They all worked together, just as they were supposed to, but just then the wind whipped around, first from due south and then for a few minutes from due west, before settling back to its original direction. Frinck's pewter shop caught, but luckily Haug and Hirschmann made it down the ladder before Kunkel's did. Then the potter's shop next beyond it. Schiffer stepped back as he watched the flames jump the alley. Kugler's, Burckhardt's, Weisser's, Reitter's, Palm's, Aichmann's. The saddlery. The cook shop just had to be in the southwest quadrant. The wind was blowing the fires toward all the rest of the town.
"Give it up," he called. "Give it up. Evacuate."
Jakob Breidner, the night watchman, came running. "They won't let us out. The gate guards. The cursed Irishmen. They say there's a siege on. They won't open the gates to let the women and children out."
"Get a couple of barrels of gunpowder, light fuses, and roll them to the damned gates. They'll open them then, I bet. Then . . ."
"Then get the rest of the gunpowder out through the gates," Breidner screamed. "As soon as you get a gate open, roll the barrels of gunpowder out, upwind, through the south gate. We've enough in store to do more damage to ourselves than the Swedes can possibly manage with no more than the few guns that Horn brought."
Schiffer was thinking. What was flammable? Wood, of course—the timber in the Fachwerk houses. Flour, as they had just had cause to observe. Wheat, oats, hay, linen, bedding, clothing, paper . . . and there went the apothecary's shop.
And, of course, it couldn't be helped that lot of people were trying to rescue possessions from their own houses that were in the path of the flames rather than contributing to stopping the fire overall. That always happened.
Neuhauser and Besserer. Members of the city council at last. Where were the four Bürgermeisters? Given how firmly the town's patricians excluded its ordinary people from a role in its government, the least they could do was belly up to the bar themselves when they were needed.
"We've been up at the castle, talking to the Irish officers," Besserer panted. Volz is still there. They don't understand about the wind at this season. Steinbock says . . ."
Schiffer never heard what Steinbock, the appointed ducal administrator of the city and district of Schorndorf, said. A muffled roar told him that one of the townsmen had managed to get a barrel of gunpowder up against the south gate before the fuse died.
"Open it," he screamed. "Open it with your bodies. If the guards shoot, die for your city. The rest of you, if someone falls, you keep going. Die a hero instead of just dying in the fire. That's what we'll all do if they keep us packed in here like chickens roasting on a spit. Go!"
The fire wasn't crackling any more. It was starting to roar.
The master of the Latin school had his boys organized, their arms full of books, and was herding them towards the south gate.
Here came Volz, down from the castle with two of the Irish officers.
He heard the ominous sound of a stone cracking from the heat and added to his list of things that would burn. Plaster, whitewash, lime mortar.
"The church roof has caught," someone called. "We need to try to save the vestments, the altar cloth. The chalice and patens."
"There's no way we can save the building. Just the height of it makes it impossible. We simply can't get up there." Schiffer turned around. "What are the Irishmen doing?"
"Opening the gates—finally opening the gates—and trying to get their horses out. They won't let us Schorndorf people near them, except for the south gate that we blew. One of them shot Barbara Mahlin when she tried to push her way through with their horses."
"Their horses," someone said. "And our money. All the 'contributions' we have paid to keep them from plundering through the town. Controlled robbery instead of uncontrolled robbery, systematic instead of random. The officers are taking out the money chests."
"Go to the jail," Besserer called. "Let the prisoners loose—the ones the Irish locked up. Maybe they'll be grateful enough to help us fight the fire, but even if they aren't, we can't just let them broil there if the wind turns."
"It was good of them to bring the keys, but I'm not certain that I can walk." Julius Brandt tried to stand, but stumbled. "Leave me here and find Gruyard. He was in the jail when the fire broke out. You must take him to your Colonel Utt."
"No, Julius, my friend. Come. Walk. I will not leave you to the fire. I will support you." Heisel pulled one of Brandt's arms over his shoulders.
"You must forgive me. I betrayed you. I gave them your name."
"There is nothing to forgive. Anyone would have done the same. I gave them Dislav's name. I find that it is far easier to make proclamations about being stoic under torture when you are not being tortured right at that moment. I have seen unpleasant things before. Even experienced them. In his own way, though, Gruyard is an artist." Heisel turned his head. "What is happening down the hall?"