“You mean there’s a big fire in London?” repeated Amber incredulously. “Not just a few houses?”

“Oh, Lord, no! It’s a big one, well enough. He said it was well along the river when he left—and that was yesterday afternoon.”

“Good Lord!” whispered Amber. She had visions of all her money burning, her clothes, and everything else that belonged to her. London in flames! “When did it begin? How did it start?”

“Began early Sunday morning,” she said. “Long before sun-up. They think it’s a Papist plot.”

“My God! And this is Monday noon! It’s been burning almost two days!” She turned excitedly to Big John. “How much farther is it? We’ve got to get there!”

“It’s seventy miles or more, sir. We could never make it if we rode all night. Better to ride till dark and then go on in the morning.”

In just a few minutes they had finished eating and were mounted. The hostess followed them out, pointing up into the sky. “Look at the sun! How red it’s turned!” They all looked up, shading their eyes with their hands, and there were others in the streets also looking up. The sun had a dull glow and its colour was fierce and ominous.

“Come on!” cried Amber, and they swept off, galloping down the road.

Amber did not want to stop at all that night for she was afraid that when she got there not only her money but the Earl too would have disappeared in the confusion. But it would have been all but impossible to reach the City, for travel by night was much slower and more dangerous than by day. When supper was over she went immediately to her room and without taking off more than her hat and boots and doublet threw herself onto the bed and fell fast asleep. Before dawn the hostess was rapping at the door and by five they were on the road again.

At each village they asked for news of the fire and heard the same thing everywhere: it was taking all the town, burning the Bridge, churches, houses, sparing nothing. And the closer they got to London the more people they saw on the roads, all going in the same direction. Farmers and workmen were throwing down their shovels and leaving their fields, setting out for the capital with carts and even wheelbarrows; vehicles of transportation were at a premium and a man might hire himself and cart at forty or fifty pounds for a few hours’ work—as much as a farmer was likely to make in a whole year’s time.

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 silver-plate 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 sucking 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 their 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 listless. 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.