The gold and silver plate and the jewels of the great Lord Tuscar were
the wonder and admiration of Europe. Sovereigns envied him for their
possession. They had not been the result of one generation. The
Tuscars had for a couple of centuries been generals, admirals,
statesmen, lawyers. They had, in fact, occupied every favourable
position for earning high rewards and for wholesale plundering.
They had plundered with a will. And now, in addition to fine estates
in three English counties and a large slice out of "settled" Ulster,
and one of the finest houses in London, Lord Tuscar had the largest
collection of plate and jewels owned by any nobleman in the three
kingdoms. No one had ever attempted even to estimate the value of his
treasures.
His house was situated close to the river, at no great distance from
St. Prisca's Church. Those were times of troubles and dangers. Great
houses had been ruined and great houses made in an incredibly short
space of time. Men who had been at the zenith of power and riches
yesterday were penniless exiles to-day, and the men who had subsisted
upon the charity of foreign courts and foreign nobles a week ago, were
now environed with all the circumstance and pomp of power and all the
splendour of wealth.
Now, one of the most remarkable things in connection with the great
Tuscar treasure was, that for some years no one had seen more of it
than the meaner exigencies of a great house required. Some said the
great lord had pawned it. At this most people laughed; for was it not
known that, gorgeous as was the state and luxury with which he
surrounded himself, his income exceeded his expenses? Others said that
although the time was over when monarchs playfully adopted the
treasures of their nobles, the great earl had misgivings, and although
one of the most favoured courtiers of the Merry Monarch, he had a
morbid dread that his Majesty might unjustly covet those precious
stores. Then there was an idea that as the Tuscars had been
enthusiastic Royalists, and as the present earl was notoriously timid,
he had, in dread of a second Commonwealth, sent his plate and gems
over seas.
However the matter stood, there could be no doubt that the treasure
was not now at Tuscar House; and, moreover, it was alleged that only
his lordship and one confidential person could tell the whereabouts of
the hoard.
It was towards the end of summer, and night. Most of London had
retired to rest. A strong wind was blowing from the east. The city was
ill-lighted where it was lighted at all, and the streets dangerous
after dark; so that most people who were honest and had anything to
lose kept indoors.
It was not a fashionable part of the city, but it was not
unprosperous. As the night went on the wind increased, until about ten
o'clock. Then it blew fiercely.
All at once in front of the shop of one, Farryner, baker to the King,
was raised a cry:
"Fire!"
That was the beginning of it. In an incredibly short time, aided by
the wind, Farryner's house was burned out; but, before it was finally
reduced to ashes, most of Pudding Lane was in flames. Many of the
houses were of wood, and offered no protest whatever against the
development of the conflagration.
An hour from the outbreak of the flames it was known Farryner was
burned out. Two hours later it was known that London was in flames.
Now it could be seen that this was no incidental fire, to be dismissed
finally at the end of the nine-days' wonder. This was a fire that
would be remembered for years.
Three hours after midnight it was obvious that, if the wind continued
in its present quarter for any great length of time, the fire would
become a matter which history could never ignore.
By this time a large portion of the population in the neighbourhood
afflicted were afoot. Now the fire leaped from street to street, as
though with the agility of trained experience. Now, when new material
came in its way, it shot upward in spires of flame. Later, these
spires, bending under the pressure of the wind, made radiant viaducts
for the fire across the darkened streets. And when they had done their
deadly work, and the buildings opposite crackled and glowed, these
huge beams of molten gold contracted as the source upon which they
had fed failed them, and finally they made one wild, aspiring rush
upwards when the roof fell, and the four walls of each house formed
the crater of an iridescent volcano, which belched forth one huge mass
of co-mingled smoke, and flame, and sparks, and flakes, and wands of
fire.
About this time the vast house owned by the great Lord Tuscar was
threatened, touched, and fired. He, his suite and retinue, escaped by
the river; and in a brief time, before the daylight yet broadened in
the east, already red with the flames, Tuscar House was beyond hope.
Now terror had fully seized the people. No efforts were made to save
the buildings. Those who could escape with their lives, and a few of
the most portable of their worldly goods, were considered lucky. Men
and women might be seen hurrying through the streets frantically,
moving west, carrying such of their possessions as could be borne a
great distance. For now they had come to the conclusion that it was
impossible to set a limit to the flames, and that the whole of London
in a westerly direction might succumb.
There had been a long, hot, dry season, and the houses burned bravely.
They seemed but to need a touch from the fiery wind flying by to
kindle them. Despair reigned supreme. Men and women went shrieking
through the streets. The roar of the conflagration shook the air. The
crash of falling houses made the solid ground tremble. People would
not leave their homes until the flames had touched the walls, until
the last ray of hope was obscured. Then such as were not encumbered
with children or goods flew through the streets, shrieking like
demented beings.
One of those most alarmed by the magnitude of the calamity and the
terrors of that night was the great Earl of Tuscar. When he entered
his barge to row up the river his feet trembled, and he could scarcely
keep himself upright.
He was elderly, and had been in failing health for some time. Before
they arrived at the stairs at Westminster he complained of feeling
faint; and when at last the barge ran alongside, they had to carry the
great Earl out, for he was dead.
As the attendants were bearing the body of the great Earl from his
barge, a solitary man stood on the leads of the tower belonging to St.
Prisca's Church, watching the progress of the flames.
Evidently he was very anxious, for his head and eyes moved continually
from right to left. As each spot, which, a moment before had been
black, sprang into flame, he shifted his feet restlessly like one
feeling he ought to be gone, and yet daring to hope there was no need
for flight.
"If anything is to be saved," he said, "there is no time to lose."
Again he ran his eye over the increasing area of the fire.
"The walls of the tower may stand," he thought. "They are much thicker
than is common. But the church itself must go if the wind does not
abate. The Earl has already left, of course. The fire did not spare
his stout walls, nor respect his greatness. He and I alone know where
his treasure is hid. He will, of course, take measures to secure it
after the fire. It could be nowhere safer than it is at present. No
one suspects it is in the vault. People who saw the chests come
believed they contained only the rescued archives of an abbey
destroyed by Cromwell. But let me see. Supposing anything should have
happened to him; supposing he was overtaken by the flames; suppose,
from some cause or other, he should not be able to communicate the
secret to anyone, how then could this treasure be discovered? How
could it be so arranged that the secret might fall into no other hands
than those entitled to know it, for may not I too perish in this
terrible disaster?"
He turned around, and leaving the embrasure in which he had stood,
descended quickly to the room below.
Here a light was burning, and it could be seen that he who had watched
the fire from the roof was a clergyman.
"How is it to be done?" he thought, and pondered some seconds. At last
he lifted a small box, and, going to some bookshelves, took out a few
volumes. In two of these volumes he wrote something.
"It will not do," he thought, "to make this matter so plain that
anyone may understand it. If the Earl is alive, by noon he will surely
take some steps with regard to his treasure. If he is not alive, and I
too have perished, it will be necessary some record should be left
behind."
He placed a copy of Chaucer, in which he had written something, in the
bottom of the box, then a few indifferent books, and then "Mentor on
Hawking," in which he had written something also; then a few more
indifferent books, and finally a piece of paper bearing these words:
"Search diligently if you would know what John Henry Plantagenet
James, eighth earl, knew, if he be dead."
On the outside of the box he fastened a piece of parchment on which he
wrote: "A box of books. Take this at once to the Earl of Tuscar, who
will reward the bearer."
Then he locked the box, and, putting it on his shoulder, descended the
ladders of St. Prisca's Tower. As he did so he said to himself: "I
have not been too soon. The air here is already hot. I can smell the
fire close by."
As he was about half-way down, a sudden light in one of the openings
attracted his attention. He started, and cried: "The flames have
already struck the church."
Ere he reached the next loft it was but too plain the tower was
already in flames.
"My retreat cut off!" he exclaimed in despair. He looked down into the
next loft. The floor and the foot of the ladder were alight, and exit
was impossible. If there was any hope for him it must be upon the
roof. He hastened thither.
During the time he had been occupied with the books and writing, and
in descending and ascending, the fire had made rapid, terrible
progress. It had touched the Church of St. Prisca, and the smoke was
already coming up the opening in the roof.
It was quite plain now to the man on the leads that he was doomed.
There were people in the streets below, but they were as helpless as
he.
"I must die," he said. "Nothing can save me. There is but one chance
for my preserving the secret."
He approached an embrasure on the western side, and dropped the box
into the street below.
The box shot downward and was shattered into atoms. Some paltry
pilferer, a few minutes later, snatched up the books and put them into
his bag. The label on the box and the manuscript-slip inside were
never seen afterwards. The books were carried to Kensington, whither a
good deal of the salvage of the fire was brought; and the clergyman,
who had tried to save the Earl's secret, fell a victim to the Great
Fire of London on the 3rd of September, 1666.