The inhabitants of the Coldharbour sanctuary poured towards the docks. From the cramped laneways – Red Cross Alley, Flower de Luce Alley, Ebgate – they came, drawn by the strange peal of those bells, driven by the smoke that was thickening every minute, choking them in their tenements, clutching the few things they were able to save.
A hefty porter came with a harpsichord on his back; a youth with a bookshelf hoisted, stuffed with thick leather volumes. Others brought lesser things, valuable to them – a crate with a single canary; hessian sacks that clanked with plate; an armchair with straw spilling from its split cushions, perched atop a head. Most just carried babes, or small children, or old men and women. Everyone shouted at the boatmen.
‘Take me!’
‘No, me. I saw him first.’
‘Take
