by Ann Turnbull
“But where are you going?” Will asked.
“We have family in Holborn. We’ll go there. And you?”
“The Bull and Mouth tavern,” said Will. And he told Robert Whitman how to find it.
“We’ll take you there, then leave by Newgate. It’ll be better to turn north, I reckon, than try Ludgate.”
We thanked them. We had little enough to save, but we took down our bed curtains and bundled up our sheets and clothes and kitchen things, our books and papers. I saw the home we had made together stripped bare, only the bunches of herbs left hanging from the ceiling as we turned to leave.
“Oh, Will!” I said. I felt heartbroken.
He hugged me to him. “We may yet come back. Let’s hope.”
He lifted the bedding roll, and I followed him downstairs with another bundle, and the Whitmans found space for everything.
We made slow progress up Bow Lane, which was blocked by laden carts. The smoke seared my lungs, and I found a strip of linen and tore it into four pieces, so that we could each hold a piece over our mouths.
Ancret Whitman was concerned for me, knowing I was with child. “You could ride in the cart,” she said. But I refused. I feared the jolting would be worse than our shuffling walk.
At last we came out into Cheapside and even more confusion. In Jewellers’ Row men were removing the precious stock and loading it into secure carts. All the other shopkeepers were employed in the same task, with carts waiting outside almost every door, and a great press of people, each intent on saving his own goods. People fleeing from Eastcheap said they’d seen the flames leap across streets, jump from one building to another five or six doors away. The docks were alight as far as Baynard’s Castle, and the wind had veered north-east and was spreading the fire into Cannon Street. Our attic was surely doomed.
As we moved slowly north-east the smoke grew less and we were able to breathe more freely. We’ll be safe at the Bull and Mouth, I thought. The fire won’t reach there. The tavern was far away from the fire, near Foster Lane and Aldersgate.
The Whitmans took us almost to the door, and waited while we checked that there was room within. We thanked them for their kindness.
“We’ll meet again soon, I hope,” Ancret said, “if God spares our house – and the church.” Her husband was a churchwarden at Mary Aldermary, and much involved with parish matters.
I thought of Mary Aldermary, that place I’d given the slighting name of “steeple-house”, and realized that I too would feel something precious had been lost if it was to burn.
The Whitmans drove off towards Newgate, leaving us standing in the way of others struggling along the road.
Mark Ashton came out to help us.
“Come in,” he said, taking hold of one of our bags. Will shouldered the bale of bedding and I took the bundle of clothes and we went inside.
Jane Catlin found us storage space. “Several families slept here last night,” she said, “but people begin to grow fearful, the fire is spreading so fast. Gerard Palmer has gone to see about hiring carts in case we need to move out.”
“Where to?” I asked.
“To the fields. They say Moorfields and Finsbury Fields are filling up already.”
When we left, Will said, “I must go to the bookshop.”
For a moment I thought he was mad, thinking to go to work as usual, but then I understood. “The fire won’t come as far as Paul’s Churchyard, surely?”
“It’s already at Queenhithe, and moving north. And the stock will take hours to shift. If we leave it too late…”
“Where would we take it?”
“I don’t know. There’s Stationers’ Hall at Ludgate. But I need to ask Edmund. Come with me, Su, and we’ll open up, and see what other booksellers are doing, and then I’ll go and find Edmund.”
We went to Rachel’s on our way, and found her packing Tabitha’s clothes and baby things in a basket.
“I don’t want to leave,” she said, “but if Friends decide the Bull and Mouth is unsafe I’ll go too.”
“To thy mother’s?”
“Yes.”
I exchanged a look of sympathy with her.
“At least it will be safe,” she said, “outside the wall.”
We left soon after and found Edmund already at the bookshop. I was relieved, for I had not wanted Will to leave me and go back along Cheapside through the crowds and alarm to Throgmorton Street.
“Will! Susanna!” Edmund was already stacking books. “This is a grim day. Is your home safe? Have you removed to the meeting house?”
He, it seemed, had left his servants packing as much of his furniture and goods as could be got into two carts he had managed to procure – “at thirty pounds apiece,” he said, “that would have been three pounds yesterday. But it must be done. The family will go to Essex, to their cousins. I’ll follow on after, if the worst comes and the house be burnt. First we must see to the books.” He sighed. “It’s such a little time since we set them all anew on the shelves.”
“Where shall we take them?” asked Will.
“To St Faith’s, in Paul’s crypt. It’s the booksellers’ church, and nearer and more fireproof, I think, than Stationers’ Hall.”
“But will they allow us into Faith’s? Dissenters?”
“If we pay, yes. There is a storage fee that all must pay. Now, here are the instructions: bundles to be small enough for a man to lift easily, wrapped and tied, each bundle clearly marked Martell…”
We were soon at work. The men lifted and stacked the books while I wrapped and cut the twine and marked the parcels. It was tiring work, even though I was not lifting, and both men urged me to rest; so after an hour or two, when my hands were sore from the twine, I poured beer and looked into the basket of food Edmund had brought for us to share.
I found meat and fine bread, cheese, and apples from his garden, and a large pie of beef and spices that his cook must have baked the day before.
I cut up the pie, and we ate it from paper instead of plates, and felt great satisfaction both in the food and in our continuing work, even though outside all was panic and distress.
We had a small cart of James Martell’s in the backyard of the shop, and this we loaded up with book parcels. Will and Edmund made several trips to Faith’s while I continued to wrap and tie.
I felt tired, but not much more than usual. I was only four months gone with child, and my belly did not yet show my condition to the world, although I could see and feel that I had thickened a little. Rachel had told me I must wait another month or so before I felt the child move.
Each time Will and Edmund came back they spoke more of the heat and the blinding smoke.
People fleeing from the fire came into the shop to talk and shelter. They told us the fire seemed to have a will of its own, breaking out on a sudden where none had been before.
“They’re saying it’s a popish plot,” one said.
And it seemed everyone was inclined to blame the Catholics, believing them to be in league with the French and Dutch, and that their agents were going about throwing fireballs into shops and houses and starting new fires all over the city.
Edmund was sceptical of this, convinced that the wind and the dry timbers were to blame. When a Friend came in and told us that the fire was sweeping north up Gracechurch Street I saw that he was alarmed. He had left his family at home, helping the servants to pack.
It was midday and we were more than half finished.
“I’ll go and see how things stand at home,” he said. “If they are ready, I’ll send them on their way, then come back to you.”
Soon after he left, Mark Ashton and Gerard Palmer from the Bull and Mouth meeting arrived and told us that Friends did not feel safe staying at the tavern another night. A large number of the meeting – women with children, the elderly, and any whose businesses were now secure – were about to leave through Aldersgate in several carts. Our goods could be put aboard if we wished to leave with them.
> “Where will you go?” asked Will.
“A Friend named Sylvester Wharton has a farm a mile or so out, south-east of Islington. There are barns and fields where we may camp. But he says make haste, because all the fields north of London are filling with people and he will not keep space for us if others are in need. We go with some who know the way, but Sylvester will fly a green flag from the roof so that any who come later may find the place.”
Will turned to me. “Thou should go, Susanna. I’ll come later, when we are finished here.”
“What?” I’d no intention of leaving him. We would not be separated again; I was determined of that. “I won’t go without thee!” I said. “We’ll finish our work here, and go together.”
“That will take two hours at least, even if Edmund is soon back.”
“Then I’ll help thee, and it will be done the sooner. I won’t leave thee, Will.”
I saw Will’s face set firm. He means to overrule me, I thought, but I will not endure it.
He turned to Gerard Palmer. “Can she ride on a cart? Will there be room?”
“Yes, of course. We’ll make room for such as Susanna, and for children and the sick.” He looked kindly at me. “We can take thee now, Friend Susanna.”
“No,” I said. “No, I thank thee. I’ll stay till the shop is cleared.”
Will put a hand on my arm. “Susanna, I insist—”
“I will not go!” I sprang away from him. Tears stung my eyes, but they were half of rage. My voice rose. “Don’t ask me to leave thee! I will not go!”
Our Friends looked embarrassed, and Will’s face darkened. He pulled me with him into the back room, pushed the door to, and said in a low, angry voice, “Do not brawl with me in public! It is unseemly—”
“I care not if it is! I won’t leave without thee!”
“There is danger—”
“If there’s danger we’ll share it.”
He seized me by the shoulders. “Thou’ll do as I say! Su, thou’rt carrying our child! When my mother was in like condition my father protected her. She did not run around like a peasant. I won’t have it!”
He is his father’s son after all, I thought. And I retorted, “Thy mother was a lady. And I am a peasant.”
“My mother was a farmer’s daughter, as thou know. And thou’rt no peasant. Oh, Su” – he put his arms around me but I stiffened against him, resentful of his assumption of power – “let’s not quarrel, love. I want thee and our child to be safe. Our Friends are waiting. Go with them. If thou go, thou can make sure our goods are aboard, and can find us shelter, perhaps in a barn. And I’ll come. Tonight. I promise.”
He was right. I knew it. And I knew I must give way in the end. But my heart was against it. I had such fear for him: of the fire itself, the desperate crowds, the great mass of people at the gates.
I made a last stand. “They say thousands are fleeing. We’ll never find each other again!”
“Of course we will. Friends will help us.”
“I don’t want to leave thee,” I said. But my voice was small now; he knew he’d won.
Aldersgate was jammed with carts. From my perch, high on our foremost cart, wedged in among bales of bedding, I could see soldiers ahead struggling to control the crowds, but could not understand why the queue of carts was moving so slowly. We had been stuck for nearly an hour, I reckoned.
“It’s the carts coming in,” said Jane Catlin, who sat near me.
We learned that there were almost as many coming in as out – large numbers of them country people with carts for hire, seeking to profit from the emergency.
But those fleeing should have right of way, I thought.
Another cart ahead of us passed through, and we jolted forward in an encouraging way. Then a wagon turned over. Children, dogs, beds and furniture spilled into the road. People began shouting, and the soldiers intervened to break up a fight while others righted the vehicle. And all the time hot, choking smoke swept over us on the gale, full of dust and ash, and we found our clothes covered in it, our eyes and throats burning. A rumble of thunder overhead startled me. Was it true thunder, or the roar of collapsing buildings? We could not tell, but the sound was fearsome.
When at last we made our way through the gate there were more narrow streets to delay us. And now carts were turning off, or emerging from lanes into the flow of traffic, or stopping to unload. Our own carts stopped once or twice, and several of our people left, to go to friends or relations who lived outside the walls.
I had already lost the company of Rachel. She had gone to her mother’s house in Houndsditch, travelling with other Friends who had relations east of the city. I knew how unwilling she was. “I’d rather stay with Friends – even in a field,” she’d said, when we met up again at the Bull and Mouth. “But my mother will fear the worst if Tabby and I don’t appear. Come with me, Su! There’ll be room for thee. And thou shouldn’t sleep out.”
But I would not go. Will would look for me at Sylvester Wharton’s, and Houndsditch was far from there.
We resumed our journey, and now the tight-packed houses gave way to more isolated farms and cottages. The air was clearer, though the sky all around was hidden by dark clouds streaming west. The wind was hot and heavy with ash. My dress and the bales of bedding in the cart were by now covered in a layer of debris: fragments of paper, parchment, linen, plaster – the very stuff of people’s lives. I looked back and saw the city ablaze under dense black smoke with flames leaping in it, and thought with terror of Will; and I believe that if I could have got down then and fought my way back to him through the crowds I would have done so.
Jane Catlin seemed to guess my thoughts. She touched my hand. “Better to look forward,” she said, indicating the road ahead, “and trust in God. See, there is the green flag.”
And indeed we had reached Sylvester Wharton’s farm. I was glad to be helped down from the cart and to stretch and move, and to feel grass under my feet and breathe cleaner air.
Then I looked around, and was amazed. As far as I could see in every direction – from Islington all the way back to London – the fields were full of people; I had not known there were so many people in London. Some had put up tents; others sat in the shelter of a cart, or had a horse tethered near by; but most had simply a few possessions piled beside them on the ground. Rich and poor together, all were homeless. There were children and dogs running about, and babies crying, and a great hubbub of thousands of voices, so loud and continuous that it seemed to be the voice of the earth itself.
A grey-haired man I took to be Sylvester Wharton greeted us all and began advising us where to go. Gerard Palmer took charge of me and my bedding, and he and another Friend carried them to a sheltered place in the lee of a hedge. There we erected a makeshift tent of propped branches and a blanket, and I laid my bedding inside and reckoned Will and I would be snug enough at night. Some people chose to sleep in the carts and guard the goods, while others – the sick, and those with young children, or women who were near their time – were in the house and barns. I was glad to be outside, where Will and I could be together. Now, in late afternoon, the wind was strong but warm, and I did not fear the cold.
We all looked back at the city. I remembered how I’d seen it from Islington last year with the cloud of kites hanging above it. Now a much greater cloud hung there, glowing red beneath, with flashes of flame erupting from it. Somewhere a steeple blazed like a torch, and of a sudden we heard several explosions, one after the other, and a ripple of panic went through the crowd like the wind through grass. I heard cries of “Invasion!” and “The Hollanders!” and my heartbeat quickened.
But Gerard Palmer said, “They are blowing up buildings to halt the fire. It should have been done before.”
Elizabeth Wright gazed on the scene almost with satisfaction. “It is God’s judgement,” she said. “God’s terrible judgement on us all. Nothing can save the city now.”
I didn’t want to listen to such talk. It fille
d me with dread. I stared back down the road. Without a cart to manoeuvre, Will should have passed through Aldersgate easily. He could not be far behind us, surely? But among all the people walking and riding along the way I did not see him.
Those Friends who organized our departure had brought supplies of food, and soon cooking smells were carried on the wind. Two cauldrons were in use, one in Sylvester Wharton’s kitchen and a larger one over a fire in the yard. I saw that there were few fires lit in the fields. Perhaps the people were mostly too close-packed, or too afraid of the very sight of fire. Indeed, the sound of the bonfire in the farmyard, its greedy crackling and sparking, frightened rather than drew me.
And I had no interest in food. It was evening, and still I waited for Will.
Faintly, from Islington to the north, we heard steeple-house bells ringing. And from London too: but that was a reverse peel, a warning of fire still spreading. It was impossible, from here, to see which streets were ablaze and which still safe, but the endless line of people moving along the road brought news. The fire had reached Lombard Street and Cornhill. The pipes and cisterns were all dry; there was no water to fight the fire. Late in the day came news that the Exchange had burned. I recalled that sumptuous place with its colonnades and the candlelit shops glowing in the dusk and the smell of spices. I could not believe it was no longer there.
“Burnt to the ground,” a woman said. Her face was scorched red, her eyelashes gone.
“We had ado to get out,” her husband told us. “Burning timbers all across the road. Blocked our way. We turned down Kemp’s Passage—”
“Black as Hell, it was, and smoke blinding you—”
“Found ourselves didn’t know where, fire all around…”
Slowly, interrupting each other, they told us how they had found their way at last to Aldersgate and escaped. And all the time I was thinking of Will, imagining him trapped in Paul’s Churchyard, ringed round with fire.
I stared towards London. Paul’s still stood. When the smoke shifted I could see it. But where was Will? Why didn’t he come? If these folk had got out, why couldn’t he? I felt angry – furious with him for sending me away, and with myself for going.
