How one disaster destroyed another!

It was another dry, sunny morning of the year 1666, and London city was abuzz with activity. People were out on the streets, most of them heading to work; women chatted and gossiped with each other at the street corners, and children ran about.

It was quite another matter that conditions in the city were not as pleasant. Houses were built too close together for comfort or safety, built of oak timber and painted with tar. The streets were dirty with sewage discharge flowing right through the centre of the street, and garbage piled up in mounds all around. People walked with their nose covered in handkerchiefs, or buried in posies— bunch of sweet-smelling flowers.

Ten-year-old Ralph, however, sat morosely on the street with a tear-stained face. Adults refused to look his way, and children in the street, who had earlier been his friends, gave him helpless looks as they passed him. Ralph hardly noticed them though. He seemed completely unaware of the overpowering stench that hung over London those days- of filth, disease and death.

On the other side of the street, Ralph could see Thomas Farriner, the King’s baker, loading loaves of bread and biscuits onto a cart. It was meant for the Navy, and two soldiers were helping Farriner load the cart.

Ralph was suddenly aware of his stomach rumbling. He realized he hadn’t eaten anything properly for several days except for the few scraps of food that his neighbours had been kind enough to provide him.

He went up to where the baker stood shouting instructions to his maid and two apprentices. He didn’t notice Ralph till he started speaking. “Sir”, Ralph said, in a weak voice, “It’s been a week. Pop’s in bed with the plague. Give me a bit of loaf.”

Farriner ignored him at first and continued shouting at his servants. Ralph finally tugged at his apron, in a bid to attract his attention. “Geroff, you!” snarled Farriner, and shoved Ralph to the ground. “The loaves are fer the King, not fer the likes of you. Now, be off with you!”

The soldiers laughed. Ralph crawled away, sobbing. His father hadn’t eaten anything either. He moved to a corner and watched them secure the cart and begin to ride away. Ralph started running behind the cart as it made its way through the street. What if a loaf fell off? He would get something to fill his stomach, and a little to sneak in to his father.

One of the soldiers saw him running after the cart. Taking pity on him, he took a broken bit of loaf and threw it towards him. “’Ere, take this!” Ralph caught the bread just in time. His heart full of gratitude towards the soldier, Ralph ran back to his ‘house’.

It had been a week since Ralph had started spending his days outside on the street. Ever since his father had fallen sick, he had been forced to spend his days outside while his father lay in the tiny garret- a single-room attic at the top of a tenement building- that had been their home.

The neighbours had forced Ralph to stay away from his father, saying that he would go down with the plague too. They painted a huge red cross on the door of the garret, with the words “Lord have mercy upon us!”

Ralph now rushed up the steps of the narrow, winding, rickety staircase to the garret. He hoped he wouldn’t bump into anyone on the way. A few rats scurried across his path in the darkness as he reached the top landing. He slowly opened the door, hoping that the creaking hinges wouldn’t alert the other tenants in the building.

His father lay there in the single worn out bed that they had. Red blisters on his skin, or “buboes” as they were called, made him unsightly and repulsive. Ralph hardly cared though. He ran inside, calling to his father. “Pop, look what I got!”

Every time Ralph managed to sneak in, his father managed to lift his head and give him a weak smile, despite the fever and weakness. “God made me sick today so that you can survive tomorrow”, he used to tell Ralph. But today, he did not budge.

“Pop? Pop?” Ralph kept calling. But there was no answer. With a pang, Ralph realised that his father must have died, just like the thousands of the poor in London who had fallen prey to the same disease. He gave out a cry and rushed downstairs, tears running down his face. A few people in the lower floors heard his cries, and came rushing out to enquire.

“There’s a dead one on the first floor too” said a man, once the matter was clear to all. “The old maid’s died as well.” “Throw away the bodies when they come to take away the dead”, said another. “Here they come now!”

A cry rang through the streets. “Bring out yer dead! Bring out yer dead!” The city of London had grown so accustomed to people dying of the plague that there was no more ceremony about disposing off the dead with honour.

People were ready to get rid of the plague-infected corpses as soon as they could, without getting infected themselves. Every day, there came drivers of dead-carts calling out to the townsfolk to bring out the bodies of the plague victims, so that they could be dumped all together into the huge pits dug to accommodate the huge number of people who died.

Ralph watched helplessly as his father was loaded into one of the carts and taken away. He didn’t know what to do anymore. He sat outside in the street, like a statue, knowing neither hunger nor pain.
Night fell, but Ralph couldn’t sleep. He sat there in the street, his eyes wide open. A strong wind blew, giving him a slight shiver.

He didn’t know why he was waiting there himself; but he knew that he couldn’t go back to the garret where he had found his father lying dead that morning. He watched Thomas Farriner wind up his baking and shut down his bakery.

Ralph saw the baker drawing the curtains of his windows, signalling his going upstairs to bed. Ralph absent-mindedly stared at the bakery as he considered his fate and the turn of events. He saw a few sparks of light in the bakery through the curtained windows. The baker hadn’t put his oven out, maybe, thought Ralph, and waited.

He would come down and do it soon enough. It was past midnight, but it looked like the baker had not come down again. Ralph felt a strange foreboding as he saw an intense glow inside the bakery. The next thing he saw was the fancy curtains on fire!

“Fire! Help! There’s a fire!” cried Ralph at the top of his voice, but it didn’t look like anybody was awake enough to hear him. The entire bakery was on fire now, with the flames licking the upper floor now. Ralph went and pounded on the doors of all the houses on the street, shouting at the top of his voice. “Help! The bakery’s on fire!”

Soon people came tumbling out. Try as they might, they could not put out the fire. As Ralph watched, the fire spread from house to house, street to street. The strong wind, the wooden houses and the tar coating only made matters worse. Now there were many more homeless people on the streets, along with Ralph.

And along with the people, came hundreds of rats! They rushed out of the sewers, as the heat rose; yet most were killed in the fire. The fire fanned itself into an inferno, and raged for four days, burning down half of London.

At the end of it all, Farriner, the careless baker denied starting the fire. He alleged that it was a well planned plot by foreigners to destroy London. But Ralph knew only too well what the truth was.
What good came of the Great Fire? The city of London was almost destroyed, but so were the rats.

Miraculously, when the rats disappeared, so did the plague! The city was then rebuilt with better planning, so that its citizens could have a better place to live. And of course, our young hero, Ralph, got a chance to begin his life all over again!