“Push!”

“I’m trying!” Campion was laughing now, an inane laugh of relief and excitement. The flames lit the mud easily, throwing great wavering streaks of light on to the river. Timbers crashed behind them, sparks cascaded into the air, and Campion, black with mud, shook with laughter as she pushed at the boat.

“Stop!” The captain of the watch was on the wharf now, but the boat’s stern was in the water and Toby ran it with huge strength clean into the river. He turned, picked Campion up and threw her unceremoniously into the boat. “Go to the back!” He pushed again, wading deep into the water.

“Stop! In the name of the King!” The watch captain, in his excitement, forgot the rebellion. He dragged a long-barrelled pistol from this belt. “Stop!”

Toby was half in the boat now, draped over its stern, and he kicked hard with his feet. Suddenly the current plucked at them, turned the boat, and Toby hauled himself over the side.

The watch captain swore, knowing the range was long, but ignored Scammell’s frantic shouts, raised the pistol, and aimed at Toby. He could see easily, thanks to the fire, his stubby foresight settled on Toby’s spine and he pulled the trigger.

Toby heard the bang, had a glimpse of the tiny explosion in the pan and the gout of red flame at the muzzle, and then the pistol ball smacked into the center thwart, gouged a splinter and ricocheted up toward the bridge.

“Toby!”

“I’m not hurt. Sit still!”

The boat was picking up speed, circling toward the dangerous rapids where the river was compressed by the bridge’s narrow arches. If the boat became caught in one of the miniature weirs it would be whirled down the white chute and destroyed. Toby fumbled with the oars, forced himself to be calm, and fitted them into the tholes that gave them leverage. Pistols banged and stabbed flame from the wharf, but the small boat was in shadow now. He leaned into his stroke, turned the boat, and headed upstream and away from the city bank. It was hard work, the oars bent at each stroke, but they were clear now, going into the darkness across the river.

“Toby?”

He grinned at her. Her face was a mask of mud, white-eyed where she had wiped it.

“You remember me?”

“He married me, Toby!”

“Do I call you Mrs. Scammell?”

“Toby!” He was not sure whether she was crying or laughing.

They were pulling past the fire now, on the far bank, and Toby glanced over and saw the heart of the flames that fed the great plume of smoke. The firelight was reflected on houses, steeples and towers, even on the great, stone tower of St. Paul’s Cathedral itself.

Toby looked back at Campion. “Hello, Campion.”

A huge crash sounded from over the river as the sheds finally collapsed. Campion looked in awe at the blaze, then at Toby. “Toby.”

Scammell was shouting at a waterman, ordering him inshore so he could pursue his bride, but Campion and Toby were safe now. Toby paused for a second or two, leaned forward, and touched her mud-smeared hand.