The Pirate and the Pagan (60 page)

As she approached the city, the Thames was clogged by small boats and lighters filled with household goods which people were bringing out of their homes as fast as they could. The streets were unpassable because of the number of horses and wagons and carts evacuating people and the possessions they had accumulated over their lifetimes. If one and all were fleeing the fire, who remained to put it out, to stop it from spreading across the entire city? It seemed to be every man for himself, thought Summer with despair. Almost there, almost there, Summer kept repeating to herself as the wind and the fire roared.

She could feel the heat of the pavement through her satin slippers and the air was filled with black soot. She glanced down at her skirt and feet and saw they were no longer cream-colored. She was begrimed with soot and sweat, but there was far more to contend with. She could see the flames of the fire now; surely every warehouse
along Lower Thames Street was ablaze. Showers of fire drops rained down, burning her cheeks and singeing her hair. Two Duke of York’s horse guards were forcing everyone back and would not allow them to enter Upper Thames Street.

Without hesitation she ran up to the guard and grabbed the horse’s bridle to get his attention. “My baby is in danger, I have to get through,” she begged.

He shouted, “Warehouses are full of pitch, tar, oil, brandy— can’t you hear the explosions?”

She turned up Blackfriars toward Ludgate Hill, but the crush of people heading to the river so they could get across to Bankside made progress almost impossible. The people were black. They had stayed in their houses until the last possible minute, until the top stories had actually set on fire. She had to fight her way through the throng. Almost there, almost there, she thought, and knew it was the only thing which kept her from screaming. Tears ran down her face freely at the suffering she witnessed. She saw sick children being carried out in their beds, old people being knocked to their knees as younger, stronger ones fled the malicious, bloody flames.

She looked up and saw church steeples ablaze; she looked down to see a cat fly past with all its tail ablaze. Even the poor pigeons had circled and circled the ledges of the burning buildings until their wings caught fire and they dropped down to the pavement to be crushed underfoot. By the time she reached St. Paul’s Cathedral her lungs felt as if they would burst. She stopped to press her aching side where she felt a cramp beneath her ribs. The massive church gave her a sense of calm. It was immense, it was the heart of London. Surely this building which covered over ten acres would stand its ground in the face of the terrifying conflagration. Summer crossed herself and ran along the south side of St. Paul’s toward Friday Street, muttering, “I’m there, I’m there.” Then she saw a sight that almost drove her mad. One side of Friday Street was ablaze; the opposite side, where her house had stood, no longer existed.

As she stood there unable to comprehend the enormity of her loss, she wondered why her feet were in such pain. She looked down to see her very shoes on fire. She kicked them off and the pavement scorched the bare soles of her feet. She saw a woman huddled in the middle of the road, but when she bent down to aid her, she saw the woman was dead, her face charred black, her hair still crackling. She screamed, “Mrs. Bishop, Mrs. Bishop.” Debris
was falling about her and she took to her heels as if she had just gotten her second wind. She ran into Canning Street blindly, sobbing, not knowing or caring where she was or what she did. A large crowd of men were working furiously, pulling down houses in an effort to thwart the raging inferno. She saw a familiar tall, dark figure stripped to the waist, lifting heavy timbers. She flew to his side through the crowd of men. “Ru, Ru,” she cried, now oblivious to all danger.

Charles turned to see who grabbed him and couldn’t believe his eyes when he looked through the sweat and grime and recognized Summer. “Sweetheart, what in the name of hellfire are you doing here? Get back to the palace immediately.”

“Oh, my God, I thought you were Ruark. Where is he? My baby, my baby, my house is gone,” she babbled. “I must find my husband and my baby!”

He sat down on a doorstep and took her onto his knee. “Listen to me now, Summer,” he said as if speaking to a distraught child. “Ruark had your son and his nurse in his carriage when he came for me at three o’clock this morning. You are in the way here, we are trying to prevent the total destruction of St. Paul’s and the rest of my city. Be a good girl and get the hell out of here. For Christ’s sake, be careful. If anything happens to you, how am I to face Helford?” he demanded.

Her face beamed up at him as her heart overflowed with joy. His big hand covered her hair to crush out the burning flakes of fire. “Go in that direction, through Doctor’s Common and straight down to Paul’s Wharfe. The water is the only place that’s safe.” The water stairs had scores of people clinging to them. The crowd’s temper was turning nasty as they realized over half the boats had been hired to remove expensive furnishings rather than help the poorer families burdened by too many children. Summer found herself actually helping to tip a pair of virginals out of a boat so that a dozen terrified children could be taken across to Bank-side. Eventually someone made room for her in a boat and she gladly went across the Thames to safety.

It had begun to get dark and the fire seemed an evil, insatiable monster. The flames smoldered and crackled, seeming to enjoy their wicked orgy of destruction.

As Summer watched London all ablaze from the opposite shore she could feel the presence of death’s angel. She saw the fire grow, fresh blazes breaking out every minute. It was easier to see in the
darkness. One corner after another caught fire, jumping across streets, arching across roofs, dropping down from blazing church steeples. It ran for well over a mile up the hill of the city. It devoured everything in its path—houses, churches, factories, prisons, alehouses, brothels. London was surely a city damned. It was still staggering from the devastation of the plague when the devil reached down to torch Sin City.

She sat on the grass all night watching the holocaust annihilate, ravage, and destroy the greatest city in the world. By morning even St. Paul’s had caught fire and the King, the Duke of York, and the lord mayor of London decided to blow up whole rows of houses so the insatiable fire would have nothing to feed upon. Summer hugged her knees, wondering why she had been blessed. It was a miracle that Ruark had gone to Friday Street in time to save Ryan and Mrs. Bishop. She felt very guilty over her good fortune in the face of so much misery. The fact that she had lost her home and all her possessions never entered her head.

Eventually she got back to the palace, but it took her most of the day. Some of the stories she heard were hard to believe. Stories of suffering and heroism and impossibilities the mind could hardly grasp, like the lead roof of St. Paul’s melting in the inferno, sending molten lead spewing down Watling Street.

Every stitch she wore went into the midden, then she bathed and washed the black soot from her singed hair. She was so tired she found it a great effort to lift her hands high enough to shampoo her head. The bed looked very inviting, but she knew she must get to Cockspur Street because that was the most likely place Ruark had taken Ryan. She cut through Pall Mall, which was the shortest distance to Auntie Lil’s, and when the familiar condescending footman opened the door, she could have kissed him.

The minute Lady Richwood glided into the reception room in oyster-colored silk Summer asked anxiously, “Did Ruark bring Ryan here in the middle of the night?”

“Yes, darling, but wherever have you been? We’ve been out of our minds with worry!”

“Oh, Lil, it will take me a week to tell you of my ordeal by fire.” Suddenly she broke down and sobbed. Lil saw that she needed the release of tears and quietly let her get it all out. Finally Summer sniffed and gulped. “I’m sorry, I suppose it’s the relief of knowing my baby is here.”

“Darling,” said Lil with understandable reluctance, “I said
Ruark brought the baby and Mrs. Bishop in the middle of the night. I didn’t say they were still here.”

“Where are they?” asked Summer blankly.

“Darling, you look absolutely done in. Why don’t I put you to bed and I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.”

Summer shuddered as a goose walked over her grave. She looked Lil straight in the eye and said, “I walked into Dante’s Inferno today looking for my son and it seems I still haven’t found him.”

“Lord Helford came back at midday with a traveling coach and took the baby and his nurse away with him. He left a note for you.” Lil bit her lip as she handed her the sealed letter. She dreaded Summer’s reaction. Her relationship with her husband had always been volatile, to say the least, and by the looks of her niece the last thing she needed was another emotional upheaval.

Summer tore open the note with impatient fingers and read the words in disbelief.

She crumpled the note in a clenched fist and jumped to her feet so quickly the white Persian cat ran straight up the curtains. “Whoreson! Swine! May lightning blast the man from the face of the earth!” She sloshed wine from a decanter and drained it. Then she wailed, “I gave an oath not to drink or swear and the bloody man has me doing both!” She paced up and down the small salon as if it caged her. “Well, here’s another oath—if my son’s permanent home is to be Helford Hall, then so is mine. I’ll stick closer than fog on London Bridge, aye, and he’ll fasten the Helford rubies about my throat before I’ve done with him!”

If only Ruark Helford could have been there to hear her reaction to his note, he would have smiled with deep satisfaction, for it was exactly the reaction he had hoped to provoke.

“Darling, can we go to bed now? I was particularly partial to those curtains.”

“Lil Richwood, you should be ashamed. Half of London have no windows tonight and you’re worried about bloody curtains.”

It took until Thursday to put out the great fire of London and even then some places still burned. The Clothmakers Hall had a cellar filled with oil and would have to burn itself out. The entire fleet had been ordered from the Pool of London into the Channel as soon as the fire started and now reports were everywhere that the Dutch and English fleets were in sight of one another.

Summer and Auntie Lil took the coach into the city to see if they could learn the whereabouts of Solomon Storm. His place of business had been in Cheapside and, alas, Cheapside now lay in black ruins. “Summer, I have a ghastly feeling that the gold we had on deposit has gone up in smoke.” They sat in the coach, stunned.

It took Summer a few moments before the full impact hit her, then she said slowly, “I’ve lost my son, my jewels, my house, my gold … I’ve even lost all my beautiful clothes, save that damned feathered creation. How the hell will I get to Cornwall?”

Lil shook her head, too stunned by her own losses to consider Summer’s plight. The first person Summer thought of was Black Jack Flash. Oh, how she needed him now! She closed her eyes and saw his lazy, amused smile, his unshaven beard, his flash of silver hair. If only it were possible to locate the
Phantom.

Back at Cockspur Street Summer knelt down before her old trunk and lifted its heavy leather lid. The black garb which lay folded there seemed symbolic.

She remembered once before when she had been stripped of everything and had been reduced to relying on her wits. She took out the black breeches and doublet and was relieved when she could squeeze herself into them. She put on the boots, then brushed her hair up into a tight knot and lifted up the wide-brimmed black hat. Beneath it lay her pistol and mask. She shoved them inside her doublet and strode in front of the mirror. The male attire gave her a surge of confidence she hadn’t felt in an age. She strutted about admiring herself, a devilish smile curving the corners of her lips.

With a long-legged, male swagger, she strolled to the palace stables. She didn’t have the luxury of picking and choosing, she simply stole a horse which wasn’t being attended. She went down to the London docks, offering to exchange gold if anyone could get a message to Black Jack Flash, who sailed the
Phantom.
She had no gold, of course, but it didn’t matter since she was soon convinced Rory was not in London. She knew he preferred a port like
Southampton or Portsmouth if he’d illegally taken any ships. That’s where she’d last seen him, and she made her decision quickly, firmly. She had nothing to lose. If she didn’t find Rory, at least she would be halfway to Cornwall.

Lil Richwood did her utmost to dissuade Summer from such reckless behavior. She laid out her arguments one by one. It was too far to ride, she was a woman alone, she had no money, bad weather and gales threatened, but she finally realized the more Summer was told she couldn’t do a thing, the firmer her resolve became.

The first night she only made it as far as Dorking. She selected a field with haystacks next to a stream. She watered her horse and let him crop the grass beside the water, then she curled up beneath one of the stacks and ate the bread and cheese she’d brought. She awoke before dawn to the crowing of a cock and realized she was freezing. She rubbed her arms and legs furiously and stamped about until her blood warmed a little. To hell with this, she thought. Tonight I need a bed and Dobbin here will need some oats or he’ll be in danger of floundering.

She rode doggedly through a bitter wind blowing in from the Channel. At dusk she chose a carriage heading out of Portsmouth to eliminate the chance of coming face-to-face with her victim later on. She tied on her mask, pulled her hat low, and halted the startled carriage driver. Portsmouth was a rough seaport where you had to look over your shoulder every minute, but the driver had relaxed once he’d left the crime-ridden streets behind him. The occupant of the carriage was outraged. “Why didn’t you shoot the fellow?” he demanded of his driver.