The Price of Six Apples

A hot day had begun 10^th July 1212 was the fateful day

A boy Osbert 10 summers old, down Watling street made his way.

From his smiling mother a silver penny was pressed into his hand

Six apples his errand and back by noon, just as his mother planned.

London Bridge lay before him a spectacle to behold

Teaming with life and livestock, needing to be sold.

On the bridge the best and worst of London life was there

Black water flowed quick underneath, where winter saw a fair.     

Our lad had made his happy way to the middle of the bridge

The kindly fruitier came into sight, over the centre ridge.

“Six apples please” our Osbert said giving the man his money

The smiling stall man rubbed his hair, “you hurry home now sonny”.

A voice rang out above the throng “our Lady of the Cannons is afire”

All eyes turned south to view the church and see the flaming spire.

His errand forgotten he cast his eyes on the sight of the orange glow

The flames marched to the south of the bridge, following the southern blow.

The folks from the south walked onto the bridge, quickly to get away

Many of them had lost a lot but they chanced to live that day.

Osbert stared at the steam of people, pushing past to the north

And yet he was pushed to the south of the bridge by other travelling forth.

Now from the taverns of Watling street a rowdy crowd came out

On to the bridge, craning their necks just to watch and shout.

The folks from north and south they met in a melee of humankind

The wind them played it cruellest trick and north and south did bind.

A thatch house on the north of the bridge seemed almost to burst alight

The dry July had allowed the flames to show their awesome might.

The kindly fruiterer grabbed Osbert’s hand, “our exit must lay south”

Pushing forward they saw with horror into inferno’s mouth.

More than 1000 spanned the bridge in a chaotic human dance.

With the north and south now well alight, who would stand a chance?

Blynesgate docks is a hard place to work with salt sacs, iron and coal

Men become bent with relentless toil, Osbert’s father was one such soul.

Hearing the screams and splashes, into the rushing water black

The overworked boats made out for the bridge, not ever looking back.

The ragged workforce kept their eyes on the hideous orange glow

Osbert’s father’s voice rang out strong and clear “you just row boys row”.

Osbert dropped his bag of apples, crushed on the floor they lay

His youthful eyes filled up with tears, what would his father say?.

With the simple clear truth of a child’s mind, he knew what he must do

With a prayer to our lady, he shut his eyes and leapt into the swirling brew.

No swimmer was he but he paid it no thought as into the water he plunged

Deep down in the water black as pitch for the surface he boldly lunged.

As the boats arrived hands grabbed for the side, men turning to thrashing foe

Overwhelming some crafts they were turned upside down throwing men in water below.

Osbert’s father spoke out, “we have our load now, we must be heading away”

Hands sunk from the boat as they made their retreat, leaving those left behind to prey.

Clear from the affray the boat rowed away, clear from the crying and harm

Low in the water Osbert’s father then saw what he thought was a little white arm,

Reaching down in the water he jerked a small body over the side with a splash

The bundle of rags rolled over and then hit the floor of the boat with a crash.

The hood of the boy moved away from his head and he looked at his own son’s face

The boats sound and fury now disappeared as he shook the small body with pace.

Osbert moved to and fro like a lifeless rag doll, while the crew looked on in fright

But our Lady of Cannons was looking out for one small boy that night.

Coughing and choking he opened his eyes, “our apples are lost” he said

Knowing his father and knowing his temper, he looked down at his feet in dread.

It must have been smoke in his father’s eyes that made tears run down his cheek

His head turned away, he took his son’s hand and bellowed, “row for the creek”.

A thousand people burned or drowned on the fateful day in July

One lucky boy warmed himself with his mother, it wasn’t his time to die.