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.