be French or Dutch agents in the city firing buildings at random? Could it be the prelude to an invasion? And even if they were agents of an earthly power, was God using them to destroy the great Babylon?
“Will! We must go up towards Paul’s – out of this smoke!” Nat steered me into a side street and we hurried, heads down, towards the steeple-house. All the time the main movement of people was towards the river, but the narrow streets caused panic. A fight broke out as two carts became jammed ahead of us. We turned aside and ran down a lane, trying to keep a sense of direction, for the familiar city was changed by the smoke and chaos.
We emerged east of Paul’s, and found our way blocked by a detachment of the trained bands, armed with swords and muskets.
Their captain – young, with pale blue eyes, the whites smoke-reddened, in a soot-streaked face – demanded to know who we were, where we were going. They were looking for fire-raisers, anyone suspicious, and I hoped we didn’t stand out as Dissenters.
“Where have you come from?”
“Southwark. We’re trying to get home.”
“What work do you do? Where do you live?”
“Printer,” Nat gasped, coughing. “Alum Court.”
They searched him roughly, finding nothing.
Then one of them seized me and pulled out the notes I’d taken at the meeting that morning. He showed them to the captain, who demanded of me, “What’s this?”
He couldn’t read, I realized with relief.
“Notes from a customer,” I said. “I’m a bookseller. Here, in Paul’s Churchyard.”
He frowned, stared at the paper, then at me. He’d been told to intercept suspicious-looking men, and I saw that he had half a mind to take us into custody. I began to panic.
“Please!” I begged. “My wife is at home in Bow Lane. She’s with child. I must reach her.” And, when he hesitated: “I am a bookseller – no enemy to the King. Please. My wife…”
“On your way.”
Relief flooded me as he thrust the paper back at me and let us pass.
“They need men at the fire-front!” he called, as we hurried away. “See you give help.”
Bow Lane was free of fire, though smoke blew across the entire city, and from the top of the lane we could hear the noise of firefighting and see black smoke and flames bursting from a warehouse near Three Cranes.
Our landlord, Robert Whitman, was not in, nor his wife, and I saw that their cart had gone from the yard at the back.
I ran upstairs; shouted Susanna’s name.
She was there. We caught each other on the stairs and clung together, oblivious to the presence of Nat, who must have retreated discreetly around the bend of the staircase. He reappeared when he heard us talking.
“The Whitmans are at Holborn,” she said. “At his cousin’s house. They’ve been back and forth with the cart all afternoon, taking their stock there for storage. They’ll be back later.”
“They left thee alone?” I said, and pictured her gazing out across the river, wondering when I would return.
“Friends came from the Bull and Mouth: Gerard Palmer and Jane Catlin. They are using it as a gathering point for Friends. We may store our goods there, and sleep there tonight if the fire drives us from home.”
“Did thou go to Meeting?”
“Yes. Morning and afternoon. Jane said I should stay there, for safety, but I wanted to wait for thee. Oh, I’m so relieved to see thee, Will! And thee too, Nat.” She reached out to him. “Come in, both of you. I’ll fetch beer and food. You must be hungry.”
“Thou should have stayed with Friends,” I chided her, but I was glad she had not, that she was here, that our home was safe.
We drank beer, and I felt it cooling my scorched throat.
“Was Rachel at the Bull and Mouth?” Nat asked.
“Yes. She went home afterwards. Joseph Leighton walked with her.”
Nat wiped his mouth with his hand. “I’ll go to the meeting room. Call in on Rachel on the way and make sure she lacks nothing.”
“It’s quieter up there, near Aldersgate,” Susanna said. “Much like normal.”
But we knew that if the fire wasn’t curbed soon, supplies of food and other necessities would run short, with the streets so clogged with people and shopkeepers deserting their premises.
When Nat had gone, Susanna put her arms around me. “I thank God thou’rt home. We don’t need to leave, do we?”
“Not yet.” I looked over her head at our meagre furnishings. “But they say the cost of a cart is rising by the hour. If the fire comes any closer…”
Her embrace tightened. “I don’t want to leave our home.”
We heard a voice on the stairs: our landlady, Ancret Whitman. “Mistress Heywood! Are you there?”
We both came out onto the landing. She stood a few steps below us, smuts on her face, her hands dirty and her hair escaping its cap.
“Oh! You are home, Mr Heywood! I’m glad. We were concerned for your wife.” Her eyes widened. “We have just seen the King! Such a handsome man! Working and encouraging others. The Duke of York too. They’re down at Three Cranes. If you hurry you might see them.”
We did not go. But towards sunset I walked down towards Thames Street and helped for a while filling and passing buckets with the firefighters. The street had been dug up and the water pipe breached, but the water supply was running low. Desperate people, whose homes lay near by, cursed papists and foreigners indiscriminately.
“They burned the waterwheel!”
“It’s gone?”
“This morning, early. Utterly destroy
ed.”
And there was more talk of the fire being a plot, the work of foreign agents. “The tide out, the waterwheel struck, then the bridge and docks…”
After a few hours I went home, exhausted by the long day. I spoke to the Whitmans, who had decided to stay in their home, at least till morning. I said we’d do the same. Susanna and I prayed together, and I read aloud from the Bible: not the terrors of Revelation, but the Twenty-third Psalm, which Susanna loved because its green pastures and still waters made her think of home.
That night we woke frequently, disturbed by the distant roar of fire and the shouts of men. Towards morning they seemed louder.
So London still burns, I thought.
We rolled together and held each other close, both of us unwilling to get up and face the day.
Susanna
We dressed in reddish darkness. I don’t know what o’clock it was, or whether the sun ever rose that day. The clouds of smoke were lit by vivid flame, and when we went outside we found ourselves choking, gasping for breath, the air thick with smoke-borne fragments.
Down towards Queenhithe the smoke was blacker still, and as I stared with stinging eyes, I heard an explosion and saw a sudden uprush of fire – as high as a house. It was followed by screaming and the appearance of frightened people struggling up the lane towards us with horses, carts, children, bundles of belongings. The roar and crackle of the fire, the screaming and shouting and rumble of carts, brought me to a state of panic.
“Will! We must go!”
Our landlords were already loading up their cart – this time with their home possessions.
“Bring your things down,” Ancret Whitman said to us. “We’ll find room for them. You’ll never get a cart for hire now.”
