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Chapter Twenty-Four
Clara and Stella returned to the carriage outside of Patton & Co. Apothecary while Mr. Patton’s assistants finished packaging their many purchases.
“I’m quite certain we have overlooked something.” Stella bit her lip and settled into the seat next to Clara, pressing up against her in the only space available. “But I fear we won’t know what until we arrive and need it.”
“Yes,” Clara agreed ruefully. She squeezed herself against the side to try to make a little more room for Stella.
They surveyed the crates of linens, basins, and medicinals they had bought at the apothecary and spared from Violet House. Baskets of food were stacked on the seat opposite them, filling it. Jugs of watered-down ale lined the floor. More supplies were tethered to the exterior of the carriage.
Clara’s footman opened the carriage door. “My ladies,” he said, awkwardly lifting up a box of fragile glass bottles filled with tinctures, wrapped cleverly in the bandages they had also purchased.
“Permit me.” Stella reached for the box, insisting even when the footman shook his head.
Clara joined in, taking the box from him and saving him from either dropping it or having to climb up into the stuffed carriage.
The interior of the conveyance was so crowded with provisions, there was no safe place for the fragile items but to hold them.The two women balanced the long rectangular parcel across both of their laps.
Soon they were on their way, boxes and baskets repeatedly knocking into their legs as the carriage bounced along. Clara’s longer legs, especially, were bent awkwardly and bore the brunt of the bumps.
“This is when it’s decidedly inconvenient to have your long, filly legs,” Stella said ungraciously but not unkindly.
“Bah, you’re seeking vengeance for not being able to reach the linens up on the shelf earlier, and calling me to rescue you!”
They both laughed, then settled into silence.
Clara wondered what they would find at the warehouse district near the Saint Katharine and London Docks. Still visible days after starting, the fire was the talk—and sight—of town.
On the cover of today’sTimeswas an illustration depicting the skeletons of warehouses and ships in the quays, engulfed by a firestorm. Oil and tallow floated in the Thames and caught fire, burning entire boats and the men aboard.
In addition to horrific details of the commercial and human damages, one article presented speculation about the initial cause of the fire.
Clara stared sightlessly at the interior of the carriage, feeling sick about the terrible accusations.Featured prominently was the conjecture that James Robertson, or someone in his enterprise, set the fire deliberately to destroy a huge stockpile of undesirable wool for the insurance proceeds.
She pushed the thoughts away. At the moment, all she could think about was James’s and the others’ well-being.
Clara and Stella each closed the curtains to block themselves from view of the curious and rowdy crowds of thousands that the carriage navigated through. The road was choked with pedestrians, carriages, horses with riders, and horse-drawn omnibuses. The cries of the vendors hawking pies, fruit, and ale to the masses competed with the crowds and vehicle noise.
Luckily, they both had fans with them and used them now, both due to the heat—being pressed thigh to thigh—and in an effort to clear the increasing odors as they inched toward the warehouses.
“Will we have trouble finding Mr. Pyle, do you think?” Clara asked.
Stella only made a wondering sound in return. “By now, they’ve set up the tents, I would imagine, and are already caring for the injured and those needing respite.”
At first light, Mr. Pyle had hired several four-wheeled hackneys and proceeded to the docks with specially purchased tents and supplies, along with a handful of staff and residents who volunteered.
After a seemingly interminable journey, often spent at a stand-still, the carriage stopped for good. The footman announced their arrival before opening the door.
Stepping out, Clara felt ashamed for feeling so exhausted and disheartened already. She had barely slept the night before, occupied by worrying about James and the details of their charitable endeavor. Since dawn, she and Stella had been preparing, then making their way.
She was ready to rest—and had yet to assist a single person!
She and Stella had worn cloaks, unseasonably, to hide their informal dresses during the apothecary visit. Now they donned aprons, covered their hair with linen mob caps, and picked up what they could lug in their arms. The driver and a second footman stayed with the carriage to keep watch over the supplies.
Once they passed the initial crowd, Clara and Stella stopped and stood agape at the surrounding wasteland. Beyond the sea of onlookers and workers—a sight in its own right—were massive piles of burnt masonry, rubble, and rubbish. Policemen stood guard around stockpiles, which had been successfully saved from warehouses before they burned, and now awaited transport.
The Thames itself was littered with boats and barges, many filled with sightseers trying to glimpse the fire. Two fire floats worked continuously, pumping water up through hoses to the still-burning fire.
Clara and Stella swayed into each other, barely holding on to their supplies. A massive-scale incineration had occurred, involving every kind of product imaginable, coming from every corner of the world: wool, cotton, oils, tea, turpentine, tallow, cheeses, meats, industrial additives like colors and ink, flour, sugar, rice, and even lead and sulfur. Their eyes watered from the noxious fumes.
