The barge entered the wide indentation that was the dock, the wherry following close to, both reaching the main wharf at near the same time. The royals alighted, and soon after so did Coke and Dickon, about twenty-five paces off. For a few moments, Coke kept his face turned away. He was not sure Charles would recognise it, even though he had asked the captain to join his household six months before. He knew he was altered by war, his hair only just growing back on one side, his moustache and eyebrows not yet at their former, luxuriant length. He was also dressed in sailor’s clothes; besides, the king’s focus was entirely on the flames that rose north and east less than three hundred yards away, and the men who had obviously gathered to meet him there and receive instructions. Yet to leave Queen Hithe he would have to pass quite close to Charles to exit the gate. And he’d learned in their dealings the year before that His Majesty, for all his reputation as little more than a carousing gallant, missed almost nothing.
He hesitated. He had no idea what was ahead of him this day – what the London he must search through had become. All that information would be given to the king now. It would be useful to be near him when it was. And depending on what he heard, it might also be useful to have some regal assistance.
He decided. ‘Your Majesty,’ he shouted.
Behind the wooden dock was the market area, a large, now crowded square. His was far from the only voice supplicating. Men were gathered about the king with papers and maps, while several well-dressed noblemen stood in attendance. He pushed determinedly through but, three paces away, one of the five royal guards stepped up to intercept him, large fingers splayed on Coke’s chest. ‘Sire, ’tis I!’ Coke called loudly.
‘Eh?’ said Charles, looking up from a map, his irritation clear, one eyebrow raised above the eye that had the cast. Then the other eyebrow joined the first in puzzlement. ‘Why, I – I know you. You’re Coke, William Coke.’ The gaze continued down from face to the impoverished clothing. ‘Whatever are you dressed as, man? Oh,’ the expression changed, ‘burnt out, eh?’
‘In a way, sire.’ Coke paused. He had no desire to explain much of the story. And yet? Some had to be told. ‘I have just come from the fleet, sire. Sent by Admiral Holmes.’
‘With dispatches for me?’ The Duke of York stepped forward. He was head of the Navy, Coke knew.
‘Wait, Jamie!’ The king raised a hand. ‘ ’Od’s life, man, but I didn’t know you’d enlisted? Last I heard, after you’d turned down my bedchamber post, was that you were going to get married.’
‘I did. And was pressed into service the very same day.’
‘Out upon you! ’Tis true?’ At Coke’s nod, Charles whistled. ‘You are a remarkable fellow, Captain Coke.’
‘When truly, sire, my only desire is to be unremarked,’ he replied.
Charles looked to his brother, who was obviously holding back a flood of questions. ‘Do you have news from the fleet?’
‘Only that it is scattering before this same wind that acts as such a bellows to this fire,’ he replied.
‘Aye. There’ll be no fighting in this.’ Charles nodded at the air, which gusted and swirled about them. ‘But we have a battle ahead of us nonetheless. Have you come to enlist for that, Captain?’
‘Majesty, I –’ he swallowed. ‘When I was pressed, my wife – whom you knew as Mrs Chalker – was already large with our child. She may have borne the babe by now and they may be –’ he turned and nodded to the flaming city, ‘somewhere there. Also she does not know if I am even alive. So let me find her first, see her safe and then of course, I will return to the fight.’
‘I understand.’ The king sighed. ‘I’ve always regretted the necessity to press men and your example deepens that feeling. These fellows here,’ he gestured to several men standing by with papers, ‘have the latest reports of the fire’s progress. Let them report to me and you may learn a safe route to your beloved.’ He beckoned one nearer who held a map. ‘Where do you think she might be?’
Coke stepped up. ‘Either in her old lodgings of Sheere Lane, near Lincoln’s Inn –’
‘In which case she is far beyond the wrath of even this inferno.’
‘Yet she also talked of laying in with the Pitmans. Mrs Pitman is also most near birthing.’
‘Pitman? My loyal follower?’ It was the duke who now spoke. ‘That fellow, whatcha-me-call-it, uh, Pepys. Navy office. The one who first brought news of this fire to Whitehall. He came again later and told us he’d met Pitman in Cannon Street. That the worthy was going to aid in the pulling down of houses closer to its source and upon, what was it? Yes, Thames Street.’
‘According to report, that’s long breached,’ said Charles, pointing at the map. ‘The monster is moving up Gracechurch Street, already creeping, nay, raging northwards, and westwards here to, well –’ He broke off and waved at the fiery arch, its edge ever nearer. ‘Does that help you, Captain?’
Coke peered. Where the fire had burned was scratched in pencil. He placed a finger at a point as yet unshaded. ‘This is where Pitman lives, beneath St Mary-le-Bow. He may be there and so may my wife. Thither I’ll go.’
‘He has the right idea, your friend,’ said the duke. ‘Pull down the fuel. Blow up houses. We have begun a little of that but must do much more.’ He turned to his brother. ‘I am sure Pitman will be about it, Charlie. As must we.’
Charles nodded. ‘Away, Captain. We will be setting up fire posts ahead of the flames and in a perimeter around them. My lords here,’ he gestured to the noblemen surrounding him, ‘will each command at one. Join one of them if you are able. May you have all success and, of course,’ his eyes sparkled for a moment, ‘my compliments to your lovely wife. Now, sirs –’ He turned back to the map.
Coke moved away, leading Dickon to the street gate of the market. There the fumes were even worse, the wind driving the scent of all it had consumed of the area of the Vintry and below, the twin churches of All Hallows, the Great and the Less. The warehouses there contained much of the city’s liquor supply and the sweet stench of burnt brandy, wine and whisky casks stung his eyes. He paused at the gate, coughing. ‘Now, Dickon, we need to part –’ He took the boy’s arm when he began to protest, ‘Only till we are sure where Sarah is. Do you go to her rooms on Sheere Lane. If she is there, tell her to remain safe and bring me word. If not, and no one knows of her thereabouts, join me at Pitman’s, ’neath St Mary’s. Is that clear?’
‘Aye, Cap’n. All clear.’ Dickon smiled though his eyes looked scared. ‘Perhaps S-sarah has some nuts for me.’
‘I am sure she does.’ Coke squeezed his arm. ‘Go swiftly, return faster.’
‘I will.’ With that, Dickon began his loping run away, west along Thames Street.
Coke soon lost him in the mob. Coughing, he pushed his way through and headed up Little Trinity Lane.
—
Behind him, a crowd still clamoured around the king as he stabbed at points on the map. But two men did not approach His Majesty, just moved to where they could observe him better from under the market’s arched entrance.
One spoke. ‘He came, master, as you said he would.’
‘Aye, Daniel, he did,’ Simeon Critchollow replied. ‘Yet it is not I who had the foresight but God who forged the plan.’
The younger man chewed at lips already ragged. ‘Do we…is this the moment when –?’ He reached a shaking hand to touch the pistols tucked under his cloak.
‘Nay, lad, it is not. The king is too well protected here. You know that I would not hesitate to become a martyr. But only if I was guaranteed success. Here, we could easily fail, die in the attempt – and all we’d do is set the tyrant on his guard.’ He nodded. ‘Do you recall what our Irish friend said when the attack on the king at the theatre was thwarted?’
‘Was I there?’
‘Ah, no, you were not. He lamented actions taken haphazardly. He wanted a plan. And he said, “We must only venture at a time that God has already marked out for success.” ’ Simeon waved b
ehind him, to the smoke and the fire and the noise. ‘That time is now.’ He pointed ahead. ‘The tyrant will go about into this fire and our moment will come. When it does, he will be like a lamb offering his throat to the sacrifice. But for that we need a single shining blade. Once we had Lord Garnthorpe. Now we have Captain Blood.’
‘But where is he? I hung the blanket at the Bell Inn, master. Maybe he will come to the meeting?’
‘The meeting house will be ashes by the appointed hour. I have brothers seeking for him. But if they do not find him, well,’ he shrugged, ‘I have faith he will appear exactly when and where he is needed. Meanwhile, let us about it again. There are small fires to be lit ahead of this great one. There are foreigners to blame and riots to spark.’ He grinned. ‘Into the city again. Hasten the apocalypse.’
Poultry Compter. 1 p.m.
‘You ’ave to let us out,’ Jenny Johnson screamed, beating on the door. ‘We’re choking in ’ere!’ Many voices rose, adding their pleas, by those still able to speak. Most, like Sarah, were saving their breath.
There was little enough to sustain them in the cell. The small barred window high up in the outer wall, the foot-square door grille – between them they admitted barely enough air on a hot day, as all the days had been of late. Now, they seemed to let in only smoke – and a nauseating mix of sweet scents. Rumour had reached them that the Royal Exchange, home of the merchant city, where all luxuries were sold in hundreds of shops, was a charred ruin. The spice traders kept much of their stock there, and Sarah’s eyes streamed, her nose stung with the roasting of black pepper, nutmeg, cinnamon and other spices she could not identify. But something else had started to perfume the air not half an hour since, thickening the smoke.
‘That’s Bucklersbury going,’ said Jenny, flopping down beside her, coughing. ‘The druggists have gone up, and all their potions burned. When will they let us out?’
As if in answer, they heard a shout from beyond the door, over the pleas of the women squeezing arms through the door grille. ‘Quiet, ye whoores! We’re making arrangements to transport ye, and will have ye oot when we’re good and ready.’
With that the Scotsman, Master Turnkey Wallace, crossed the yard and bellowed the same at those beseeching on the men’s side.
‘They’ll sweep us out as ashes!’ wailed Jenny. She clutched her weeping daughter to her. ‘There’s some already gone.’
Sarah looked where her friend pointed. Two of the older debtors, both with jail fever and already struggling each day for breath, had lain down half an hour before and ceased coughing soon after. She looked down again, to the bundle in her arms. Her child – she still had not named him, felt she could not without consulting William – was struggling for breath as any there. He did not want her breast either, the only liquid in the cell for any water was long since drunk. He squirmed and his paleness alarmed her. No, no, she thought, after all this I am not going to lose you.
She handed the child to Jenny, who took him to her chest wordlessly, tucking him next to her Mary. Then Sarah slowly hoisted herself onto her feet and stood swaying, uncertain if she was going to faint, the foul, sweet air making her cough. Her insides felt as if someone had been kicking her repeatedly – which he had done. She looked down at her son in the whore’s arms. ‘For him,’ she said aloud.
‘For who, love?’ said Jenny, looking up.
‘Let Mary take the babe. Come with me.’
‘Where to?’ Jenny wheezed but obeyed, rising and handing the boy over. Mary took him, drawing him tight to her.
Despite each step of pain, Sarah made it to the door. Jenny followed. The others who’d begged at it had dropped away to cough and weep, so she had the grille to herself. ‘Can you get Jenkins over here?’ she whispered to Jenny.
‘I can try. ’E wouldn’t come before.’
‘This might persuade him.’ Sarah had two things in the pocket of her smock. She pulled one out now.
‘You’ve been keepin’ a gold sovereign all this time?’ Jenny asked in wonder, reaching towards it.
Sarah lifted the coin away. ‘Pitman gave it me. Made me swear I would only use it in direst emergency.’
‘What? And your baby’s troubled comin’ wasn’t that?’ She snorted. ‘I had to suckle Jenkins for the other ’alf-crown.’
Despite it all, Jenny had the faintest smile on her face. Sarah smiled too. ‘I tried to stop you. But you were gone about your trade.’ The smile went. ‘Besides that was birth. This,’ she jerked her head into the cell, thickening with smoke, ‘this could be death. For us all.’
Jenny nodded. ‘What’s your plan?’
Sarah told her, in whispers. Then she raised her voice. ‘Listen. Listen!’ The twenty women in the room looked at her. ‘We’re going to get this door open. And when it is, they’ll try to shove us back in. We have to make it hard for ’em. Scatter into the yard.’
No one questioned. All rose, stood there, grabbing what little they had to take. Sarah nodded at Jenny and the whore put her face into the grille. ‘Jenkins!’ she called. ‘Jenkins, love! Over ’ere.’
They heard his step on the cobbles of the yard. ‘I can’t let you out, Jen,’ he said. ‘Orders.’
‘Nah! Not that. My friend ’as something for ya.’
Then Jenny crouched, just below the grille. Sarah stepped up, a foot away from it.
‘Mrs Coke,’ Jenkins said, peering in, an insincere smile on his unshaven, pockmarked face. ‘How’s the babe? How are you?’
‘Choking,’ she replied, coughing hard, not needing to fake it much. ‘We all need air.’
‘I know.’ He shrugged in false sympathy. ‘Wallace’ll order you out soon, never fear. Fire’s getting close. We’ll need to move you.’
‘We need water too. We die as much from thirst. Please,’ she coughed again. ‘Can you shove a few flagons through here?’ She tapped the iron bars, the gaps between them just wide enough to admit flasks.
‘I might. Men have been asking too.’ He sucked between his few teeth. ‘Any garnish in it for me?’
‘Yes,’ Sarah said, drawing one of the objects from her smock. ‘I’ve been saving this for the right occasion.’
His eyebrows rose. ‘Christ’s bones! A sovereign? For me?’
‘If you’ll bring us the water now,’ Sarah let the coughs come again, but continued through them, ‘and be kind to us when they let us out of here.’
‘I’ll be most kind, trust me.’ He lifted a hand. ‘Pass it out, then.’
Sarah bent from the waist, coughing louder. She still held the coin up. ‘Take it,’ she wheezed, stepping back a little. ‘Take it.’
Jenkins reached. He was up to his elbow in, his fingers an inch from the coin when Jenny rose up and grabbed him, using her full weight to pin him. As he yelped, wriggled and could not shift her, Sarah drew the second object from her smock.
It was the midwife’s razor. She laid the edge to his skin. ‘Cry out,’ she said softly, ‘and I’ll take a finger. If the door’s not open straightway, I’ll take the whole bloody hand.’
Jenkins jerked, could not shake off the hanging Jenny. ‘But I –’ he began, and stopped when Sarah ran the razor across his knuckles. He whimpered at the line of blood, and she could see him twist to reach down. They heard the jangle of his bunch of keys, metal thudding into wood as, without looking and whispering pleas and curses, Jenkins tried to find the key and keyhole. At last he got it. The lock turned. The door opened.
Still pinioned, Jenkins was dragged into the cell. Once inside, Jenny threw him down. ‘Keep quiet, you piece of turd,’ she said, kicking him in the ribs.
Sarah poked her head out of the door and looked to the left. Thirty paces away, the front gate of the Compter gave onto a narrow lane that led down to Poultry. Wallace and two lesser turnkeys were leaning on its bars, staring ahead. Beyond them, flames danced on Bucklersbury. Across the yard, men were staring at her through the bars of their own grille. She put a finger to her lips, then turned back into her cell.
‘Quiet now,’ she said, ‘all out and spread. Jenny, help me with the men’s door.’
Jenny took her foot off the whimpering Jenkins and joined her with his keys. The other women came close, stepping on, rather than over, the squirming warder. Mary handed Sarah the babe. She took him, felt his weight now she was standing. She took a breath and looked around. She nodded. ‘Let’s go,’ she said.
They all left silently, spreading out as she had asked them to. She followed Jenny who moved swiftly across to the men’s cell door. Jenkins’s key bunch was large, and key after key failed. She was not halfway through them, when a roar came from the gate. ‘What the –? How the –?’ Wallace cried, continuing, ‘Ye whoores! Back to your cell.’
Sarah glanced back. Wallace and his two lackeys were trying to push through – but the ‘whoores’ were not letting him. He looked through the throng, and their eyes locked. ‘Oot the way!’ he yelled, brandishing his club, striking a woman’s arm.
‘Hurry!’ Sarah said, as the warders cleared their path with blows.
Jenny grunted, key after key failing. There were perhaps two untried, when Wallace reached them. ‘Give me those, ye damnable whoore, or I’ll –’
It was as much as he said before Jenny left the latest key in the lock, turned and punched him in the face. As he staggered back with a yelp, Sarah reached to the key. Turning it took all her little strength. But it did turn and, a moment later, men were running from their cell, knocking Wallace and his men down, and trampling them before running on to the gates.
‘They’ve forgotten these,’ said the last man to leave.
Sarah recognised the voice, then the face when she looked up. ‘My, my, Mistress Coke, but aren’t you the enterprising one?’ As he spoke, de Lacey, the baronet, took the bunch of keys from her and strode off to the main gate.
Someone must have known the right key there, or perhaps were just lucky, for by the time Sarah reached them, leaning upon Jenny – who also carried the baby in one arm and held her daughter in the other – the gates were open and most had already fled. They followed, more slowly, into the narrow lane that led down to Poultry proper. It was thick with choking, cloying smoke. They’d not got halfway down when someone emerged from the clouds and bumped into them.