incessantly at the work of demolition, and ineffectually sought to
quench the flames, by bringing a few engines to play upon them,--a
scanty supply of water having now been obtained--the fire, disdaining
such puny opposition, and determined to show its giant strength, leaped
over all the breaches, drove the water-carriers back, compelled them to
relinquish their buckets, and to abandon their engines, which it made
its prey, and seizing upon the heaps of timber and other fragments
occasioned by the demolition, consumed them, and marched onwards with
furious exultation. It was now proceeding up Gracechurch-street, Saint
Clement's-lane, Nicholas-lane, and Abchurch-lane at the same time,
destroying all in its course. The whole of Lombard-street was choked up
with the ruins and rubbish of demolished houses, through which thousands
of persons were toiling to carry off goods, either for the purpose of
assistance or of plunder. The king was at the west end of the street,
near the church of Saint Mary Woolnoth, and the fearful havoc and
destruction going forward drew tears from his eyes. A scene of greater
confusion cannot be imagined. Leonard was in the midst of it, and,
careless of his own safety, toiled amid the tumbling fragments of the
houses to rescue some article of value for its unfortunate owner. While
he was thus employed, he observed a man leap out of a window of a partly
demolished house, disclosing in the action that he had a casket
concealed under his cloak.
A second glance showed him that this individual was Pillichody, and
satisfied that he had been plundering the house, he instantly seized
him. The bully struggled violently, but at last, dropping the casket,
made his escape, vowing to be revenged. Leonard laughed at his threats,
and the next moment had the satisfaction of restoring the casket to its
rightful owner, an old merchant, who issued from the house, and who,
after thanking him, told him it contained jewels of immense value.
Not half an hour after this, the flames poured upon Lombard-street from
the four avenues before mentioned, and the whole neighbourhood was on
fire. With inconceivable rapidity, they then ran up Birchin-lane, and
reaching Cornhill, spread to the right and left in that great
thoroughfare. The conflagration had now reached the highest point of the
city, and presented the grandest and most terrific aspect it had yet
assumed from the river. Thus viewed, it appeared, as Pepys describes it,
"as an entire arch of fire from the Three Cranes to the other side of
the bridge, and in a bow up the hill, for an arch of above a mile long:
_it made me weep to see it_." Vincent also likens its appearance at this
juncture to that of a bow. "A dreadful bow it was," writes this eloquent
nonconformist preacher, "such as mine eyes have never before seen; a bow
which had God's arrow in it with a flaming point; a shining bow, not
like that in the cloud which brings water with it, and withal signifieth
God's covenant not to destroy the world any more with water, but a bow
having fire in it, and signifying God's anger, and his intention to
destroy London with fire."
As the day drew to a close, and it became darker, the spectacle
increased in terror and sublimity. The tall black towers of the churches
assumed ghastly forms, and to some eyes appeared like infernal spirits
plunging in a lake of flame, while even to the most reckless the
conflagration seemed to present a picture of the terrors of the Last
Day. Never before had such a night as that which ensued fallen upon
London. None of its inhabitants thought of retiring to rest, or if they
sought repose after the excessive fatigue they had undergone, it was
only in such manner as would best enable them to rise and renew their
exertions to check the flames, which were continued throughout the
night, but wholly without success. The conflagration appeared to proceed
at the same appalling rapidity. Halls, towers, churches, public and
private buildings, were burning to the number of more than ten thousand,
while clouds of smoke covered the vast expanse of more than fifty miles.
Travellers approaching London from the north-east were enveloped in it
ten miles off, and the fiery reflection in the sky could be discerned at
an equal distance. The "hideous storm," as Evelyn terms the fearful and
astounding noise produced by the roaring of the flames and the falling
of the numerous fabrics, continued without intermission during the whole
of that fatal night.
VI. HOW THE GROCER'S HOUSE WAS BURNT.
It was full ten o'clock before Leonard could obtain permission to quit
the king's party, and he immediately hurried to Wood-street. He had
scarcely entered it, when the cry of "fire" smote his ears, and rushing
forward in an agony of apprehension, he beheld Mr. Bloundel's dwelling
in flames. A large crowd was collected before the burning habitation,
keeping guard over a vast heap of goods and furniture that had been
removed from it.
So much beloved was Mr. Bloundel, and in such high estimation was his
character held, that all his neighbours, on learning that his house was
on fire, flew to his assistance, and bestirred themselves so actively,
that in an extraordinary short space of time they had emptied the house
of every article of value, and placed it out of danger in the street. In
vain the grocer urged them to desist: his entreaties were disregarded by
his zealous friends; and when he told them they were profaning the
Sabbath, they replied that the responsibility of their conduct would
rest entirely on themselves, and they hoped they might never have
anything worse to answer for. In spite of his disapproval of what was
done, the grocer could not but be sensibly touched by their devotion,
and as to his wife, she said, with tears in her eyes, that "it was
almost worth while having a fire to prove what good friends they had."
It was at this juncture that Leonard arrived. Way was instantly made for
him, and leaping over the piles of chests and goods that blocked up the
thoroughfare, he flew to Mr. Bloundel, who was standing in front of his
flaming habitation with as calm and unmoved an expression of countenance
as if nothing was happening, and presently ascertained from him in what
manner the fire had originated. It appeared that while the whole of the
family were assembled at prayers, in the room ordinarily used for that
purpose, they were alarmed at supper by a strong smell of smoke, which
seemed to arise from the lower part of the house, and that as soon as
their devotions were ended, for Mr. Bloundel would not allow them to
stir before, Stephen and Blaize had proceeded to ascertain the cause,
and on going down to the kitchen, found a dense smoke issuing from the
adjoining cellar, the door of which stood ajar. Hearing a noise in the
yard, they darted up the back steps, communicating with the cellar, and
discovered a man trying to make his escape over the wall by a
rope-ladder. Stephen instantly seized him, and the man, drawing a sword,
tried to free himself from his captor. In the struggle, he dropped a
pistol, which Blaize snatching up, discharged with fatal effect against
the wretch, who, on examination, proved to be Pillichody.
Efforts were made to check the fire, but in vain. The villain had
accomplished his diabolical purpose too well. Acquainted with the
premises, and with the habits of the family, he had got into the yard by
means of a rope-ladder, and hiding himself till the servants were
summoned to prayers, stole into the cellar, and placing a fire-ball amid
a heap of fagots and coals, and near several large casks of oil, and
other inflammable matters, struck a light, and set fire to it.
"I shall ever reproach myself that I was away when this calamity
occurred," observed Leonard, as the grocer brought his relation to an
end.
"Then you will do so without reason," replied Mr. Bloundel, "for you
could have rendered no assistance, and you see my good neighbours have
taken the matter entirely out of my hands."
"Whither do you intend removing, sir?" rejoined Leonard. "If I might
suggest, I would advise you to go to Farmer Wingfield's, at Kensal
Green."
"You have anticipated my intention," replied the grocer; "but we must
now obtain some vehicles to transport these goods thither."
"Be that my part," replied Leonard. And in a short space of time he had
procured half a dozen large carts, into which the whole of the goods
were speedily packed, and a coach having been likewise fetched by
Blaize, Mrs. Bloundel and the three younger children, together with old
Josyna and Patience, were placed in it.
"I hope your mother has taken care of her money," whispered the latter
to the porter, as he assisted her into the vehicle.
"Never mind whether she has or not," rejoined Blaize, in the same tone;
"we shan't want it. I am now as rich as my master--perhaps richer. On
stripping that rascal Pillichody, I found a large bag of gold, besides
several caskets of jewels, upon him, all of which I consider lawful
spoil, as he fell by my hand."
"To be sure," rejoined Patience. "I dare say he did not come very
honestly by the treasures, but you can't help that, you know."
Blaize made no reply, but pushing her into the coach, shut the door. All
being now in readiness, directions were given to the drivers of the
carts whither to proceed, and they were put in motion. At this moment
the grocer's firmness deserted him. Gazing at the old habitation, which
was now wrapped in a sheet of flame, he cried in a voice broken with
emotion, "In that house I have dwelt nearly thirty years--in that house
all my children were born--in that house I found a safe refuge from the
devouring pestilence. It is hard to quit it thus."
Controlling his emotion, however, the next moment, he turned away. But
his feelings were destined to another trial. His neighbours flocked
round him to bid him farewell, in tones of such sympathy and regard,
that his constancy again deserted him.
"Thank you, thank you," he cried, pressing in turn each hand that was
offered him. "Your kindness will never be effaced from my memory. God
bless you all, and may He watch over you and protect you!" and with
these words he broke from them. So great was the crowd and confusion in
Cheapside, that nearly two hours elapsed before they reached Newgate;
and, indeed, if it had not been for the interference of the Earl of
Rochester, they would not, in all probability, have got out of the city
at all. The earl was stationed near the Old 'Change, at the entrance to
Saint Paul's Churchyard, and learning their distress, ordered a party of
the guard by whom he was attended to force a passage for them. Both Mr.
Bloundel and Leonard would have declined this assistance if they had had
the power of doing so, but there was no help in the present case.
They encountered no further difficulties, but were necessarily compelled
to proceed at a slow pace, and did not reach Paddington for nearly two
hours, being frequently stopped by persons eagerly asking as to the
progress of the fire. One circumstance struck the whole party as
remarkable. Such was the tremendous glare of the conflagration, that
even at this distance the fire seemed close beside them, and if they had
not known the contrary, they would have thought it could not be further
off than Saint Giles's. The whole eastern sky in that direction seemed
on fire, and glowed through the clouds of yellow smoke with which the
air was filled with fearful splendour. After halting for a short time at
the Wheat Sheaf, which they found open,--for, indeed, no house was
closed that night,--to obtain some refreshment, and allay the
intolerable thirst by which they were tormented, the party pursued their
journey along the Harrow-road, and in due time approached Wingfield's
residence.
The honest farmer, who, with his wife and two of his men, was standing
in a field at the top of the hill, gazing at the conflagration, hearing
the noise occasioned by the carts, ran to the road-side to see what was
coming, and encountered Mr. Bloundel and Leonard, who had walked up the
ascent a little more quickly than the others.
"I have been thinking of you," he said, after a cordial greeting had
passed between them, "and wondering what would become of you in this
dreadful fire. Nay, I had just told my dame I should go and look after
you, and see whether I could be of any service to you. Well, I should be
better pleased to see you in any way but this, though you could not be
welcomer. I have room in the barn and outhouses for all you have
brought, and hope and trust you have not lost much."
"I have lost nothing except the old house," replied the grocer, heaving
a sigh.
"Another will soon be built," rejoined Wingfield, "and till that is done
you shall not quit mine."
The coach having by this time arrived, Wingfield hastened towards it,
and assisted its occupants to alight. Mrs. Bloundel was warmly welcomed
by Dame Wingfield, and being taken with her children to the house, was
truly happy to find herself under the shelter of its hospitable roof.
The rest of the party, assisted by Wingfield and his men, exerting
themselves to the utmost, the carts were speedily unloaded, and the
goods deposited in the barns and outhouses. This done, the drivers were
liberally rewarded for their trouble by Mr. Bloundel, and after draining
several large jugs of ale brought them by the farmer, made the best of
their way back, certain of obtaining further employment during the
night.
Fatigued as he was, Leonard, before retiring to rest, could not help
lingering on the brow of the hill to gaze at the burning city. The same
effect was observable here as at Paddington, and the conflagration
appeared little more than a mile off. The whole heavens seemed on fire,
and a distant roar was heard like the rush of a high wind through a
mighty forest. Westminster Abbey and Saint Paul's could be distinctly
seen in black relief against the sheet of flame, together with
innumerable towers, spires, and other buildings, the whole constituting
a picture unsurpassed for terrific grandeur since the world began, and
only to be equalled by its final destruction.
Having gazed at the conflagration for some time, and fancied that he
could even at this distance discern the fearful progress it made,
Leonard retired to the barn, and throwing himself upon a heap of straw,
instantly fell asleep. He was awakened the next morning by Farmer
Wingfield, who came to tell him breakfast was ready, and having
performed his ablutions, they adjourned to the house. Finding Mr.
Bloundel comfortably established in his new quarters, Leonard proposed
as soon as breakfast was over to proceed to town, and Wingfield
volunteered to accompany him. Blaize, also, having placed his treasures,
except a few pieces of gold, in the custody of Patience, begged to make
one of the party, and his request being acceded to, the trio set out on
foot, and gleaning fresh particulars of the fearful progress of the
fire, as they advanced, passed along Oxford-road, and crossing Holborn
Bridge, on the western side of which they were now demolishing the
houses, mounted Snow-hill, and passed through the portal of Newgate.
Here they learnt that the whole of Wood-street was consumed, that the
fire had spread eastward as far as Gutter-lane, and that Saint Michael's
Church, adjoining Wood-street, Goldsmiths' Hall, and the church of Saint
John Zachary, were in flames. They were also told that the greater part
of Cheapside was on fire, and wholly impassable--while the destructive
element was invading at one and the same time Guildhall and the Royal
Exchange. They furthermore learnt that the conflagration had spread
fearfully along the side of the river, had passed Queenhithe, consuming
all the wharves and warehouses in its way, and having just destroyed
Paul's Wharf, was at that time assailing Baynard's Castle. This
intelligence determined them not to attempt to proceed further into the
city, which they saw was wholly impracticable; and they accordingly
turned down Ivy-lane, and approached the cathedral with the intention,
if possible, of ascending the central tower. They found a swarm of
booksellers' porters and assistants at the northern entrance, engaged in
transporting immense bales of books and paper to the vaults in Saint
Faith's, where it was supposed the stock would be in safety, permission
to that effect having been obtained from the dean and chapter.
Forcing their way through this crowd, Leonard and his companions crossed
the transept, and proceeded towards the door of the spiral staircase
leading to the central tower. It was open, and they passed through it.
On reaching the summit of the tower, which they found occupied by some
dozen or twenty persons, a spectacle that far exceeded the utmost
stretch of their imaginations burst upon them. Through clouds of tawny
smoke scarcely distinguishable from flame, so thickly were they charged
with sparks and fire-flakes, they beheld a line of fire spreading along
Cheapside and Cornhill, as far as the Royal Exchange, which was now in
flames, and branching upwards in another line through Lawrence-lane to
Guildhall, which was likewise burning. Nearer to them, on the north, the
fire kindled by the wretched Pillichody, who only, perhaps, anticipated
the work of destruction by a few hours, had, as they had heard,
proceeded to Goldsmiths' Hall, and was rapidly advancing down Saint
Ann's-lane to Aldersgate. But it was on the right, and to the
south-east, that the conflagration assumed its most terrific aspect.
There, from Bow Church to the river-side, beyond the bridge as far as
Billingsgate, and from thence up Mincing-lane, crossing Fenchurch-street
and Lime-street to Gracechurch and Cornhill, describing a space of more
than two miles in length and one in depth, every habitation was on fire.
The appearance of this bed of flame was like an ocean of fire agitated
by a tempest, in which a number of barks were struggling, some of them
being each moment engulfed. The stunning and unearthly roar of the
flames aided this appearance, which was further heightened by the
enormous billows of flame that ever and anon rolled tumultuously onward
as they were caught by some gust of wind of more than usual violence.
The spires of the churches looked like the spars of "tall admirals,"
that had foundered, while the blackening ruins of the halls and larger
buildings well represented the ribs and beams of mighty hulks.
Leaving Leonard and his companions to the contemplation of this
tremendous spectacle, we shall proceed to take a nearer view of its
ravages. Every effort had been used to preserve the Royal Exchange by
the city authorities, and by the engineers, headed by the king in
person. All the buildings in its vicinity were demolished. But in vain.
The irresistible and unrelenting foe drove the defenders back as before,
seized upon their barricades, and used them, like a skilful besieger,
against the fortress they sought to protect. Solomon Eagle, who was
mounted upon a heap of ruins, witnessed this scene of destruction, and
uttered a laugh of exultation as the flames seized upon their prey.
"I told you," he cried, "that the extortioners and usurers who resorted
to that building, and made gold their god, would be driven forth, and
their temple destroyed. And my words have come to pass. It burns--it
burns--and so shall they, if they turn not from their ways."
Hearing this wild speech, and beholding the extraordinary figure of the
enthusiast, whose scorched locks and smoke-begrimed limbs gave him
almost the appearance of an infernal spirit, the king inquired, with
some trepidation, from his attendants, who or what he was, and being
informed, ordered them to seize him. But the enthusiast set their
attempts at naught. Springing with wonderful agility from fragment to
fragment of the ruins, and continuing his vociferations, he at last
plunged through the flame into the Exchange itself, rendering further
pursuit, of course, impossible, unless those who desired to capture him,
were determined to share his fate, which now seemed inevitable. To the
astonishment of all, however, he appeared a few minutes afterwards on
the roof of the blazing pile, and continued his denunciations till
driven away by the flames. He seemed, indeed, to bear a charmed life,
for it was rumoured--though the report was scarcely credited--that he
had escaped from the burning building, and made good his retreat to
Saint Paul's. Soon after this, the Exchange was one mass of flame.
Having gained an entrance to the galleries, the fire ran round them with
inconceivable swiftness, as was the case in the conflagration of this
later structure, and filling every chamber, gushed out of the windows,
and poured down upon the courts and walks below. Fearful and prodigious
was the ruin that ensued. The stone walls cracked with the intense
heat--tottered and fell--the pillars shivered and broke asunder, the
statues dropped from their niches, and were destroyed, one only
surviving the wreck--that of the illustrious founder, Sir Thomas
Gresham.
Deploring the fate of the Royal Exchange, the king and his attendants
proceeded to Guildhall. But here they were too late, nor could they even
rescue a tithe of the plate and valuables lodged within it for security.
The effects of the fire as displayed in this structure, were singularly
grand and surprising. The greater part of the ancient fabric being
composed of oak of the hardest kind, it emitted little flame, but became
after a time red hot, and remained in this glowing state till night,
when it resembled, as an eye-witness describes, "a mighty palace of
gold, or a great building of burnished brass."
The greatest fury of the conflagration was displayed at the Poultry,
where five distinct fires met, and united their forces--one which came
roaring down Cornhill from the Royal Exchange--a second down
Threadneedle-street--a third up Walbrook--a fourth along
Bucklersbury--and a fifth that marched against the wind up Cheapside,
all these uniting, as at a focus, a whirl of flame, an intensity of
heat, and a thundering roar were produced, such as were nowhere else
experienced.
To return to the party on the central tower of the cathedral:--Stunned
and half stifled by the roar and smoke, Leonard and his companions
descended from their lofty post, and returned to the body of the fane.
They were about to issue forth, when Leonard, glancing down the northern
aisle, perceived the Earl of Rochester and Lord Argentine standing
together at the lower end of it. Their gestures showed that it was not
an amicable meeting, and mindful of what had passed at Whitehall,
Leonard resolved to abide the result. Presently, he saw Lord Argentine
turn sharply round, and strike his companion in the face with his glove.
The clash of swords instantly succeeded, and Leonard and Wingfield
started forward to separate the combatants. Blaize, followed, but more
cautiously, contenting himself with screaming at the top of his voice,
"Murder! murder! sacrilege! a duel! a duel!"
Wingfield was the first to arrive at the scene of strife, but just as he
reached the combatants, who were too much blinded by passion to notice
his approach, Lord Argentine struck his adversary's weapon from his
grasp, and would have followed up the advantage if the farmer had not
withheld his arm. Enraged at the interference, Argentine turned his fury
against the newcomer, and strove to use his sword against him--but in
the terrible struggle that ensued, and at the close of which they fell
together, the weapon, as if directed by the hand of an avenging fate,
passed through his own breast, inflicting a mortal wound.
"Susan Wingfield is avenged!" said the farmer, as he arose, drenched in
the blood of his opponent.
"Susan Wingfield!" exclaimed the wounded man--"what was she to you?"
"Much," replied the farmer. "She was my daughter."
"Ah!" exclaimed Argentine, with an expression of unutterable anguish.
"Let me have your forgiveness," he groaned.
"You have it," replied Wingfield, kneeling beside him, "and may God
pardon us both--you for the wrong you did my daughter, me for being
accidentally the cause of your death. But I trust you are not mortally
hurt?"
"I have not many minutes to live," replied Argentine. "But is not that
Leonard Holt?"
"It is," said Rochester, stepping forward.
"I can then do one rightful act before I die," he said, raising himself
on one hand, and holding the other forcibly to his side, so as to stanch
in some degree the effusion of blood. "Leonard Holt," he continued, "my
sister Isabella loves you--deeply, devotedly. I have tried to conquer
the passion, but in vain. You have my consent to wed her."
"I am a witness to your words my lord," said Rochester, "and I call upon
all present to be so likewise."
"Rochester, you were once my friend," groaned Argentine, "and may yet be
a friend to the dead. Remember the king sells titles. Teach this young
man how to purchase one. My sister must not wed one of his degree."
"Make yourself easy on that score," replied Rochester; "he has already
sufficient claim upon the king. He saved his life yesterday."