Return to London
Ensconced in the Huntingdonshire countryside many miles from London, Abby and Jacob had no idea they had escaped the most devastating fire the city had ever witnessed. “I was obliged to bury my Parmesan cheese in the garden,” Mr Pepys told them, mopping his brow at the memory. The dense wheel of cheese had been simply too heavy to carry to safety.
Samuel Pepys was returning to London by horse-drawn coach from Brampton. Seated opposite him were Jacob Standish, his personal inquisitor, and Abigail Harcourt, his young housemaid whom he had allowed to aid Standish in a recent witchcraft investigation.
Abby, 19, wore a simple linen dress with a woollen shawl and bonnet, all in cream. Her red hair was tied back, and her piercing turquoise eyes suggested a fierce intellect, which she had become adept at hiding, for fear of upstaging boorish gentlemen above her station.
Jacob, three years her senior, was twice her size, thick-set, with unruly dark eyebrows that met in the middle. His doublet and coat were plain, and his felt hat sat lopsidedly on a periwig that had seen better days some years ago. He brought to mind an outsized puppy.
Mr Pepys? He looked immaculate, of course. The very essence of a gentleman in charge of his own destiny. Yet there was something about his general disposition - the flushed, rounded cheeks, the eager expression - that spoke of joy and humanity within, not often found in men of his standing.
The two-day journey had begun in high spirits. Pepys’s sister, Paulina, had been absolved of all the charges of witchery laid against her, thanks to Abby and Jacob, which filled Samuel with delight. That they had succeeded in unmasking a murderer and proving Paulina’s innocence, despite their backgrounds as a maid and a failed purser’s apprentice, was cause alone for celebration.
However, something appeared to be troubling Pepys.
Abby and Jacob had left London for Brampton on the day the fire started - Sunday 2nd September, 1666 - in the early hours of the morning. Pepys had joined them a week later, having witnessed first-hand the devastation the fire had wrought on his precious city.
It was clear that those memories had taken their toll. Pepys seemed distracted, and his customary bright-eyed disposition was replaced, as they jolted through ruts on the dried-mud road, with a drained and baleful demeanour.
“Sir,” said Jacob, noticing the malaise. “Pray tell me what troubles you.”
“It did seem as if Heaven itself were on fire,” Pepys replied, blankly staring.
Panic had reigned as a fierce east wind fanned the flames towards the heart of the walled medieval city, Pepys recalled. People’s belongings were thrown into the streets, where they piled in the drainage channels, or were tossed into the River Thames in the hope of evading the flames. When the fire reached the warehouses on the north bank of the Thames, the oils and gunpowder stored there began to explode, creating carnage.
Pepys moved his best goods by cart to a friend’s property in Bethnal Green, having buried his most expensive foodstuffs dressed only in his nightshirt. Afterwards, he had lived in constant fear that his house on Seething Lane, less than half a mile from the fire’s starting point on Pudding Lane, would be consumed by the flames. God - and the wind direction - had proved to be his saviours.
In his work as Clerk of the Acts to the Navy Board, Pepys acted as an advisor to King Charles II and his brother James, Duke of York. On the day the fire started, he recalled travelling by river to Whitehall Palace, where the court resided, to warn His Majesty of a potential catastrophe. He suggested that houses in the fire’s path be demolished, to halt its progress. The King had considered this a fine idea and ordered him to relay the same to the Lord Mayor, Thomas Bludworth.
Pepys narrowed his eyes. “When at last I found the Lord Mayor in Cannon Street, he looked like a man spent, with a handkerchief about his neck. To the King’s message, he cried, like a fainting woman, ‘Lord, what can I do? I am spent and the people will not obey me. I have been pulling down houses but the fire overtakes us faster than we can do it.’”
After such a craven display, the King and the Duke of York took charge of the firefighting effort themselves. Pepys personally recalled the Duke joining a line of men with leather buckets, dousing the flames, and almost paying with his life when a building collapsed behind him.
After the fire leap-frogged the River Fleet and headed for Westminster and Whitehall, Charles retreated with his court to the safety of Hampton Court Palace, leaving James in charge.
Pepys recalled visiting the royal dockyard at Woolwich, from which distant vantage point the entire city appeared to be ablaze. The grim cloud of black smoke above the panorama of flames seemed to fill the sky like a permanent midnight.
Eventually, on Thursday, the fifth day of the conflagration, the flames abated. The wind died down and firefighters - some press-ganged into action - blew up enough wooden houses, sufficiently distant from the fire’s path, that they deprived the flames of fuel. “Devastation remained,” Pepys sighed.
Four-fifths of the walled city, he estimated, with its narrow streets and wooden buildings, lay razed to the ground. Despite the carnage, only half a dozen citizens were reported to have perished, although thousands were now homeless.
The thriving shopping street of Cheapside was gone, he told Abby and Jacob, as was the ornate Exchange marketplace, where merchants once met and bartered. The lead roof of St Paul’s cathedral had melted and flowed like lava down the streets, as the building itself collapsed.
At the end of these tragic recollections, Pepys wrung his hands and bowed his head. Jacob did the same, and his hat fell off. Abby, in tears, picked it up for him.
“Sir,” Jacob addressed his mentor. “Are you aware… Did my house on Strand Lane survive the fire?”
Although the query may have seemed rather self-centred, given the devastation visited upon so many, Pepys could only empathise. He reached across and patted Jacob’s thigh. “Fear not, Mr Standish. The fire did not reach even Temple Bar, thanks to the work of so many brave souls. Your house on Strand Lane still stands.”
Abby wiped her eyes with a dirty sleeve. “Master Pepys, what will become of London now?”
Pepys rose from the slouch that had overcome him. “The city has thrived for hundreds of years, Abigail, and it will thrive for many hundreds more, long after we are turned to dust. We must view this catastrophe as an opportunity. An opportunity for great men to make their names in the rebuilding of the city, such that it shall become the envy of the rest of the world.”
Jacob found himself applauding. “Sir, your words will be an inspiration to all of London.”
Pepys blushed and smiled to himself.
“When we return,” Jacob said, “I would like to visit my house to check on my possessions, that they have not been damaged by smoke.”
Pepys shook his head. “Nay, there is not the time, Mr Standish. I will assign a boy to the task on your behalf. Your attention lies elsewhere.”
The younger man perked up. “Our next investigation, sir? I feared we may be put out to pasture, having investigated the witchery in Brampton.”
Pepys almost choked. “Good heavens, nay, your work as my personal inquisitor has barely begun! I have already in mind a most perplexing case, which may baffle even you…”
