Dowling heaved himself arthritically upon the wall next to me, his red face sweating by my knees, leaving Josselin to spring up by himself.
‘Hey!’ a voice cried from the street below.
The shadow beneath the wall was moving. A long line of soldiers stood in a row.
‘Jump!’ roared Josselin, swinging himself into the air and down onto the street. I followed without thinking and landed on my back, Dowling’s huge feet just missing my nose. I felt myself hauled up and turned back to see a line of men stood with legs bent and arms akimbo like giant crabs, faces frozen in disbelief.
‘Don’t just stand there!’ another voice commanded from in the distance. Withypoll’s voice.
‘Run!’ Josselin urged, beckoning us towards Knightrider Street.
Thank God we climbed the wall where we did, I thought, as I urged my short legs to run as fast as they could. Had we chosen a spot away from the corner we would have landed in the middle of Arlington’s army. Careless of them not to guard each end of the street, I thought, a sense of gratitude elevating my senses. Withypoll’s doing; arrogance ever his downfall. Though they trailed us by just ten yards.
Josselin surged ahead, weaving his way through the crowded street without breaking his stride. He pulled further and further ahead, leaving me to do my best to keep up with Dowling. He ran with longer stride, but my legs moved quicker. Bread Street loomed.
‘Turn right,’ I shouted.
Dowling heard and made the turn. Bread Street was where I lived. Dowling slowed, allowing me to surge past. Four soldiers followed, the others pursued Josselin. This was my parish; these were my
streets. I darted left into a narrow lane that twisted its way onto Friday Street. Two feet wide, the soldiers would have to follow in single file. Then north until we reached St Matthew’s. I led Dowling around the churchyard wall and through a tiny opening out onto Cheapside. Then diagonally towards the mouth of Gutter Lane and into the shadow. We stopped, panting hard, my breath rasping against the lining of my throat.
‘That was close,’ I wheezed.
‘Aye, close.’ Dowling leant forwards, hands on knees. ‘And getting closer. The fire will drive us all up against the wall.’
The wind continued to billow and churn, carrying a sheet of embers above our heads. Some died, others drifted deep into the maze of close-packed houses, dry as dust. I heard the Withypoll shouting in the distance.
‘What are you two doing?’ a voice cried out from behind. ‘Make yourselves useful or clear the way!’
Two fellows pushed a large barrel down the street to which someone had fixed two sets of wheels. A third fellow led the way, parading afore it with great majesty, urging all to stand aside and let it pass, which was hardly necessary given the troubles the two men at the back were having in persuading it to roll against the cobbles.
‘Where are your buckets?’ the portly fellow bellowed into my face. ‘You may save your goods, but what about your property?’ His gaze fell to our hands, where still we wore our ropes. Then something caught his eye.
‘Stop that man!’ he yelled, pointing at a small thin fellow scuttling along Cheapside clasping something to his chest. The thin man cast a frightened gaze over his shoulder and tried to run faster, but whatever he had beneath his shirt slowed him down.
‘Stop that Frenchman!’ our protagonist shouted again, attracting the attention of all on Cheapside.
Two burly fellows pulling a wagon by hand dropped their load and spread their arms wide, attention fixed upon the poor unfortunate. His hair was straight, black and well oiled, and he wore it pulled back and tied behind his neck. He danced from foot to foot, no chance of escape. As the two big fellows jumped at him, he fell to the cobbles in a ball, knees tucked up to his chest.
The portly fellow rolled his sleeves further up his arms and marched up like a great waddling bulldog to where the little man lay cowering. ‘What does he hide in his shirt?’ He squinted.
The little fellow peered up. His face was thin and angular. A big black mole sat tucked beneath one nostril. ‘My dog,’ he exclaimed, pulling forth a small black creature with hair over its eyes. ‘It is just my dog.’ His accent indeed sounded foreign, but many foreigners lived inside London’s city walls. He clambered to his knees and sat crouched, holding up the dog with both hands like it was a sacred offering.
Dowling shoved his way to the front of the small gathering. ‘What did you think it was?’
The big ugly fellow stood feet astride, gazing down on the smaller man like he hated him with all his soul. ‘They found a Frenchman with a trunk full of fireballs out at Moorfields.’
‘You thought he carried fireballs in his shirt?’ Dowling snorted. ‘He is as frightened as the rest of us. Let him go.’
‘Frightened you say?’ The portly fellow turned to Dowling, thick black eyebrows halfway to the top of his balding head. ‘I am not frightened, nor should any of us be. We must put out this fire.’ He turned again to the little man and his dog. ‘The only ones that have
need to be frightened are those that fear being caught.’ He held up a hand high into the air, with great ceremony. One of his colleagues handed him a thick iron bar. ‘The French have started fires all over the City and are descending upon us now, an army of French and Papists, four thousand men.’
Before any could stop him he swung the bar through the air and hit the little man hard across the temple. The short fellow fell to the ground instantly, eyes closed and body limp. The little dog landed sideways upon the cobbles before righting itself. It began to bark: short, snapping yelps aimed at no one in particular. The gathering crowd stood in a silent circle watching blood pour from the small man’s head, trickling between the cobbles in a meandering stream.
‘This is revenge!’ the portly fellow snarled, clasping the iron bar tighter in his fist. ‘Holmes burnt Westerschelling and now the Dutch are trying to burn London.’
Dowling pushed him in the chest. ‘I thought you said it was the French?’ he said. ‘Dutch or French? Make up your mind.’
The portly fellow recovered his poise and took a step back towards Dowling. ‘Who are you, anyway, sir?’ he sneered. ‘Why do you wear rope?’ he nodded at Dowling’s wrists. ‘What prison have you escaped from?’
The crowd now turned to us, murmuring amongst themselves, faces unfriendly and unsmiling. All were terrified, desperate for assurance that someone might save their homes and possessions, and ready to tear to pieces whosoever it was started the blaze.
Why hadn’t we just slunk back into Gutter Lane, I asked myself? Why did we always find ourselves at the midst of every conflagration? Withypoll’s soldiers would be here soon, if they weren’t already watching at the fringes of the mob now surrounding us.
‘We were imprisoned by the Dutch,’ I called out, an unformed lie. ‘Which is why we know it was not the French.’ I waved a hand at the dead man upon the ground. ‘This man was guilty of no crime.’
Which speech did nothing to settle the atmosphere. I realised, too late, that to suggest a murder took place was to suggest all were party to it. I would have to work twice as hard.
‘We came back from Colchester yesterday.’ I held up the rope for all to see. ‘The Dutch attempted to land at Hythe but were thwarted. Their spies captured us in the Dutch Quarter, and Lord Arlington’s men rescued us. We are members of Lord Arlington’s secret service.’
The portly man didn’t know what to say. He stood with mouth open, eyes gleaming, still holding his iron bar. I did my best to look like a battle-hardened soldier, staring back, expressionless.
‘We don’t have time for this,’ said Dowling, breaking the silence. ‘Stand aside, all of you. The army will root out the perpetrators of this great fire, if perpetrators there be. Gather your possessions and leave, else stay and fight the fire.’