Zealand

12. Refuge

The sun had set, but we didn't need it, Botolph Wharf afire offering more than enough light to see what we were about. While Captain unlocked the mooring chains and pulled them from the rings, I raised the jib. Then as he sheeted the sail, it pulled Bessy away from the wharf into the ebbing tide, and he called, "Lower the starboard leeboard, lad."

"Aye, sir. Starboard leeboard down."

When I had finished this, we were well out into the river, and behind us over the rooftops, I saw Captain's rain. I admired his cleverness in doing this, then I stopped. "Oh, no!"

"What is it, lad?"

"The wind blows all the water away from your house. Your work was for nought."

He chuckled. "Nay, lad. It is as I intended. Wet all the houses around us, that they not so easily take light."

"But your house remains dry. What of the sparks, the firedrops?"

"The wind still blows them away." He raised an arm and pointed. "Two houses along the wharf – maybe three – are wet. Our hope is the fire is not so intense as to dry them."

"And that the wind remains."

"Aye." He pushed the tiller, and as the leeboard bit, Bessy swung slowly to port.

"Where will we go, sir?"

"Down the river to find mooring for the night."

"And then?"

"That depends upon the fire, lad." He pointed over his shoulder. "If the house still stands when the fire has died, we will return."

"And if –" I shuddered at the thought of it burning. "If it doesn't survive?"

"I own houses up St Mary Hill and along Thames Street toward the Tower, and two are now vacant. When the first one is deemed clean of the contagion, we might remove to there. Possibly to Deptford."

I nodded, realising why the landlord had allowed me to remain in the garret all those weeks as I fell more and more behind with the rent.

The river was busy with boats, and the embankments were crowded with people burdened by what of their belongings they could carry. The farther we sailed down the river, the darker it grew, and I wondered how we would moor Bessy. Boats lined the wharves, and I could see no place for us.

I tried to recall if there were stairs or wharves along the river, but all I remembered was learning the parts of the barge and how she sails. Then the vegetable wharf. But how would we find it – or anything in the dark?

Captain's orders brought me from my pother, and I followed them as Bessy swung about in the current to head upriver against it, stemming toward the embankment. Soon, we were alongside another barge, and as I passed the bow line to a man there, I looked across it to see his barge was also moored to another, and that one to another still. Three barges between us and ashore.

And it was this way both upriver and down. Dozens of barges and many times more wherries, all filled with people and their belongings.

Then with the mooring done and the mainsail brailed, I paused to look forward from up the mast to see the fire advancing along the wharf. Captain's house and those beside it were still safe. But for how long? What when the fire burns the conduit[1] and all the pissing of water stops?

"Come, lad. Let us make some comfort among this load."

We tied lines to the port and starboard shrouds and drew them aft to take turns around the stern bitts. Then across the lines, we spread a thick, stiff cloth – tarpawling,[2] he called it. When we had pulled it taut and tied down the edges, we had a roof and walls.

We did the same forward of the mast, and when finished, Captain said, "It may not be much, lad, but it is better than many have this night. Now, let us pause to sup."

Captain found two candle lanterns and lit them, then we moved things about beneath the tarpawling, clearing a space for one of the small tables and two chairs. When they were in place, he bade me sit. "A long day for one so young, lad. Take your ease while I find the breadbox."

The first box he found was the one with the clock, and he took it out and set it on the table, then he continued to search.

Past ten of the night. More than eighteen hours from bed. I rubbed my aching shoulders and arms. Begging is far easier than this.

I looked around at all the boxes, bags and bundles. But all this comfort is worth the effort. And there won't every day be a fire. Sailing like up to Chelsea. Listening to Captain's tales.

The clock's quiet tick-tick-tick soothed me, and I closed my eyes.

Notes:
[1] In this context, a conduit was a pipe or channel for the conveyance of water. Great Conduit Street in London was named after a major one.
[2] This was one of the 17th-century spellings, and it comes from tarred palling, a tarred cover. The current form, tarpaulin, arrived in the 18th century.