Zealand

6. Of Fire

I descended St Mary Hill from Eastcheap, stepping slow and careful, both to accustom my feet to the new shoes and to mind I not step in anything that might sully. My slowness was also from looking down often to admire them and pausing to adjust the buckles. The cobbler had said they need loosening or tightening from time to time while the leather learns my feet.

When I reached Billingsgate market, the fishmongers were gone, and the only people left were the sweepers and shovellers and those searching for heads and other good pieces among the innards before they were spilt over the lip into the water.

So recently I had been among them, and had I not been cast out from the garret, I would be among them still, choosing a piece for my day's soup. Or over to the Smithfield market to find a bone with a scrap of meat remaining.

I paused and looked down at my shoes and at the silken hose in them, then at my new breeches and shirt, and I trembled. How my fortune has turned. Not yet a day. I must do nothing to disappoint Captain. At my thought of him, I hastened along the dock, round the corner and past Bessy to his house. To home. Oh, dear, God, let it remain my home.

A wondrous aroma came out when Captain unlocked and opened the door to my rapping. "How is the fit, lad?"

"The fit, sir?"

"Of the shoes. Did his cobblers follow the measures well?"

"They feel right good to me, sir."

"Fine, then. Tell me if they begin to pain you, and we will have them reworked or made anew." He pointed to a chair. "Now, sit ye down while I finish roasting the joint."

"What's a joint, sir?"

He lifted a long, thin stick from above the fire, a golden-brown piece near its end. "This, lad. This is one of the goose legs, and custom has come to calling meat with a bone in it a joint." He chuckled. "I had not afore thought to this, but I suppose it is because it sometimes involves a joint – here, the knee of the goose. Though it might be that the piece is disjointed from the rest of the beast."

As he rested the stick again above the fire, I puzzled why it didn't burn, so I asked.

"The skiver[1] is of bronze, lad, and it cradles on these to hold it above the flames. Watch how the fat drips from the joint to fuel the fire. Goose does this in great quantity, but other joints do little."

He was silent for a long while, then as he turned the joint again, he said, "Observe how it is not the wood that flames; rather, it is the vapours the heat causes to emit from them."

I watched the fire, pondering how it works, then I said, "This is why wood burns better when the pieces are close together. Each traps the heat of the others, but separated, they cool, and the flames die."

"Aye, lad. Exactly."

After another silence, Captain took a long stick – also bronze, I assumed – and he rolled two pieces from the coals. "The potatoes are done, lad. Roll them about with this to shake free the ashes, then tumble them in that cloth to remove the last bits."

I did as he bade while he placed the joint on a large gold plate atop the hearthside table and withdrew the skiver. "Now, set the potatoes beside the joint, lad, and bring the charger to the dining table."

I knew not the word charger, but I assumed it was the large plate, so I carried it to the table to his satisfaction and set it where he indicated.

He bade me sit while he remained standing, cutting pieces from the joint with a large knife and placing them on two plates. Then after he had added a potato and two small apples to each, he set one plate in front of me and the other at his place.

As he sat, he said, "Now we pause to offer thanks for all we are given." After a short silence, he said, "Fine, now let us begin."

I watched as he stabbed the potato with his fork and sliced a knife halfway through it, and I did the same with mine, separating it wide as he did with his. Then following his example, I scooped a piece of butter from the bowl with my fork and moved it about the steaming potato to melt.

When he sliced one of his apples, I puzzled that it was as red inside as out, and I said, "I've not afore seen an apple red right the way through like that."

He chuckled. "Nay, lad. Not an apple, but a tomato. I slice them into quarters and add a wee pinch of salt and also a wee pinch to the potato."

Again, I followed his example, and as I sliced, I said, "I ain't never seen one."

"Like potatoes, they come from Peru in America, but unlike them, they have not yet found favour in England."[2] He pointed upward. "I find them delicious and healthful, so I grow them on the terrace." Then nodding to our plates, he said, "Please, let us begin."

After a few bites, he paused and said, "The fashion is to eat the large meal midday, but the work of bargemen makes this impracticable. We eat a large breakfast, and in the evening, a large dinner."

I chuckled. "Our fashion was to eat when we had food."

He grimaced. "But that is now behind you, lad. Eat up and sip your ale."

"Ale, sir?"

He lifted a tankard, "This, lad. But yours is watered by two-thirds to reduce its effect."

After dinner, we sat in the deep, soft chairs near the hearth, the candles giving a warm glow to the room as Captain continued his tale. A long while later, after he had related the foul-weather passage from Tortuga through Windward Passage, towing the prize to Port Royal, I asked, "To sell it there?"

"Aye, lad. Both the ship and her cargo. But also to hand over the pirates to the Chief Justice." Then pointing to my mattress in the corner, he added, "But it has grown late, and we must abed for the night."

"Will we sail again in the morning, sir?"

"Nay, lad. The morrow is the Lord's Day, and all others are resting, so we shall, as well."

After my visit to the privy closet, I sat on the bed to remove my shoes, then as I lay down and leant toward the candle to blow it out, Captain said, "Nay, lad. It is more comfortable to sleep unclothed. This is why the ticking; use it to cover yourself. Besides, this keeps your clothes fresh and unwrinkled."

I did as he suggested, and when I lay again, drew the ticking over me and extinguished the candle, I could not recall ever feeling so comfortable. But not only my body. My mind was relieved from worrying about when I might next eat – and what. And for the first time, I sensed from deep within the promise of a better future, and I caressed this as I drifted asleep.

My dreams of church bells ringing turned to reality when I startled awake at the loud knocking and the hubbub at the door. Then the room lit with flashes from a flint as Captain set flame to the tinder and then to his candle. I watched him pull on a shirt, move to the door and call, "Whatever is it at this time of the night?"

A muffled voice replied, "Fire, sir. Big fire over in Pudding Lane."

Captain opened the door, and the voice continued, "And the wind whips it to a frenzy. Fifty, sixty or more houses now alight, and it moves fast toward Fish Hill and mine own. Might I hire your barge to remove my household, sir?"

"Aye, Mister Stourton, that you may." Captain turned and called to me, "Up and dressed, lad. Lord's Day or no, we have work to do."

Notes:
[1] The 1660s spelling of skewer.
[2] Englishman, John Gerard, a surgeon-barber, published a book in 1597, stating tomatoes were poisonous. His views were influential, and until the 18th century, most in Britain considered them unfit for eating, even though they were relished in many other countries.