Fire! Fire! by Stuart Hill

glared at me. I just knew I’d been sacked!
    Terrified I immediately began to gabble explanations and excuses: “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to run away… I was looking for Pip… I was afraid he’d die in the fire…”
    Master Pepys said nothing but suddenly gathered us both in a huge hug. “Thank God, thank God, my two best boys are safe!” he said and laughed aloud.
    I was amazed; I thought we were going to be beaten, and yet here he was laughing and behaving as though he really cared what happened to us. Not only that, but I had no idea he even knew Pip existed. The little dog spent most of his time in the kitchens and cellars where my master rarely went.
    For the next few minutes I tried to explain everything that had been happening. I had to pick up Master Pepys’ wig from the dusty ground twice and replace it on his head, while he continued to smile at us, like – as he said himself – “A man who’d lost a crust of bread and found a roast chicken instead.”
    But then at last he seemed to remember he should be angry with us and, after a few tries, he managed to make his face look stern and told us that we’d both get a beating later for running away. Pip obviously didn’t believe him and yapped until Master Pepys finally picked him up and had his face washed too.
    â€œCome now, into the house both of you to get clean and fed and ready for the new day ahead,” he said, leading the way to the locked front doors.
    â€œBut is there any food left in the house? Hasn’t everything been taken to safety?” I asked, suddenly realizing how very hungry I was.
    â€œYou’re right, Tom. There’s not a crumb to be found anywhere inside. But fortunately I brought a basket of goodies with me in case I got peckish during my visit to check on things.”

CHAPTER 8
    The fire died at last, though it died slowly, and throughout Thursday reports came in that it had been stopped at several points. I didn’t know it at the time of course, but its defeat began on Wednesday while I was still searching for Pip. High brick walls at Middle Temple and also at Fetter Lane had stopped it moving north and firebreaks at Cripplegate, Smithfield and Holborn Bridge prevented it from destroying any more homes and lives.
    It’s been claimed by the government that only six people died, but nobody believes that. Some say that the authorities have only bothered to count those they think important – in other words, the rich, the aristocracy and those with power. But I remember the screams and cries as I walked through the burning streets, and I believe many more died in the flames. When the Great Plague killed thousands of people, their bodies were left as evidence. But the fire burnt its victims to ash and unrecognizable charred cinders that could be ignored and shovelled away with the other debris as the clear-up began.
    That morning I stood on my bed and looked out of the window in the roof of the attic bedroom I shared with Pip. I held the little dog in my arms so that we could both see the still-smoking ruins that spread far to the east towards Holborn Hill and south to the Thames in the early morning light.
    â€œLook, Pip, it’s stopped. We’re safe and we still have a place in Master Pepys’ home. We’re lucky, though there are thousands that’ll be sleeping under the skies tonight and for many more nights to come.”
    Pip yapped as though he understood, but then he wriggled to be put down and we both headed for the stairs to start our day.
    After breakfast Master Pepys decided he wanted to see the ruins “at first hand”. We set out to walk towards the blackened and broken walls of Saint Paul’s Cathedral that towered in the distance over the debris of what had once been a large part of the city. I’d been told that eighty-four churches had been destroyed as well as more than 13,000 houses. But