'Have
they not suffered enough?' said Jonathan Bale solemnly. 'Their home has already
been destroyed by fire. Must they also have their last few possessions stolen
by a common thief?'
'They
will not miss a bottle or two of wine,' said the man with an ingratiating
smirk, trying to turn his captor into an accomplice. 'Let us each take what we
want and nobody will be any the wiser.'
'I
will, my friend.'
'Then
you have it all, constable.'
'I
want none of your stolen goods.'
'It
is fine wine and good cheese.'
'The
people who bought it are entitled to enjoy it.' Jonathan gave a grim smile.
'That is why you are going to put it back where you found it.'
The
man was horrified. 'Put it back?'
'Every
last bottle. Every piece of cheese.'
'But
it is such a waste.'
'Do
as I tell you.'
'There
may be gold or valuables down there as well,' said the thief, pointing with his
free hand. 'Why not let me dig down to find out? We might both end up as rich
men.'
'You
will end up in prison, my friend. Trespass is the first charge. Theft, the
second. Trying to corrupt a constable, the third. Now, put everything back
where you found it before I lose my patience.' He lifted his foot to release
the man. 'Hurry up. I will wait.'
Protesting
loudly, the man did as he was ordered and replaced the wine and cheese in the
pit before filling it with earth then patting it with the flat of his shovel.
He stood up to stamp it more firmly into place. His predicament was dire.
Caught in the act, he could expect to suffer the full severity of the law. That
left him with one last option. Still holding the shovel, he tightened his grip
on it and swung it viciously at Jonathan's head. The constable was ready for
him. He ducked beneath the tool then countered with a solid punch to the jaw
which sent his assailant reeling backwards. As the man fell heavily to the
ground, he dropped the shovel and Jonathan kicked it clear. Still dazed, the
thief was pulled roughly to his feet and dragged back through the empty house.
The
two watchmen who had been stationed outside were elderly men but their combined
strength was more than enough to cope with the prisoner now that all the fight
had been knocked out of him. Jonathan handed the man over to his colleagues.
One of them, Abraham Datchett, a spry character in his sixties, got a firm grip
on the malefactor.
'Another
thief?' he enquired.
'The
worst kind,' said Jonathan. 'He tried to bribe me into silence.'
'More
fool him!'
'Take
him to the magistrate and see him locked up.'
'We
will, Jonathan.'
'I
will make a full report when I come off duty.'
'What
was he trying to steal?'
'Wine
and cheese. Oh, yes,' said Jonathan with a grin. 'And he decided to take my
head with him for good measure. But I ducked just in time. Away, with the
rogue, Abraham. He deserves no mercy.'
The
watchmen hauled their prisoner off between them and the constable continued his
rounds. Guarding damaged properties was one of his main tasks. Even derelict
houses like this one might yield some booty. It was one of the more depressing
effects of the Great Fire. Loss for the many had been offset by excessive gain
for the few. Watermen, carriers and others who assisted fleeing householders
increased their charges to exorbitant levels for customers who were in no
position to refuse to pay. There were at least some shards of legality about
this practice though it had no moral justification.
But
there was nothing remotely legal about the epidemic of burglary which broke out
as bold thieves ransacked houses which had been abandoned in the path of the
fire or, as now, climbed into the garden of a derelict property to search for
items which might have been buried there. When he had not been manning a fire
post, Jonathan Bale had spent the past week pursuing and arresting the vultures
who preyed on the misfortunes of others. His worst case had been in Knightrider
Street where two thieves, gaining access to the garden of a deserted house, dug
strenuously until they found a strongbox under the ground. They were so elated
that friendship was instantly forgotten and they fought each other for sole
possession of the bounty. By the time Jonathan arrived on the scene, only one
man was still alive to be arrested.
Fire,
destruction, panic, murder, burglary, trespass, mob violence and shameless
profiteering. A desperate week for London. Jonathan watched his city mangled
out of all recognition. One of the most startling changes was to the
distinctive sound of the capital on a Sunday morning. Instead of the jangling
harmonies of a hundred or more bells, calling the populace to worship, there
was comparative silence. It was eerie. Most churches had been demolished and
some of those that survived had lost their congregations temporarily to the
outer suburbs. The few bells which did toll had a forlorn and apologetic note
to them.
Jonathan's
steps took him in the direction of Paul's Wharf and he was soon stopping to
gaze wistfully at the ruins of St Peter's Church, once well attended, now
deprived of its bell forever. Those who lay in its little churchyard would be
its only parishioners from now on. St Peter's was not the only casualty in the
ward. The churches of St Andrew in the Wardrobe, St Mary Magdalene and St Benet
Paul's Wharf had also fallen to the flames. The spiritual life of the community
had been dealt a series of crippling blows. Jonathan was still looking at the
devastation when he heard a familiar voice behind him.
'Do
not expect me to mourn its passing, Mr Bale.'
'What
is that?' said Jonathan, turning to face the newcomer.
'I
am glad that it was levelled to the ground. That is where St Peter's truly
belongs. It was a Cavalier church. When the Lord Protector ruled, this was a
refuge for the nobility.'
'I
know it well, Mr Thorpe.'
'I
would gladly have lit the match which set it alight.'
'Then
I would just as gladly have arrested you for the crime.'
'Where
is the crime in driving out sin?'
Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me
Thorpe was a short, slim man in his fifties with a cadaverous face out of which
two large eyes shone like beacons. He was dressed in the black garb of the
Quakers and wore a high-crowned black hat whose wide brim had been singed by
fire. His voice had the natural power of an orator and Jonathan had heard it
raised in denunciation many times. The constable enjoyed an uneasy
relationship with his neighbour, admiring him for his courage but deploring the
extremes to which Thorpe sometimes went. Slight and innocuous in repose, the
man could be highly volatile when moved by the Holy Spirit.
'Your
attire is too eloquent, Mr Thorpe,' he observed.
'I
am not ashamed to be seen for what I am.'
'Take
care it does not lead to a beating. There are still mad fools abroad who
believe that the fire may have been started by Quakers and who take revenge on
any of your sect they encounter.'
'Violence
holds no fears for me,' said the other bravely. 'Jesus himself endured many
blows in defence of his beliefs. I have done the same before and will do so
again.'
Jonathan
heaved a sigh and glanced back at St Peter's.
'Whatever
you say, it was a fine old church. It will be a great loss.'
'Not
to me, Mr Bale. I have a long memory.'
'Too
long, I fear. It is time to look forward and not back.'
'Yes,'
said the other, 'thou wouldst say that. Thou art a parish constable now with
duties and responsibilities. Mr Jonathan Bale upholds the laws of this corrupt
Parliament. It pains him to recall that he was once as true a Christian as
myself.'
'I
still am.'
'No,
sir. Thou hast betrayed us and betrayed thyself.'
'That
is a matter of opinion.'
'Thou
art familiar with mine.'
'It
has not been kept hidden from me, Mr Thorpe,' said Jonathan with a wry smile.
'I hold fast to the beliefs which I have always held. Where you and I differ is
in how they are best expressed.'
'Openly
and defiantly.'
'That
is the shortest route to the prison cell.'
'Why
should we suffer punishment that others escaped?' said Thorpe, a bony finger
raised in anger. 'Think back, Mr Bale. When this country was ruled by
Parliament under the leadership of Lord Protector Cromwell, a due severity was
introduced into church services. Not that we could accept the new liturgy
ourselves,' he stressed. 'We wait in the grace and the truth that comes by
Jesus. We need no liturgy and no priest to act as an intermediary between us
and our God. And we were ready to suffer for those beliefs. But what of the
congregation of St Peter's?' he demanded. 'Did they obey the law? No, Mr Bale.
This church continued the hateful practice of dispensing the sacraments.
So
many members of the nobility flocked here that they hung the galleries with
turkey carpets for the accommodation of those titled sinners. The Lord
Protector should have torn the place down.'
'He
was not given to defiling consecrated ground,' said Jonathan. 'But I am
surprised to hear you speaking with some respect of him. If we must look to the
past, let me remind you that the same Lord Protector treated the Society of
Friends with great harshness. Hundreds were imprisoned at his command. You were
one of them.'
'I
wore my ordeal as a badge of honour.'
'What
of your wife and children, Mr Thorpe? I venture to suggest that they might have
preferred to have you at home with them instead of languishing in a cell with
your badge of honour.'
'My
family and I are all of one mind.'
Jonathan
bit back his rejoinder. There was no point in arguing with a man like
Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe. He was a combative Christian who thrived on
debate. Mocking the established religion was a serious offence, committed by a
headstrong man who refused to swear the appropriate oaths and who declined to
pay tithes for the maintenance of the Church he despised. A printer by trade,
Thorpe was also suspected of writing and distributing religious tracts which
fell foul of the law. It was almost as if he was challenging his companion to
arrest him. Jonathan refused to assist him in his search for martyrdom. Though
the man was profoundly irritating, the constable had a sneaking fondness for
him.
'Go
home, sir,' he advised softly. 'I have no quarrel with you. In a bleak time
such as this, I look for small mercies. I am pleased that you and your family
came through the fire without undue loss. Your house was largely spared its
ravages. Most of us were not so fortunate.'
'Indeed
not,' agreed the other with genuine compassion. 'It has been a time of trial.
Thou art a victim, Mr Bale, I know and I am truly sorry. I came past thy house
on Addle Hill today and saw again how little of it is left standing.
Where
are thy wife and children?'
'Staying
with my parents in Hoxton.'
'Safe,
then? That is good to hear.'
'Thank
you for your concern.'
'We
are neighbours, Mr Bale. I hoped at one time that we could also be close
friends. But thou hast chosen another path.'
'It
leads in the same direction as yours.'
'I
would dispute that, sir.'
'Then
you must do so alone.'
'Art
thou afraid to discuss thy spiritual life?'
'Good
day, Mr Thorpe. I must continue my patrol.'
A
note of disappointment. 'Thou art not going to arrest me?'
'Not
when there are so many real criminals to apprehend.'
Before
the man could reply, Jonathan touched his hat in polite farewell and moved
away. He escaped lightly. Jesus- Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe was a kind, generous,
sincere man of undoubted intelligence but there were times when he could be the
verbal equivalent of the Great Fire, raging wildly and consuming everything in his
conversational path. Other members of the Society of Friends in Truth waited
patiently upon the Lord but Thorpe was altogether too restless to sit in
silence. It was only a matter of time before his incendiary disposition landed
him behind bars again and Jonathan did not wish to be the man who put him
there.
He
went north up St Peter's Hill, turned left into Knightrider Street then
immediately right into Sermon Lane. Each step of the way took him past ruined
houses, empty shops and deserted inns. Yet there were curious survivals -
stables which were untouched, a smoke- blackened warehouse with little interior
damage, an occasional brick-built property with a tiled roof which had somehow
kept the fire at bay. Jonathan wondered if there was any significance in the
fact that the home of Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe was still standing while his
own had collapsed in a heap. Was there some hidden pattern to the Great Fire?
Carter
Lane was another scene of carnage, a main thoroughfare which had been largely
reduced to rubble, throwing untold numbers of people out of their homes and
workplaces, and inflicting a gaping wound on the city. Taverns which had once
throbbed with life now lay dead. Civic buildings which had stood like proud
sentinels were no more than empty shells. Dozens of people milled about but
they looked dispirited and lethargic. The customary bustle of Carter Lane had
gone. It was a street of ghosts.