The Great Fire by Ann Turnbull Page B

from a pail over his face and hands.
    â€œAnd put a clean shirt on for the Lord’s day!” called Amy.
    Soon after, they were on their way to church.
    The Girauds lived in Foster Lane, off Cheapside, and their church was further east, in Threadneedle Street. As they walked along Cheapside the smell of smoke became stronger, and now they could hear the alarm peal. People in the street were talking about a fire blazing all down Fish Street Hill that had spread to the houses on London Bridge.
    Inside the church they were shut off from whatever was happening outside. Most of the service was in French, so Sam daydreamed and gazed around. He had learned when to stand up, sit down, kneel, or murmur, “Amen”.
    I wonder if we can go and see the fire
, he thought.
I’d like to see the bridge on fire!
    When they came out of the church they saw people running up the street shouting that the bridge was half burned and the fire was spreading westwards along the wharfage.
    â€œThere’s a gale blowing from the east,” said Paul Giraud. He looked concerned.
    â€œShall we go and see the fire?” asked André, his eyes bright with interest.
    Marie exclaimed, “Oh, please, Papa! Please!”
    To Sam’s delight Paul Giraud said, “We’ll go down here a little way…”
    Many people had the same idea, and the street was crowded. As they drew nearer the river Sam saw smoke ahead.
    At the bottom of the hill a group of men passed by, hauling a fire-squirt on its cart, and then some more rushed past with fire-hooks and ladders. Cries of alarm rose faintly from lower down, by the river.
    Mistress Giraud exclaimed, “No further!Husband – Amy and I will take the children home. The fire is spreading. It’s dangerous. And we should not block the streets.”
    â€œYes, you go straight home with the girls,” agreed Master Giraud. “I must find out what is happening. André will be safe with me.”
    Sam attached himself quickly to Master Giraud and André. He was eager to see the fire. The two groups separated, and Sam heard Marie complaining as she was hustled away.
    At the bottom of the hill they came suddenly on a view of the waterfront – and there, to their left, was a terrible and thrilling scene. On their side, the northern bank, the bridge was blazing. Several of the housesbuilt along its length were already blackened shells, and flames were shooting up to the sky, sending smoke and burning sparks along the waterfront.

    Paul Giraud looked shocked. “The timber warehouses will catch fire,” he said. “It will only take one spark.”
    When the smoke briefly cleared they saw a stream of people moving along the wharfage with bundles and bags and handcarts full of possessions – even chairs and cabinets, Sam noticed in amazement. Crowds congregated at Old Swan Stairs. From there a flotilla of small boats laden with people was making its way to the Southwark side. Nearer the fire they saw several men operating one of the squirts, sending a jet of water up to the first floor of a burning house.
    â€œI had no idea it was so bad!” exclaimed Paul Giraud.
    One of the other Frenchmen from the church said, “They’re saying it’s a revenge attack. For Terschelling.”
    Sam knew his country was at war with Holland. Only a few weeks ago there had been huge celebrations in London over the burning of a town on the Dutch island of Terschelling by the English navy. There was a procession with the mayor and aldermen in their robes of office, and drums and flags, and fireworks in the evening. Sam had been as excited as anyone. But could this be revenge by Dutch agents?
    They listened as speculation flew around the group of onlookers.
    â€œWhere did the fire start?”
    â€œIn a bakery, they say, in Pudding Lane.”
    â€œAn accident, then?”
    â€œOr a fireball thrown by some foreign agent. I heard a Frenchman was seen