Murder in Grub Street (23 page)

At the far side of the roped plot was a great pumping engine of a kind I had seen only in pictures. It was manned on both sides by a crew that kept it moving up and down, up and down, in a seesaw action, while much nearer the fire were two men, one on each side, directing the squirter to the point where the flames were fiercest. The water came from it in strong jets in the rhythm of the pump to which it was attached by a leather hose. Impressive it was, yet seemingly ineffectual against the burning.

Soldiers roamed at intervals along the perimeter, muskets at the ready and bayonets fixed, holding back the crowd that strained against the rope. And far to the rear, too, there w r as another cluster of soldiers; one among them was unmistakably an officer and in charge. He was engaged in heated conversation with two other men, one of whom was blocked from my view. As I stared at him, the officer stamped his foot in anger and turned away from the other two, revealing to me — Sir John Fielding, looking every inch himself. Sir John slammed his stick down on the cobblestones and shouted something after the retreating officer. Well, I had my goal now; my problem was but to reach it. I attempted to catch his attention, shouting his name, yet my cry was quite lost in the tumult before me and the roaring buzz behind. I understood that this would be quite useless, and so I did what had to be done: I set my eyes on Sir John and ducked under the rope barrier.

And for my action I was rewarded w r ith a stout clout on the back with the butt of a military musket. It sent me sprawling down to the cobblestones. Yet I caught myself with my hands and pushed up, looking left and right, trying to determine whence this great clout had come. Then I looked up and found a soldier not much older than myself glowering down at me. Very personal was he in his disapproval, as if, in crossing that line, I had declared myself his profoundest enemy.

“What say you?” asked the young soldier. “Will you move back behind the rope, or would you like to feel t’other end of this musket?”

The bayonet attached to the muzzle high above glinted sharply in the light of the fire.

“I would not, but I incut see Sir John Fielding. He is just there,” said I, half rising and pointing my finger, “and I am his assistant.”

“Sure, you must be,” said he. He then gave my shoulder a prod with the gun butt. “Now get back behind the rope.”

Then I caught sight of one nearby who might vouch for me. “Mr. Cowley!” I cried loudly to him. “Come tell this soldier who I am.”

He was behind the lad in the red coat some two rods. He seemed not to hear me.

“Mr. Cowley, pleaje!”

He turned, caught sight, and gave a wave to me. Then he ambled over to us.

“Hullo, Jeremy,” said he. “Wonderful big fire, ain’t it?”

“Who is he, Constable?” demanded the soldier. “Claims he’s the magistrate’s assistant.”

Constable Cowley thought about that a moment. “Well, I don’t rightly know what you’d call him,” said he. “He’s with him all the time, he is. Does all manner of errands and jobs for the Beak, he does.”

“Come on now,” said the soldier. “Is he or ain’t he?”

“Yes, I guess you could call him such.”

Surely, I thought, he could have been more forthcoming, less reluctant. In any case, the soldier lowered his musket and turned away from me. If he could not force me back behind the rope, then he had no further interest in me. I started off at a jog trot in the direction I had seen Sir John.

“He’s there,” called Constable Cowley behind me. I looked back. He was pointing in the way I was headed. “That’s him with the Lord Mayor and that captain of artillery.”

That nearly stopped me absolutely. The Lord Mayor of London? How was I to pass the word on Moll Caulfield with Sir John in the company of one so illustrious? Yet I proceeded, for I knew I must try.

As I approached, I found the assemblage about him curiously mixed as to attitude and activity. The men of the fire brigade pumped urgently at their engine, and their leader shouted orders loudly at the two manning the squirter and at the three armed with pole hooks who seemed to be engaged in pulling down the house whilst still it burned. The soldiers, on the other hand, lounged about indifferently, seemingly bored, as they talked and joked amongst themselves, awaiting orders; a few of them had taken seats upon kegs that were distributed in disorder around them.

And in the midst of all stood Sir John. The evident disagreement that had raged between the three principals had reached a point where each had taken a position apart from the other two, and all maintained hostile silence. Thus had I the perfect opportunity to impart my news to Sir John. I ran direct to him and gave a tug upon his big sleeve.

“Sir John,” said I. “There is something I must — “

“What?” said he, turning to me. “Who is there? Jeremy? Thank God you’re here, boy. Now perhaps I can get a bit of unprejudiced information.”

“Gladly will I give it, but — “

“This gentleman to my right” — he nodded in the direction of the Lord Mayor — “declares the fire to be of no consequence, says a woman could piss it out. He’s all for packing up the engine and the squirter and removing them altogether.”

“Now, that is not what I said, Sir John,” bellowed the Lord Mayor. “Or it is not all that I said. The men on the pump are near spent. They cannot go on so all night. And besides, this appliance is most dear to use. Let the blaze burn itself out, say I. The structure cannot be saved.”

“What say you to that, Jeremy? Can it be saved?”

“I could not hazard …” But then I gave it a fair look and saw, to my surprise, that I knew the house, had been inside. It was the Jewish church to which Mr. Martinez had taken us to talk with the rabbi. I recognized the strange writing above the door, now bubbling and running from the heat of the fire. “No, Sir John,” said I then, “I do not see that it can be saved.”

“Does it burn from the ground floor upward?”

“Yes, sir, it does.”

“Would you say that — “

At that moment a great cry went up from the crowd, and in particular a sound of rejoicing and applause from one sector off to the left. I looked about, then to the burning building. There I saw a figure framed in firelight in the open doorway. It was the rabbi — Gershon was his name — and he now staggered forward, his arms hugging a sizable object wrapped in a blanket, which had sprouted little leaves of flame.

“What is it, Jeremy? What has happened?”

“It is that rabbi,” said I, “the one you talked to but one night past.”

“Ah, he made it back, did he? He ran back into the house minutes ago. They’d written him off for dead.”

Once clear of the fire, he collapsed onto the cobblestones and beat out the bits of flame and sparks that had attached to the blanket. Even at a distance I could see his beard was badly singed. Then from the left came a whole host of bearded men, his congregation. They had broken through the barrier and, ignoring the soldiers, come forth to—what? Congratulate him upon returning with his life? No, they paid him little attention. Their concern was all for that object which was wrapped in the blanket. There was great shouting and rejoicing in that strange tongue of theirs as they removed the blanket and revealed the scroll beneath. Two or three jumped up and began dancing in the way I had seen before. I marveled at that, thinking it a queer response.

“What is it now?” said Sir John, most impatient. “What is now happening?”

I described all that above as briefly as possible. And even as I spoke to Sir John, a group of soldiers came forth to round up these Jews and convey them back behind the barrier they had breached. This I added to my tale.

“Well, then, Lord Mayor,” called Sir John, “there is your relief for the pumpers. The Jews should be glad to spell them. The rabbi speaks English. Let him come forward. Rabbi!” he yelled out. “Oh, Rabbi! Over here, please.”

And indeed he came. Though he bore proudly what he had saved from the fire — the scroll was near as big as he — he had himself suffered a bit for it. Not only was his beard singed, but in the barest patches the skin beneath was also burned raw. I saw, too, that his hands had suffered.

“It is a terrible disaster,” offered Sir John, “what has befallen you and your congregation. I offer my sincere regrets.”

“I accept them,” said Rabbi Gershon, “but we are accustomed to such disasters.

“Fire and sword?”

“You make that association. Who am I to say?”

“Ah well, yes, I see. The Lord Mayor has complained to me that his pumpers need rest. Would your men, or some of them, volunteer to spell them? I would count it a great service to the city if they were to do so.”

“They will do it if I ask them.”

“Then by all means.”

The rabbi nodded and turned to go, but Sir John called him back.

“May I also ask you to visit me tomorrow that we might further discuss this … disaster.”

“As you wish, Sir John Fielding. And when should that be?”

“Oh, late in the afternoon tomorrow, after my court. Let us say at five. You will need that long at least to recuperate.”

“As you say.”

And with that he did leave, going to his troop of bearded men, now marching solemnly back in the company of red-coated soldiers.

“Jeremy,” said Sir John to me, in something of a whisper, “is that popinjay of a captain still about?”

“He is, Sir John.”

“Is he within shouting distance?”

In full voice then: “Then you, Lord Mayor, must do the shouting.” For he had been close and listening to every word that was said. “Inform the captain that the men of the rabbi’s congregation are to do their duty for the city of London. That should satisfy you, I hope.”

“It must then, mustn’t it?”

“And there’ll be no more talk of taking away the pump engine?”

“Not for the present.”

Thus, all but ordered to do so, the Lord Mayor chose not to shout but waddled over to the captain and spoke into his ear. It must be remembered, reader, that these negotiations, such as they were, took place in the greatest din and confusion; even the fire, as it burned, made a great noise, which pervaded all the rest.

“Sir John,” said I, “Jimmie Bunkins came to me, and — “

“That ass of a captain wishes to begin the destruction of this entire block of houses.” This was said with a wave of his stick in the general direction of the errant officer. “He wishes to blow them up. Can you imagine such a mindless destruction of property?”

“Why no, sir, that would be — “

“Gunpowder! He brought kegs and kegs of the awful stuff over from the Tower. Says it was the only action with any effect during the Great Fire of the last century. Well, that’s nonsense. Conditions differ. First of all, there is no wind, is there, boy? Lick your finger and reassure me.”

I did as told. When I held up my forefinger, it remained simply wet.

“No wind at all,” said I. “When I viewed the fire from my window, the smoke seemed to rise straight up.”

“There—you see? And there is space between the buildings on either side, is there not?”

“Some, yes — about a rod on one side and a little more on the other.”

“I’ve instructed the tenants to stand by with buckets and to be particularly mindful of sparks on the roof. Have they stationed themselves?”

In truth, they were quite busy, splashing, dousing, and beating out, but all to good effect. As fortune would have it, both buildings were of good English brick and would withstand much.

“They have,” said I, “and so far no fire has caught.”

“And on the roofs. Are they up there?”

I had noted some activity before — men looking down in dread at the flames below, water splashing over from one side of the roof on the left.

“They are, though it be difficult to see their movements. Both roofs are flat.”

“They are? I had not been told — much easier to manage so. You see, that is precisely the sort of information I could not get from the captain — nor, for that matter, from the Lord Mayor. I will not have buildings blown up to satisfy the caprice of some raw artillery captain. It’s madness! The idea!”

He rumbled on a bit more, to himself rather than to me. Still I waited lor the right opportunity to pass on to him what I had learned at the Raker’s. I had not thus far been successful. Who knew that better than I? Perhaps this was neither the time nor the place for it. Yet if I were to make one more try …

“Sir John?”

“Yes, Jeremy, what is it?”

The direct route surely was best. “Moll Caulfield is — “

“Sir John! Sir John!” Constable Cowley came a-galloping up. “I have news of witnesses.”

“Well, tell it me, man!”

“There were two who saw three men in black fleeing Maiden Lane just before the fire was noticed.”

“Then they did not actually see the fire being set?”

“Well … no, sir. But they saw them right enough, moving off in all haste — and in the direction of Half Moon Passage.”

“That, at least, is something. Did you get the names of the

witnesses

•)”

“I did, sir.”

“And where they might be reached?”

“Well, I have a fair address for a Mr. Goodpasture, though he was most uneasy we should use it. He prefers it not be known that he was about Covent Garden in the company of one Daisy Dillard of no fixed address. She it was who proved truly forthcoming. Said she had seen men dressed such as they a-preaching in the Garden.”

“So what have we? A straying husband, not eager to be called upon, and a Covent Garden whore of no fixed address. Well, it is something. Let us do what we can with it.”

Sir John then turned his head this way and that, as if surveying the scene. Yet upon me he relied for the actual report.

“Tell me, Jeremy,” said he, “how goes the fire now?”

“Somewhat weaker now,” said I, in truth. “It seems to have been all but extinguished on the ground floor. Half the front of the upper floor has been pulled down by the men with their hooks. And the squirter is now aimed there above.”

“Then let’s be gone,” said he. “We shall pay a visit to Brother Abraham and his flock of sheep.”