CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST
The circular movement of the crowd brought Martin in time to a point where he was able to see how swiftly the fire was spreading. The houses at the end of London Bridge were ablaze. Between the bridge and Fishmongers’ Hall was a warren of dilapidated timber houses intersected by narrow alleys. Into those passages the strong wind bore sparks and blazing fragments; the dry wood easily caught fire, and it was evident that the whole district would soon be a furnace.
And now the inhabitants, at first careless spectators, were seized with panic fear, and in desperate haste began to move their goods and furniture from the doomed houses. From every door they sallied forth, laden with every article they could carry. There was a fierce demand for trucks and carts; some people hastened downhill to the riverside, and besought the aid of the watermen in conveying their goods out of harm’s way.
This suggested an idea to Martin. Mr. Faryner’s boat lay at the stairs some distance below the bridge. Why should he not use it to help the frantic people? He ought to ask Mr. Faryner’s leave, but it would take him hours to get through the crowd to the mercer’s house in Cheapside; indeed, it would be difficult enough, even by a roundabout route, to reach the stairs.
The arrival of the Lord Mayor on horseback, attended by his javelin men, had fortunately thinned the crowd at the corner of Eastcheap, and Martin, by dodging and winding, succeeded in making his way into one of the lanes running down to the river.
He would hardly have been surprised to find that the boat had already been taken away; but it was in its usual place, padlocked to the post. Springing in, he rowed out upon the river, which was already crowded with craft of all kinds: the wherries of the watermen, who would reap a rich harvest to-day: the barges of fine gentlemen come to view the spectacle.
Martin pulled over to the Surrey side, to avoid the sparks and burning masses that were falling from the houses at the northern end of the bridge, shot through one of the arches, and rowed across to the other shore. The fire was speeding westward like a devouring monster. He observed the flames leaping from house to house; the smoke, driven before the wind, already reaching past Blackfriars; the blazing particles that were whirled up and round, and fell hissing into the river.
The waterside was thronged with people clamouring for watermen, even throwing their goods into the water. When Martin pulled in to the nearest stairs he had to keep an oar’s length distant to prevent his boat from being overcrowded and swamped, and it was only after some argument and even altercation that he was able to take on board an old man and woman with all their little wealth tied up in huge bundles.
Having rowed them to Westminster, where they had a married daughter, and refused pay, he returned, and again selected the older people from those who besought his services. Time after time he went up and down the river, finding it more and more difficult to steer a course among the hundreds of craft, large and small, that almost blocked the waterway. And on shore the roar and crackle of the flames mingled with the cries and lamentations of homeless people.
At last, tired and hot and hungry, Martin pulled his empty boat down stream, fastened it to its post at the stairs which, being behind the fire, were deserted, and dragged himself wearily homeward. It was long past his dinner-time, but Susan Gollop had kept food waiting for him and for her husband, who had not yet returned.
“What’s come of the man?” she said, when Martin entered the room. “Stopping to see the fire they’re talking about, I suppose. And you’re as black as a sweep. What have you been doing?”
“Helping to save people’s goods,” Martin replied. “It’s a frightful fire, Susan; hundreds of houses burnt already, and there’s no stopping it while the wind’s so strong. Mr. Faryner’s house is burnt down.”
“Gracious me! What’ll you do for your living now? Where did this dratted fire start?”
“At our shop.”
“Well, to be sure! Some careless wretch didn’t rake out the embers, I warrant.”
“Shall we be burnt, Martin?” asked Lucy, timorously.
“Of course not, child,” Susan interposed. “It’s far enough off, and the wind blows it away from us, thank goodness. I don’t know what the world’s coming to, what with fires, and men who won’t come in to their vittles, and dark doings under the stairs.”
“What do you mean?” Martin asked.
“Why, look at this: what do you make of that?”
She held up a large brass button, to which were attached a few threads.
“Well?” said Martin, wondering.
“It’s not well: it’s a mystery. That’s a button from a man’s coat, and I found it in the cupboard under the stairs. I went in with a candle to take down the bed that Indian boy slept in, and tidy up, and there was the button a-shining on the floor.”
“What of that?”
“Why, that boy had no buttons: his clothes was all rags and strings.”
“It may have been there before.”
“That I’m sure it wasn’t, for I swept out the place myself for the boy. I ask you, how did that button come in my cupboard?”
“I can’t tell, and it doesn’t matter much. By the look of it it’s been torn off. I’ll just eat my dinner and then go off and see if I can find Gollop.”
But Martin did not find Gollop, nor indeed did he look very earnestly for him, so much interested was he in watching the fire. Soldiers, horse and foot, had been sent from Westminster to keep order in the streets. At the King’s command houses were being pulled down to stay the course of the flames. The streets were clogged with carts and barrows laden with the goods of fugitives. And the crowds were now declaring that the fire was the work of foreigners, and clamouring for vengeance.
It was late in the evening when Martin, tired out, once more reached home. Meeting the old Frenchman on the doorstep, he mentioned the excitement about foreigners, and suggested that his friend should avoid the crowds. Mounseer smiled and thanked him, but showed no signs of concern.
They stood on the doorstep watching the glow in the sky. It was a dark night, but every now and then a burst of flame in the distance lit up the street. Presently Mr. Seymour came along from the direction of the river. As he reached the foot of the steps a sudden brief illumination fell upon him. And in that moment Martin noticed that the top button of Mr. Seymour’s coat was missing.
Mr. Seymour halted, and, dangling his tasselled cane, said with a pleasant smile: “A magnificent spectacle, is it not? And we need not pay for seats.”
“As you say, sir,” replied the Frenchman coldly, turning to enter the house.
Martin was trying to see clearly the kind of buttons on Mr. Seymour’s coat, but that gentleman had faced about, so that his back was towards the fire, and the glow in the sky had dulled a little. In order to detain him, Martin asked:
“Are we quite safe here, sir?”
The Frenchman heard the question, and turned at the door, as if waiting with some anxiety for the answer.
“There’s not a doubt of it,” said Mr. Seymour. “We are a good distance behind the fire, and the east wind is driving it from us along the waterside.”
Martin had paid little attention to Mr. Seymour’s answer, so eager was he to satisfy himself as to the nature of the buttons. Mounseer, apparently reassured, had disappeared. Wheeling round to follow him into the house, Mr. Seymour came for a moment within the illumination from the red sky, and Martin almost jumped as he noticed that the buttons appeared to be made of the same metal as the one that Susan Gollop had found. They seemed also to be the same size, but of that he was not quite so sure.
He went into the house behind Mr. Seymour, watched him ascend to the upper floor, then ran down the basement stairs. Mrs. Gollop had prepared supper, and there was a look of disappointment on her face when she saw Martin enter alone.
“Have you seen Gollop?” she asked anxiously.
“I’m sorry, I haven’t,” Martin replied.
“What has become of the man? I’m beginning to worrit. He’s such a regular man for his meals. He’s never missed his Sunday dinner since he came home from sea.”
“Isn’t that his step?” said Martin, running to the door.
Heavy, dragging footsteps were heard on the stairs. Lucy jumped up and joined her brother: Mrs. Gollop stood in her place, and with a quick lift of her apron wiped the corners of her eyes.
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND
The constable tumbled rather than walked into the room. His hands and clothes were begrimed and black; his hat was crushed and shapeless; his fat, rosy cheeks were streaked with irregular patterns where his fingers had rubbed.
Susan Gollop stood with arms akimbo, grimly eyeing the returned wanderer.
“Well, if you’re not a pretty object!” she said severely; but her lips were trembling a little. “There! Fetch a basin of water, Lucy, and the pummy stone, and there’s a dirty towel on the rack.”
Dick Gollop plumped heavily into a chair.
“I’m dead beat, missus,” he murmured. “Give us a drink.”
Martin handed him a mug, and he took a deep draught.
“What a Sunday!” he exclaimed. “Fire and brimstone! The everlasting fire! And the Lord Mayor’s just as silly as any common man. My throat’s as dry as a bone. Another drink, lad.”
“Don’t you talk lightly of the Lord Mayor, my man,” said his wife reproachfully.
“Pish! He’s scared out of his wits, no good at all. The King’s the man for my money. ’Twas he sent orders to pull down houses so’s the fire wouldn’t have nothing to feed on; but bless me! the Lord Mayor goes up and down wringing his hands and crying, ‘What can I do?’ But I’m dead beat, I say: all day and all night at it; I’ll drop asleep where I sit.”
“Pardon,” said the Frenchman’s voice in the doorway. “You are of return. Tell me, I pray, the house: is it safe?”
“Don’t worrit about the house, Mounseer,” said Gollop. “There’s more call to worrit about yourself. Keep below deck, that’s my advice to you. The people are raging about all foreigners, specially French and Dutch, and if they catch you in the street, ten to one they’ll do you a mischief. I saw a Frenchman nearly torn limb from limb by a parcel of women because he was carrying fire-balls, they said. Turned out to be tennis-balls; that’s their ignorance. Don’t go out, Mounseer: what you can’t help, make the best of.”
The Frenchman smiled and thanked him, and returned to his own apartment.
“You’re sure we’re safe, Gollop?” said Susan. “We can go to sleep in our beds?”
“Sure I’m going to sleep in mine,” answered Gollop. “One more drink, then——”
“If you’re so sure, why’s that Mr. Seymour so frightened, then? He’s been going in and out all day; men have been traipsing up and down, carrying out boxes and parcels and things.He’snot so sure, seemingly.”
The mention of Mr. Seymour reminded Martin of the button.
“I say, Susan,” he said, “where’s that button you found in the cupboard?”
“Bless the boy! What’s buttons to do with it? It’s on the mantelshelf, if you must know.”
Martin reached it down, examined it, and in a moment exclaimed:
“This is Mr. Seymour’s. His top button is missing. I saw him as he came in.”
“Well!” said Susan.
“Gundra must have torn it off. It was Mr. Seymour spirited him away.”
“Did you ever! You hear that, Gollop?”
“Eh? What?” said Gollop, who was beginning to doze in his chair.
“That Indian boy was carried off in the night, and ’twas Mr. Seymour done it. Poor little wretch! That’s kidnapping. You can’t go to sleep yet: what’s your precious law say to that?”
“The law says,” muttered Gollop drowsily, “what you can’t help, make——”
“Listen to me,” said his wife, shaking him. “You’ll just go upstairs at once with this button and show it to that Seymour, and ask him what he means by——”
“Avast there, woman!” cried the constable, heaving himself out of his chair. “I’ll sheer off to my bed and nowhere else, not for all the laws in the kingdom. Talk of buttons and nigger boys when all the world is afire! I’m dead-beat, I say, and I’ll turn in this minute.”
He lurched away into the bedroom and shut the door with a bang.
Susan looked at the door as if in a mind to follow her husband and drag him back. Then her face softened.
“Poor dear!” she said. “He’s that tired I never did see, and when a man’s tired let him be, that’s what I say. But that there Seymour!” Her lips shut tight. “Gollop can’t go, so I’ll go myself.”
“He won’t tell you anything,” said Martin.
“Maybe he will, maybe he won’t. But I’ll not rest till I know what he’s done with that poor shrimp of a blackamoor. And if he won’t tell, leastways I’ll show him the button, and ask whether he owns it, and I warrant I’ll tell by the look on his face whether he’s a villain or not.”
“I’ll go with you—light you upstairs,” said Martin, taking a candle from the table.
“Go to bed, Lucy,” said Susan. “You are over-late already.”
“I want to know about the Indian boy,” said Lucy.
“Now, don’t make me cross. Go to bed at once; you shall hear all about it in the morning.”
Smoothing her apron and setting her cap straight, Mrs. Gollop marched out of the room, Martin following with the candle.
“I’lltalk to him!” said the angry woman, as she began to climb the stairs. “I’llteach him to come stealing down in the dead of night and poking his nose into the rooms of honest people!I’llgive him a piece of my mind, and his ears will be all of a tingle before he’s done with Susan Gollop!”
Martin noticed with amusement that the higher she got the lower fell the tone of her voice, until by the time she reached Mr. Seymour’s door and knocked, and asked, “Can I speak to you, sir?” her voice was as mild as the cooing of a dove.
There was no answer. She knocked again.
“Mr. Seymour, sir!”
There was still no answer. She waited a moment or two, then summoned up her resolution and turned the handle. To her surprise the door opened. The room was dark.
“Show me a light,” she whispered.
Martin, with the candle, stepped in front of her. A glance showed that the room was empty, except of the furniture and a quantity of litter on the floor.
“Well, I declare!” Susan cried, in loud indignation. “He’s gone, and took all his belongings. There’s a coward for you!”
Among the litter there were a few pieces of paper, suggesting that Mr. Seymour had torn up old letters before he left. Martin, all his suspicions revived, had the curiosity to collect these scraps.
“We can do nothing more,” he said. “I’d like to look at these bits of paper carefully downstairs.”
“They’re just love-letters or other rubbidge,” scoffed Mrs. Gollop, “and I’ve come up all these stairs for nothing at all!”
But half an hour later Martin, poring over the papers spread before him on the table by the light of two candles, was inclined to think that the journey had not been in vain. He had put together a number of scraps that appeared to be all in the same handwriting, and by shifting their positions until the torn edges fitted together he had composed a sentence or two that clearly formed part of a letter. What he read was as follows:
. . . . Maria sails on Tuesday. All cargo must be stowed by Monday. Tell W. S. that I do not communicate with him direct, for reasons which . . .
There was no more. Martin was at no loss to understand that the vessel sailing on Tuesday was theSanta Maria; nor was it long before he came to another conclusion. W. S. were the initials of his old employer, William Slocum.
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD
Dick Gollop and Martin both rose very late next morning. They left the house together, but soon parted, the former to return to his duty, the latter to resume his self-imposed office of helping people in need.
The Fire was still raging unchecked, and was spreading from the riverside streets towards the heart of the city. Many people who had indulged a careless belief in the safety of their dwellings had now flown to the opposite extreme of panic and despair, and the supply of carts, barrows, and wherries was hopelessly unequal to the demands of those anxious to save their goods. The streets in every direction were blocked by frantic fugitives, and the fields north of the city were already dotted with the encampments of homeless people.
When Martin reached the stairs where he had left his boat he found that it had disappeared. It was hopeless to look for it among the hundreds that were plying on the river, and Martin, feeling himself deprived of his occupation, made his way westwards, first with the idea of inquiring after Mr. Faryner, and then of getting a view of the progress of the Fire.
As he was jostling his way among the crowds who were moving up Cheapside, he was thrown against the old Frenchman, struggling along in the opposite direction. It flashed into his mind that Mounseer might have been paying another visit to Mr. Slocum, and his former feeling of puzzlement returned with redoubled force.
“Ah, my friend, what do you here?” asked the old man.
“My boat has been taken,” replied Martin, looking around rather anxiously; for the Frenchman’s words must have been heard by the persons near him, and his accent, coupled with the cut of his clothes and his general appearance, would certainly betray him as a foreigner.
“So you have nothing to do,” the Frenchman continued. “Same as me; your little sister go not to the school to-day, therefore am I unoccupied. I enjoy the holiday,” he added, with a smile. “We shall enjoy it together, eh?”
“Hadn’t you better go home, sir?” said Martin, remembering what Gollop had said overnight about the mob’s treatment of foreigners.
“Not at all, not at all. This great sight interest me very much. You shall take me to a place where the spectacle is most beautiful.”
Martin noticed one or two people scowling, and wished that Mounseer would hold his tongue. Determined to draw him away from the main stream of traffic he turned into an alley-way, intending to go by back streets as far as St. Paul’s, where, perhaps, the sacristan might allow them to ascend the tower.
Their course led them past the back entrance to Mr. Greatorex’s premises. Just before they reached it a man came out and walked towards Cheapside. Martin and the Frenchman recognised him at the same moment; he was the man whose scarred face they had seen at the window—the man who had knocked Martin down in Whitefriars.
“What next?” thought Martin. This was a new shock of surprise. Was this man also among Mr. Slocum’s acquaintances? The idea would never have occurred to Martin but for his thorough distrust of Mr. Slocum, and a strange suspicion was dawning on his mind when his attention was diverted by a sudden movement of the Frenchman, who hurried after the man, seized his arm, and began to speak excitedly in French.
The man stared, swore, caught sight of Martin, then suddenly shouted:
“Frenchy! Ho, boys, here’s one of the foreign spies what sets us afire. Down with all Frenchies!”
They were near the end of the lane, and the man’s words were heard and taken up by the crowd in Cheapside. A number of roughs surged towards them, and the accuser, finding himself supported, turned on the Frenchman, dealt him a violent blow, and started to tear his coat off.
“Away, you coward!” cried Martin, rushing forward to help the old gentleman; but a burly ruffian caught him in his arms and hurled him back.
At this moment there was a cry from behind.
“Why, it’s Martin Leake! Clubs! Clubs! ’Prentices to the rescue!”
A tall figure dashed past Martin, who was staggering under the big man’s assault, and with doubled fists attacked the aggressor with a whirling ferocity that drove him back reeling. In the lad who had come to his help Martin recognised his fellow-'prentice and opponent, George Hopton.
Next moment from several doors in the neighbourhood darted one or more flat-capped ’prentices brandishing the clubs from which they took their rallying cry.
For centuries the London ’prentices had been renowned for their prowess in faction fights among themselves and against the rougher elements of the population. The street now rang with the cry “Clubs! Clubs!” and those formidable weapons were soon thudding on the heads and shoulders of the rabble.
The Frenchman had fallen to the ground, but rose when his assailant turned to defend himself against the ’prentices, and leant, bruised and shaken, against the wall. The success of the ’prentices’ attack was due to its suddenness rather than its strength. There were only about six of them altogether, and the man with the scar, seeing that no more were joining them, again raised his cry of “Down with all Frenchies!” and called on all true Englishmen to support him.
By this time the crowd had increased, and several truculent fellows broke from it and rushed towards the fight. They were heavier metal than the ’prentice lads; soon they outnumbered them; the little band was forced back step by step, some of them losing their clubs to the enemy. The combat swept past the old Frenchman, carrying Martin with it, and in a few moments the ’prentices would have suffered a disastrous rout had not a loud shout in a tone of authority imposed a sudden peace.
All eyes were turned upon the speaker, an elderly gentleman wearing a well-curled periwig, and a coat of purple cloth, and carrying a gold-headed cane which he brandished at the crowd. Martin recognised him as the important customer of Mr. Slocum’s who had been hustled in the course of his fight with George Hopton.
“Back, rascals!” cried the gentleman. “Are you fools enough to believe these absurd tales of foreign incendiaries? I tell you there’s no ground for them. Foreigners in our midst should be treated as guests. Your conduct is a disgrace to Englishmen and citizens of London. Away with you, and find something useful to do.”
“Hurrah for Mr. Pemberton!” cried the ’prentices.
The combatants shamefacedly drew back and mingled with the more peaceable spectators. Martin hurried to the old Frenchman’s side.
“What! You again!” said Mr. Pemberton, recognising him. “Are you always fighting?”
“I owe my life to him and the others,” began Mounseer.
“You had better go home, sir,” was the reply, “and remain within doors while men’s minds are affected by this great calamity. As for you lads, I hope, though I don’t expect, that you will always use your clubs in as good a cause.”
He moved away, followed by another cheer from the ’prentices, and Martin started to accompany the Frenchman home, supporting him on his arm. George Hopton and one or two other ’prentices set off to see them a little distance on their way.
In a few moments they became aware that the man with the scar was skulking after them.
“Whoop!” cried Hopton. “Clubs! Clubs!”
With his fellow ’prentices he turned and chased the man, who did not wait their onslaught, but dived into a narrow entry and disappeared. And all the way home Martin was wondering what the baffled ruffian had to do with Mr. Slocum.
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH
Anxious to avoid any repetition of the attack on Mounseer, Martin conducted the old gentleman across Cheapside into Wood Street, intending to go home by way of Aldermanbury and Cripplegate, though it involved a long round. George Hopton accompanied them for some little distance, then he stopped.
“I say, I must go back,” he said, “or Slocum will be in a rage. I don’t know what’s come to him. He seems to have lost his wits. Most of the other goldsmiths have removed their valuables to the Tower, and Slocum has been urged to do the same. But he refuses. ‘Time enough, time enough,’ he says, ‘the Fire is by the river; it may not reach as far as Cheapside.’ ”
“I think he’s wrong,” said Martin. “What’s to stop it?”
“That’s what everybody says. But his answer is that the goods are safer in the vaults than they’d be if he moved them; there are thieves about. That’s true enough; I’ve heard of several shops having been robbed. But though Slocum talks like that he has been packing the stock. At least, I suppose he has; he hasn’t asked for any help from me. He was in the strong-room nearly all day yesterday, alone, and we heard hammering time after time.”
“He’s not so stupid after all,” Martin rejoined. “I suppose he talks to keep up other people’s courage, though he’s making preparations to go. But he’ll be lucky if he gets a cart. There are so many doing the same thing that there aren’t enough carts to go round.”
“Well, I must go,” said Hopton, adding in a whisper: “Keep the old man indoors. I mayn’t be at hand next time.”
“Thanks for your help,” said Martin, with a smile: Hopton certainly did not suffer from an excess of modesty.
Mounseer himself seemed to have realised at last that his friends had given him good advice. He walked quickly, begged Martin to keep close to him, and declared that he would not stir from the house again until the Fire had ceased and the excitement died down.
When they reached home they found Dick Gollop snatching a meal. He told Martin that the services of the constables were not so necessary in the streets now that the troops had arrived to keep order.
“But it’s a terrible calamity,” he said, “and I’m afeard we’re not near the end yet. The flames are spreading: they’ve got across Cannon Street, and I was pretty near stifled as I came through Bucklersbury by the stench from the druggists’ shops. I passed the back of your old place, Martin. Does Mr. Seymour know Slocum?”
“Why?” asked Martin.
“Because I saw him coming out of the door. There was a sneaking way about him. ‘Hallo!’ thinks I, ‘has my fine gentleman been to pawn something?’ Then I thought maybe he knew Slocum, though you’ve never said you saw him at the shop.”
Martin thought it was time to acquaint the constable with what he knew of the relations between Slocum and Seymour and the captain of theSanta Maria. He spoke of Blackbeard’s visits by night, and the brass-bound boxes, and the meeting in Mr. Pasqua’s coffee-house.
“You ought to have told me all that before,” said Gollop reproachfully when the story was concluded. “Me being a man of law, ’twould have been proper I should know of them queer goings on.”
“I did try, but you shut me up,” said Martin.
“So I did. I was wrong. I own it; dash my sleepy head! Never you sleep your brains away, my lad. Them brass boxes, now. There’s no telling what mischief’s in them boxes. Still, what you can’t help, make the best of, and I say no more for the present. When the Fire’s over maybe I’ll look into things a bit: I’ve no time for it now—indeed, I must get back to my duty.”
He went out hurriedly, before Martin had related what had happened to the old Frenchman. Susan and Lucy, when that story was told, were both indignant at the crowd’s treatment of their friend, and nothing would satisfy the girl but that she must take him a bowl of syllabub to comfort him, as she said.
Martin was too restless to remain indoors. The fascination of the Fire drew him again into the streets, which were now still more congested, the stream of fugitives hurrying to the fields meeting a stream of countrymen whom the prospect of making money by hiring out their carts had drawn to the City. The roar of the flames, the crash of falling houses, the cries and oaths of the people struggling to save their goods, the smells from burning oil and spices, the blazing flakes fantastically whirling in the wind, made up a series of vivid impressions that remained in Martin’s memory for many a day.
Towards evening he found himself again in the neighbourhood of Mr. Slocum’s house. He had not gone there of set purpose, but had been drawn there unconsciously, perhaps, by a vague recollection of Dick Gollop’s remarks.
Going down the lane towards the back entrance, he was brought to a halt by the sight of a large hand-truck at the door. The three ’prentices, in their shirt sleeves, were loading it with boxes under the direction of Mr. Slocum.
“He’s scared at last,” thought Martin. “But what a strange time to choose for going away.”
He remained in a shady corner, watching. It was certainly high time that the goldsmith’s valuables were removed, for the Fire had reached the foot of the streets leading up to Cheapside.
The loading was finished a few minutes after Martin’s arrival, and the ’prentices put on their coats.
“Am I not to come, sir?” Martin heard Hopton say.
“No; you are to stay and guard the shop. Jenks and Butler can wheel the truck. Too many of us would attract attention, and the dusk will bring out the thieves.”
He threw a sheet over the truck, tying it down at the corners. So far as appearance went, the load might have consisted only of household goods like those which hundreds of citizens had been moving all the day.
The two younger ’prentices seized the handles of the truck and wheeled it up the lane. Martin, shrinking back in his corner, noticed that Mr. Slocum, walking close behind, had a pistol projecting from his pocket.
When they had turned into Cheapside, Martin went up to Hopton as he was going back to the door.
“Hallo!” said Hopton. “Is the Frenchman in trouble again?”
“No; he won’t stir out again,” replied Martin. “So Slocum has moved at last.”
“The lunatic! Why didn’t he go earlier? He’ll have to make a long round to get to the Tower, and it will be nearly dark before he arrives: just the time for footpads to attack him. There’s nobody left in the house, or I’d follow and see that he gets there safely.”
“I’ll go,” said Martin, once more amused at Hopton’s idea of his own importance.
Hopton gave a snort. “What could you do if they were attacked?” he asked. “You’ve no weapons.”
“But I could shout.”
“Go, then. It’s no concern of yours, but you might raise a hullabaloo if anything happens. I suppose I must kick my heels here until Slocum releases me, though I promise you I won’t stay if the flames come anywhere near.”
Martin set off, but during the minute or two he had been talking with Hopton the barrow had passed out of sight among the thronging people. Knowing that it must take a northerly direction in order to skirt the Fire, he crossed Cheapside and dodged his way into Milk Street, the nearest of the streets branching out of the main thoroughfare. There was no sign of the barrow, yet it could not have got far, owing to the crowd.
He struck into a by-lane and came to Wood Street. The crowd here was not so thick, and he was able to move more quickly. At the corner of Silver Street he stopped and looked round on all sides. The evening gloom was already descending, though the glow in the sky lit up the over-arching houses.
“I shall never find them now,” he thought. But just at that moment the grinding of wheels on the cobbles drew his attention. He glanced round and saw the barrow coming along from the direction of the Guildhall.
“They tried that way and couldn’t get through, I suppose,” he said to himself, and slipped into the entrance of a yard until the barrow had passed. “Now to keep them in sight.”
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH
Martin could hardly have explained why he felt so keenly interested in the progress of the barrow. Mr. Slocum was only doing what most of the goldsmiths had already done, and it was certainly his duty to save the property of his master, Mr. Greatorex. But recent incidents had inspired Martin with so deep a distrust of Mr. Slocum that he was determined not to lose sight of him until the barrow had safely entered the portals of the Tower.
He kept far enough behind not to be observed, yet close enough to run no risk of missing the party again.
“I’m glad I’m not shoving the barrow,” he thought.
The air that summer evening was hot, and its oppressiveness was enhanced by the pervasive smell of burning. Martin followed the toiling ’prentices into Aldersgate Street and turned after them into London Wall, expecting them to swing to the right at Bishopsgate, and so finish their long round to the Tower.
To his surprise, they took the eastward direction, and struck into a winding lane that would bring them, certainly, to the river, but at a point far away from their supposed destination. Martin was conscious of a growing curiosity, even of excitement. The lane was narrow, and as the dusk was deepening he lessened the distance between him and the barrow. But a little farther on, where the lane made a sharp curve, he hung back for a moment to give the party time to get well round the corner.
As he did so a man came suddenly round on the inside of the curve, brushed past him, and continued his course up the lane towards the main street. Martin glanced round; the man was fast disappearing into the dusk, but there was something in his shape and gait that reminded Martin vaguely of someone he had seen, he could not remember when or where. The impression passed in a moment, and he hurried on, anxious not to lose sight of his quarry.
Turning the corner, he found himself between parallel lines of tall warehouses, some flush with the lane, others standing back behind small yards in which goods were no doubt unloaded. He had not taken many steps when he heard shrill cries ahead, and broke into a run, wondering why thieves had been attracted to so quiet a spot, remote from the crowds.
Some thirty yards ahead the lane made another sharp twist. When Martin reached the bend he was just in time to see, dimly in the fading light, one of the ’prentices being shoved by a man through the gateway of a warehouse yard. The barrow, Mr. Slocum, and the other ’prentice were already out of sight.
Martin recognised the voice of the lad who was being roughly used as that of Butler, and he dashed on at his topmost speed, shouting as he ran. For a moment he had no other thought than to save the lad who had been his fellow-'prentice from the hands of his assailant. But before he gained the scene the wooden gate was banged to; he heard the grating of a bolt and Butler’s protesting cries as he was lugged across the yard.
He looked up. The gate and the wall on either side of it were at least ten feet high; their tops were studded with nails or jagged glass; even if he found a foothold it would be impossible to scale them. He banged at the door, still shouting; but there was no response. Work in the warehouse was over for the day, and no doubt any workmen or loungers who might ordinarily have been about were far away, watching the Fire. The cries of Butler had ceased; within the yard all was silent.
Feeling that to knock or shout any longer here would merely be wasting time, Martin wondered whether he could find admittance at the back of the warehouse. He ran on a few yards and came upon a narrow passage striking off at right angles to the lane. At a venture he turned into this, and found himself within a few moments in a lane that evidently ran parallel with the one he had left.
He had only just rounded the corner when he heard the rattling of cart wheels on the cobbles at the river-end of the lane, and caught sight of a few strange figures dimly outlined against the background of sky.
“Stop thief!” he shouted, dashing down the lane.
For some minutes he had been so confused that he only now guessed that Mr. Slocum’s barrow had entered by the gateway through which Butler had been forced; otherwise it could scarcely have disappeared so suddenly. As he ran, calling for help, he noticed that a large gateway, with a wicket beside it, stood wide open on his left. He rushed up to the first man he overtook.
“There is villainy going on,” he said. “Help me!”
“I’m helping myself,” the man growled; and the strangeness of his figure was accounted for by the huge bundle he carried on his back. He was one of the fugitives who were conveying their possessions to the river in the hope of finding a boat.
Martin ran on, and in the fast-gathering darkness cannoned into another man laden almost as heavily.
“Mind your steps!” shouted the man; and with his free hand he dealt Martin a blow that sent him staggering against the wall. Recovering himself he dashed on, his cries to one and another going unheeded. People were too much concerned with their own troubles to regard the vague demands of a lad.
And then suddenly he found himself on the edge of a little quay stretching into the river. There was a reddish glow reflected from the water, and by this light he recognised, at the farther end of the quay, the handcart he had lost sight of. It was standing deserted. A boat was putting off, piled with boxes. The glow of the fire glinted on their brass-bound corners and on the swarthy face of Blackbeard, who held the tiller strings while two other men rowed steadily down stream.
Beyond the quay there were two or three other boats into which fugitive citizens were dumping their goods.
“Row after that boat!” Martin cried to the watermen. “It contains stolen goods.”
“Not the only one,” chuckled one of the men.
“Things of great value,” Martin persisted, looking round in vain to find a waterman whom he knew. “The owner will reward you richly.”
“Out of my way,” cried the man with whom Martin had collided. “What’s your fare, waterman?”
“Five shillings a mile,” the man replied.
“You’re a shark, making your profit out of other folk’s calamities. But I suppose I must pay you, though ’tis five times the proper price. Take this bundle.”
Seeing that the watermen were too intent on present gain to trouble about a visionary reward, Martin turned away. And then he asked himself, what had become of Slocum and the other ’prentice? They were certainly not with Blackbeard in the boat. Was it possible that they too had been carried prisoners into the warehouse?
He retraced his steps and came to the large gateway which he had guessed to be the main entrance to the warehouse. It was now closed, as was also the wicket at the side. He was trying the latch when a man came up behind.
“Want to get in, eh? Well, so you shall.”
Martin turned hastily, and recognised with alarm the sinister face of the man with the scar.
Before he could recover his wits he was seized in an iron grip. His captor inserted a key in the lock of the wicket gate, turned it, and snarling: “Oh, you shall get in, you shall,” pushed Martin before him into the yard.