Christopher
Redmayne could not believe what he saw. On the journey from Oxford, they
encountered a number of people who had fled from London but their tales of woe
smacked too much of wild exaggeration to be taken seriously. The evidence of
their own eyes robbed Christopher and his companions of their scepticism. They
were still miles away when they caught their first glimpse of the rising smoke
which sullied the clear blue sky and hung over the city like a pall. The
travellers reined in their horses to stare open-mouthed at the phenomenon ahead
of them. It was truly incredible. London was destroyed. The most vibrant city
in Europe had been burned to the ground.
As
they considered the dreadful implications, everyone was struck dumb. It was
minutes before an anguished voice shattered the silence.
'Dear
God!' exclaimed Christopher. 'How did this happen?'
He
had joined the others for security on the journey but he now spurned all
thoughts of safety. Kicking his horse into life, he rode off at a steady canter
to cover the remaining distance alone. Anxieties crowded in on him. What of his
own house? Had that perished in the blaze? Were his possessions burned to a
cinder? His precious drawings lost? Was Jacob, his servant, still alive? Did
the fire reach his brother's house? Where
was
Henry Redmayne? And what of
Christopher's friends? His neighbours? His parish church? What happened to all
those magnificent buildings he so admired and from which he drew his
inspiration?
How
much of his London survived?
As
he rode towards the smoking ruin, his mind was also ablaze.
The
consequences of the Great Fire were soon all too apparent. Desultory groups of
refugees trudged past him to uncertain destinations. The outer reaches of the
city seemed to have been colonised by gipsies for there was hardly a spare
patch of land which did not have its tents or its makeshift huts. Some families
had no shelter whatsoever and simply sat by the roadside amid their vestigial
belongings. Fires had been lit to cook food. Water was drawn from every stream
or pond. A sense of fatigue pervaded the whole scene. Less than a week earlier,
these same people all had homes, occupations and the promise of a future. Now
they were nomads, exiled citizens of a capital which no longer existed.
When
he reached St Giles's Fields, he saw what looked like the population of a small
town, huddled together in sheer bewilderment, torn between protest and
resignation, trying to make sense of a tragedy which had struck them so
unexpectedly and wondering how they could fend for themselves without a place
of work. Clergy moved assiduously among them but their words of comfort went
largely unheard by people who were trapped in their private griefs. A thousand
different stories of pain and suffering were scattered across the grass.
Christopher was deeply moved by the sight of so much undeserved sorrow.
His
attention turned to the city itself and he shuddered. Buildings, spires and
pinnacles which usually rose above the walls to delight his eye were now
wreathed in smoke and all he could make out of the dominating majesty of St
Paul's Cathedral was the empty shell of its tower. Christopher tore his gaze
away from the devastation and goaded a last burst of speed from his mount as he
went along High Holborn. He steeled himself in readiness. It was more than
possible that he, too, had been dispossessed. Holborn itself seemed largely
undamaged but he could not answer for Fetter Lane until he swung into it. The
scene which met him caused Christopher to bring his horse to a sharp halt.
He
gaped in dismay. The left hand side of the lane had been gutted by fire at the
far end and smoke still curled from the debris. Several of his neighbours were
now homeless. Sympathy welled up in him but it was tempered with relief that
his own house had somehow escaped. Situated near the Holborn end of the lane,
it was marginally outside the circle of damnation. He offered up a silent
prayer of thanks then nudged his horse forward.
Christopher
was soon admitted to his home by his servant.
'Bless
you, sir!' said Jacob, eyes watering with pleasure. 'You've come back at last.
I am so glad to see you.'
'And
I am so grateful to see you, Jacob.'
'We
were spared, sir. God, in His benevolence, took pity on us.'
'I
have not observed much sign of benevolence out there,' said Christopher,
stepping into the house and closing the door behind him. 'Nor much indication
of pity. Every step of the way was lined with poor wretches who have lost the
roof over their heads.'
'Sad
times!' sighed the old man. 'Sad and sorry times!'
'Tell
me all.'
Christopher
led the way into the parlour and cast a glance around it to reassure himself
that it was completely intact. Only when he saw that his portfolio of drawings
was unharmed did he begin to relax. He doffed his hat and turned back to face
Jacob. The old man was much more than a servant to him. Honest, reliable and
eternally willing, Jacob was a rock in the shifting sands of his master's
career and Christopher had developed such an affection for him that he even
endured his flights of garrulity without complaint. At a full six feet, he
towered over the podgy little servant and had a perfect view of his bald pate.
Jacob peered up at him from beneath bushy eyebrows.
'It
has been a nightmare, sir,' he said.
'When
did the fire start?' asked Christopher.
'Early
on Sunday morning.'
'And
how long did it rage?'
'Four
days.' Jacob sucked in air through his few remaining teeth. 'Four long,
terrible days. It would still be burning now if the wind had not dropped on
Wednesday. Rain fell and slowed the blaze down. They were able to fight it
properly for the first time. Rows of houses were blown up with dynamite to make
fire breaks. That stopped it spreading.' He jabbed a gnarled finger towards the
window. 'Yet here we are on Saturday and the city is still smoking. They say it
will be weeks before the last embers are put out. All is lost, sir.'
'All?'
'St
Paul's is gone and over eighty churches with it. There is talk of at least ten
thousand houses brought down, probably many more. They are still counting them.
The Guildhall went up in flames, so did the Royal Exchange and I doubt if there
is a livery hall still standing.'
'What
of the Tower?'
'That
survived - thank Heaven! It had the wind at its back and the fire never reached
it though much of Tower Street Ward was afflicted. It has been an ordeal for
all of us, sir,' said Jacob with a sudden shiver. 'I feared mightily for the
safety of this very house for the blaze was moving west with a vengeance on
Tuesday. A fire post was set up at the bottom of Fetter Lane but our parish
constables with a hundred men and thirty foot-soldiers to help them could not
stop some of the houses being burned down.'
'So
I saw.'
'We
have been blessed, sir. We escaped.'
Tears
trickled down the old man's face and he wiped them away with the back of his
hand. Christopher held him in a token embrace then led him across to a stool
and lowered him on to it. Jacob was patently harrowed by the experience. The
hollowed cheeks and the deathly pallor showed that he had enjoyed very little
sleep and there was still a glint of terror in his eyes. Christopher felt
guilty that he had not been there to share the ordeal with his servant and help
him through it. There was much more to tell and he listened patiently while
Jacob unfolded his tale at exhaustive length. As the old man unburdened
himself, he was shaking visibly and his whole body twitched at the conclusion
of his narrative. Christopher left a long, considered pause before addressing
himself to his own concerns.
'What
news of my brother, Henry?' he said.
'He
has sent word, sir.'
'Was
his own house affected?'
'No,
sir,' said Jacob, rising to his feet. 'The fire stopped well short of Bedford
Street. Covent Garden was untouched. Your brother wants you to call on him as
soon as you may. He is most insistent.'
'Henry
always is.'
'Messages
have come every day.'
'I
need to get my breath back before I go running to my brother,' said
Christopher, dropping into a chair. 'I have been in the saddle for hours on
end. Do we have any drink in the house, Jacob?'
'Yes,
sir. The last of that wine is still in the cellar.'
'Fetch
a bottle. And bring two glasses.'
'Two,
sir?'
'I
think you need sustenance as much as I do. Besides, we have something to
celebrate. The house is still standing. That is a small miracle. Bring the
wine, Jacob. We will raise a glass together.'
'If
you say so, sir.'
The
servant's face recovered some of its ruddy glow and his eyes glistened. It was
a rare privilege to be allowed - however briefly - to step across the line
which separated master from man and Jacob appreciated it. A smile touched his
lips for the first time in a week.
'Hurry
along,' said Christopher with a flick of his hand. 'I need a restorative drink
if I am to face Henry. Conversations with my brother can be wearing at the
best of times.'
There
was never any danger of Henry Redmayne indulging his servants. He treated them
with a lofty disdain, reasoning that they were fortunate enough simply to be
in the employ of so august a gentleman and that they deserved no further
encouragement lest it give them ideas above their station. Accordingly, the
barber who shaved him expected no word of approval, still less any hint of
gratitude. Achievement lay in performing his duty without eliciting too many
grumbles from his testy customer. His razor moved swiftly but carefully. The
sallow face of Henry Redmayne was not one over which he cared to linger. When
his work was done, he held up a small mirror while a detailed facial
examination was carried out. Henry kept him waiting a long time before giving a
dismissive nod.
As
soon as the barber quit the room, the manservant entered to help his master to
dress. It was a silent ritual in front of a large gilt-framed mirror. Henry
preened himself at every stage, lavishing particular attention on his petticoat
breeches and his new long multi-coloured waistcoat. When he put on his embroidered
coat, he stroked it lovingly with both hands then shifted his stance to look at
it from several angles before giving a grunt of satisfaction.
It
was only then that the manservant dared to speak.
'Your
brother has arrived, sir.'
'How
long has he been here?'
'A
little while,' said the other tactfully.
'Tell
him I will be down in a moment.'
The
man nodded and withdrew. He knew better than to interrupt his master while the
latter was being shaved or dressed. The visitor had been understanding. He had
already waited for almost half an hour. Henry added five more minutes to the
delay before he pirouetted in front of the mirror for the last time. When he
descended to the parlour, he found his younger brother reclining in a chair and
gazing intently at a painting of a naval battle. Christopher was still in his
dusty travelling clothes. Henry strode across to him and struck a pose.
'So?'
he said with a note of reproach. 'You have come at last. We can always rely on
your absence when you are most needed.'
Christopher
stood up. 'I had work to do in Oxford.'
'Have
you finally discovered the concept of work?'
'Do
not be so cynical, Henry. We cannot all have a sinecure at the Navy Office, as
you do. Besides,' he added, running an admiring eye over his brother's fashionable
attire, 'I had a more personal reason for being in Oxford. Father was visiting
the city to attend a convocation there.'
'How
is the old gentleman?'
'In
excellent health.'
'That
means he is still preaching interminable sermons.'
'He
spoke much about you, Henry.'
'Fondly,
I hope?'
'Alas,
no,' said Christopher. 'With some asperity. Reports have reached him that you
live a dissolute life in London, quite unbecoming to the elder son of the Dean
of Gloucester. The fact that you have reached the age of thirty without the
companionship of a wife is also of deep concern to him. In Father's mind, that
serves to reinforce the truth of the rumours. He demanded to know if you were
indeed the seasoned voluptuary of report.'
Henry
winced. 'What did you tell him?'
'What
he wanted to hear. That you led a Christian life which kept you completely away
from the snares of lust and drunkenness. I assured him that you were regular in
your devotions and often expressed regrets that you yourself had not taken the
cloth. In short,' said Christopher with an amiable grin, 'I lied outrageously
on your behalf.'
'Did
he believe you?'
'Only
up to a point.'