through the open hatchway and uttered a few words in a commanding tone
of voice. Martin guessed that he was demanding the meaning of the
uproar. A babel of explanations broke from the crew. The newcomer
silenced them with a stern gesture, his uneasy manner suggesting he was
anxious to put a stop to the scene and avoid further trouble.
With a contemptuous look at Sebastian, who had now risen to his feet, he
ordered him away, and opening a wallet that was slung at his belt, made
signs that Martin was to take from it the money due to him. Martin
picked out two shillings, emptied the sack on the deck, then clambered
down the side into his boat and rowed away.
Remembering the vindictive scowl on the cook’s face as he slunk off, he
wondered whether his impetuous action might not have done the boy more
harm than good. He felt a great pity for the wretched-looking little
fellow, with his thin cheeks and wistful, melancholy eyes.
“I wasn’t much good to him before,” he thought, “and only got myself a
sore head. I suppose he is cook’s mate to that fat bully, and leads a
dog’s life on board this strange ship. No doubt they’ll tell Blackbeard
all about it when he comes on board, and I shouldn’t wonder if he
complains to Mr. Faryner, and I shall get into hot water again. Well, I
couldn’t do anything else, and as Dick Gollop says, what you can’t help,
make the best of.”
CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH
COFFEE FOR TWO
Martin debated with himself whether to tell Mr. Faryner what had
happened on board the _Santa Maria_.
“If I mention the squabble he may think I’m a quarrelsome fellow,” he
said to himself ruefully. “He’ll say I get into trouble everywhere, on
land and on water too, and tell me to go. And I did want to go aboard
again: there’s something queer about that ship, and I’d like to know
more about her.”
It happened when he got back to the shop that the baker was so much
concerned with another matter that he gave Martin no opportunity of
telling his story.
“I’ve got another job for you, my lad,” he said. “You know Mr. Pasqua’s
coffee-house in Newman’s Court?”
“No, sir; and I don’t know where Newman’s Court is,” Martin replied.
“It’s off Cornhill; you know that. Well, Mr. Pasqua came himself this
morning and ordered a quantity of rolls and cakes to be sent to his
coffee-house. It’s a feather in my cap, my lad. He used to deal with
Grimes of Gracious Street, but he’s dissatisfied. I never did think much
of Grimes. Mr. Pasqua will be a very good customer if I please him, and
I promised that the things should be sent by one o’clock, and you’re
back just in time.”
“Must I go before dinner, sir?” asked Martin, who had been out in the
heat since early morning.
“Before dinner? Of course you must. What does your dinner matter when
there’s a new customer to be served? The basket will be ready in five
minutes; you can have your dinner presently. And let me tell you, you
must be very polite to Mr. Pasqua if you see him. He has been a servant,
and there’s no one more likely to take offence at want of politeness in
a servant than a man who has been a servant himself. And he’s a
foreigner too.”
“A Frenchman, sir?”
“No, a Sicilian. I wonder you haven’t heard of him. He was the servant
of an English merchant who lived in the East, and came back with his
master a few years ago to make coffee for him in the Eastern way. Mr.
Edwards, the merchant, had learnt the use of coffee-beans, and he was so
plagued and pestered by his friends and visitors wanting to taste the
new drink that he set his servant up in a coffee-house, and the man is
now a good deal richer than I am. Here’s the last batch.”
A man came from the bakery bearing a tray laden with crisp brown rolls
and rice-cakes. These were placed in the basket and Martin set off.
Following the fashion set by Mr. Pasqua, others had opened coffee-houses
in different parts of the city; but they were frequented only by
merchants and gentlemen, and Martin had never been inside one. It was
therefore with considerable interest that he entered the coffee-house in
Newman’s Court.
It was a large square room with a counter at one end, on which stood
glistening urns, porcelain cups, and silver sugar-basins. Behind it was
a young woman with golden hair piled high upon her head. A kettle hung
from a hook over a wood-fire.
Here and there about the room were small tables surrounded by wooden
chairs. At one side the room was partitioned off into compartments, some
with doors, within which the merchants could sip their coffee and talk
over their business in privacy.
Two boys were serving customers at the tables, and a small, dark,
foreign-looking man was moving about, exchanging a word here and a word
there.
When Martin entered with his laden basket, the foreigner, Mr. Pasqua
himself, came up to him, and speaking in very good English, said:
“You are from Faryner’s, boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are in very good time. It is not yet one o’clock, and I am pleased.
Grimes’s boy was late, over and over again, and I was in danger of
losing my customers, the gentlemen who honour me. Tell Mr. Faryner that
he has begun well. And now let me see what you have brought.”
He took a cake and a roll from the basket, and bit each of them in turn.
“Very good,” he said, as he munched, smacking his lips and blinking his
eyelids. Martin was amused at the little man’s serious air.
Calling one of his boys, he bade him take the basket to the signorina.
This was evidently the young woman behind the counter, but as she spoke
in a very decided London accent Martin felt sure she was not a foreigner
and wondered why she was so called. It was a harmless affectation of Mr.
Pasqua’s, like that which, in those days of Charles II, gave Italian
names to English musicians and mountebanks.
While the basket was being emptied, Mr. Pasqua said to Martin:
“You look tired, boy. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“I have never tasted it, sir,” Martin answered.
“Then this shall be a great day in your life. A cup of coffee,
signorina.”
A small cup was brought to Martin. Sipping it, he made a wry face.
“Ah! You find it bitter,” said Mr. Pasqua. “But stir it with the spoon,
then taste again.”
At the bottom of the cup was thick brown sugar. Martin stirred and
tasted.
“That is good, eh?” said the man, smiling. “It will refresh you. And you
shall have another cup when you come the next time.”
At this moment a bell rang in one of the closed compartments. Mr. Pasqua
himself hurried to answer the summons. As the door opened, Martin was
startled, and hastily turned his head. Seated at the little table were
two men, Mr. Slocum and Mr. Seymour.
He was careful not to look towards them again, and was glad when the
empty basket was brought to him and he was able to get out into the
street.
His first feeling was relief that he had not been seen by Mr. Slocum. He
thoroughly distrusted his former employer, and was ready to believe that
he would not hesitate to make mischief with Mr. Pasqua.
“Why am I always coming across that man?” he thought.
Then as he walked back towards Pudding Lane, he grew uneasy and
suspicious. It was a shock to him that Mr. Slocum and Mr. Seymour were
acquainted. He had seen each of them at different times with Blackbeard,
and the fact that all three were acquainted brought a crowd of
recollections to his mind.
He remembered that he had seen Mr. Slocum carrying a brass-bound box
exactly like those which Blackbeard had brought to Mr. Seymour. He
recalled how angry Mr. Slocum had been on that occasion, without any
obvious reasonable cause.
Blackbeard’s visits to Mr. Seymour had been secret. Was Mr. Slocum’s
anger due to the fact that he also had something to conceal? What was
the connection between the three men? Had it anything to do with the
boxes? What did they contain? Were they part of the cargo of the _Santa
Maria_?—perhaps held smuggled goods?
Puzzling about these questions, Martin suddenly thought of another—one
that startled him. What was the nature of the business between Mr.
Slocum and the old Frenchman?
The question came as a surprise to Martin himself. At first he did not
understand what had given rise to it, but he found himself fitting
together incidents that had previously seemed unrelated, and the more he
thought of them the more disturbed he grew.
Hitherto no one had been able to account for the strange attacks on the
Frenchman’s room. But Martin now remembered that the face he had seen
one night at the window was the face of the man who had waylaid him
going an errand for Mr. Slocum. He remembered also Mounseer’s dislike of
Mr. Seymour—and Mr. Seymour knew Mr. Slocum. It was odd that, somehow
or other, Mr. Slocum came into everything.
What was the mystery behind it all? To all appearance the Frenchman
possessed nothing that was worth stealing; yet what other motive than
robbery could anyone have had for breaking into his room? Mounseer knew
Mr. Slocum. Mr. Slocum knew Mr. Seymour, and that gentleman, in spite of
his politeness and his neighbourly intentions, was evidently suspected
and detested by the Frenchman.
Martin began to feel very much worried, and had the extraordinary
conviction that the clue to the whole mystery lay with Mr. Slocum.
“I dare say it’s very silly,” he thought; “it’s simply because I dislike
the man. Yet I can’t help it. The question is, what is Mr. Slocum at?”
This question was dinning in Martin’s head as he walked back along the
street. So intent was he on his own thoughts that he stepped rather
heedlessly, and was brought up by the sudden collision with a man
proceeding in the opposite direction. The man let out a savage oath, and
Martin, uttering an apology, edged away, only then recognising that the
angry footfarer was Blackbeard.
Fortunately, he thought, he had not himself been recognised, and,
allowing a short interval to elapse, he had the curiosity to follow the
man. It was with no surprise that he saw him enter Mr. Pasqua’s
coffee-house. Beyond doubt he was going to meet the two men whom Martin
had already seen there.
More curious than ever, Martin wished that he could find some means of
discovering what the three conspirators, as he now considered them, were
about to discuss. He thought of going in and buying a cup of coffee on
the chance that he might learn something, but after a moment’s
reflection gave up the idea; there would be too much danger of his being
caught.
CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH
WHAT MARTIN FOUND
The tide was running strong up the river when Martin started on his
round next morning. There was promise that the day would be hotter than
ever, but the wind, blowing briskly from the east, tempered the heat,
though at the same time it rendered doubly hard the task of rowing the
heavy wherry.
Martin was just pulling away from a brig at which he had delivered some
loaves, when a boat, sculled by a single seaman, passed him in the
opposite direction. He recognised it at once as the boat belonging to
the _Santa Maria_, and the oarsman as the man who found it so difficult
to keep awake.
Previously he had seen him only in the evening, and he could not help
feeling curious as to what his errand was.
After visiting in turn the ships on his list, and scratching off the
name of one that had left her moorings, he came at length to the last,
the _Santa Maria_.
“She won’t be here long,” he thought, noticing that a lighter lay on
each side of her.
From the one on the starboard side cargo was being hoisted on board by
means of a clumsy kind of derrick. He made his boat fast to the other,
put the loaves into his sack, threw the empty basket into the stern,
and, with the sack slung over his shoulder, swarmed up by a rope that
hung from a second derrick, placed ready for use when the second lighter
should be discharged.
All hands were busy with the cargo. Some of the crew grinned when they
recognised him, and as he looked inquiringly round they pointed to the
cook’s galley. Wondering what his reception would be, he went on, and
found the fat man frying some fish on his brazier, the timid-looking boy
standing by with a flask of oil.
The cook glanced at Martin with a surly scowl, and paid him no further
attention until he had turned out the fried fish on to a plate standing
on a tray. Then he took one of the fresh, crisp rolls that Martin had
brought, set this also on the tray, and ordered the boy to carry
breakfast to the captain.
The boy had only just gone, and Sebastian was counting the contents of
Martin’s sack, when the captain, Blackbeard himself, came along, as if
attracted by the smell of the frizzling fish. Catching sight of Martin
he stopped, looked hard at him for a moment or two, then, in his husky
voice with its foreign intonation, asked:
“What you do here?”
“I have brought the bread from Mr. Faryner,” Martin replied.
“Ah!” There was a slight pause. “I see you before?” he said.
It was clear that he had not at once recognised Martin as the boy who in
the evening dusk had rowed him down the river. Anxious to avoid
identification, Martin answered:
“I was in Mr. Faryner’s shop when you came to give your order.”
“Ah! So! I see you there—yes—perhaps. I think so.”
But there was a puzzled look on his face as he followed the boy with the
tray, and Martin was on thorns lest clearer recollection should come to
him.
Having counted the loaves and rolls, the cook, who had not addressed a
word to Martin, went away to fetch the money for them. Martin would not
have been surprised if he had been summoned to the captain’s cabin; but
Sebastian on his return simply handed him the coins, and he was free to
go.
Without loss of time he swarmed down on to the lighter, threw his sack
upon the upturned basket in the stern of the boat rocking alongside,
hauled on the painter until the boat was near enough for him to step in,
then cast loose, drifting on the tide while he got out his oars. Then he
pulled the boat round, but rested on the oars as he looked back at the
_Santa Maria_.
“Perhaps I ought to have asked when she is sailing,” he thought. “But I
suppose Blackbeard will give notice. I wonder what her cargo is and
where she is bound for? Perhaps Mr. Seymour and Mr. Slocum are engaged
in some venture overseas, and there is nothing really to be suspicious
about.”
He was still in a sort of daydream, moving the oars only enough to keep
the boat’s head straight, when a shout ahead roused him. Glancing over
his shoulder, he saw a ferryboat crossing his bows. A collision seemed
inevitable, but he eased his left oar and put all his strength into his
right, and scraped by with an inch or two to spare, the ferryman pouring
out a torrent of abuse such as only the Thames waterman of those days
could command.
The boat rocked under the sudden change of course and the wash of the
ferryboat. Martin pulled her round again, and noticed that the basket
had shifted slightly. It was now partly resting on its side against the
stern thwart. And then he caught sight of something dark between the rim
of the basket and the floor of the boat—something that surprised him so
much that for a few moments he ceased rowing and could only stare.
It was a small dark-skinned foot, the toes and instep just protruding
from the basket.
“Who’s there?” he called.
The foot was suddenly withdrawn, the basket moved, settling down so as
to cover completely the person underneath.
“I’ve seen you; you’d better show yourself,” said Martin. An idea struck
him, and he added: “Just show your face.”
The basket moved again, and now Martin saw without surprise the dark,
pathetic face of the cook’s boy of the _Santa Maria_.
“Don’t come out. I’ll row on,” he said.
He looked back towards the _Santa Maria_, now some two hundred yards
astern. The crew were still hoisting and stowing the cargo; there was no
sign of excitement, nothing to show that the boy had been missed.
Martin rowed on in silence for a few minutes until the bend in the river
hid the vessel from sight. Then he said again:
“Don’t come out. Keep the basket over you. But tell me why you are on my
boat, and what it is that you want.”
CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH
STOP, THIEF!
It was a strange scene—had anyone witnessed it. But Martin was careful
to keep out of the course of passing wherries, and so far from the ships
at anchor that the bottom of his boat was not visible from their decks.
The rim of the basket rested on the boy’s neck, and his dusky face, with
its large pleading eyes upturned towards Martin, looked as though it
projected from the planking.
“Me run away,” said the boy in a strange, high-pitched sing-song. “No
takee me back. No let catchee me. I pray sahib very much.”
“Where do you come from?” said Martin. “What are you?”
“Me India boy, come long way over black water. They beat me. See!”
He moved the basket a little, disclosing his thin, bare arms and legs,
on which were old scars and the long livid weals of recent lashes.
“Cover yourself,” said Martin hastily. “Go on. Tell me more.”
The boy went on to relate, in his halting broken English, a story that
Martin heard with indignation and pity. His name was Gundra, and his
parents were servants of an English merchant at Surat. He had been
allowed to run in and out of the merchant’s godowns, and had thus picked
up the little English he knew.
One day, when he was straying some little distance from the factory, he
was kidnapped by two big men, who carried him aboard their ship. There
he had been kept as a slave, half-starved, and cruelly used. He had not
one real friend among the crew, though the captain now and then
interposed when the fat cook was thrashing him.
So wretched was his life that he had long wished he might die, and if he
were taken back to the ship he would throw himself overboard and let
himself drown, though he could swim, as the sahib had seen. More than
once he had been tempted to destroy himself, but had been restrained by
the hope that some day he might be rescued and restored to his home.
“Keep me to be your slave, sahib,” he pleaded. “Me do all you tell.”
The boy’s woebegone look, and the sight of the wounds on his limbs,
moved Martin so deeply that he had already determined to do what he
could to save him from his oppressors. But he foresaw great
difficulties. What could he do with the boy? There was no room in Dick
Gollop’s apartments; besides, he felt sure the constable, as a man of
law, would hold strong views about the offence of harbouring runaways.
Yet he could not land the boy and leave him to his own devices. He would
be taken up as a vagrant, and what would become of him then? His lot
could hardly be worse than it had been on board the _Santa Maria_; but
Martin felt that by giving the boy shelter he had shouldered a certain
responsibility, and that he must not throw the little fellow into the
uncertain hands of chance.
While he was thinking over the problem so suddenly thrust upon him, he
had been paddling gently, but the swift-flowing tide had already borne
the boat a good distance up the river. It was clear that he must come to
a decision within a few minutes.
He had no friends but the Gollops and some of the watermen, and he could
not place the boy with them until he had consulted them. The idea of
running up as far as Battersea or Chelsea, and leaving Gundra there
until later, occurred to him; but he was due to return to the shop, and
he shrank from incurring Mr. Faryner’s displeasure. If it had been
evening, as on the former occasion, he might have left the boy in the
boat until after dark, but there were still many hours of daylight to
run, and the boat would be a very insecure shelter, even if the boy were
hidden under sacking.
After much thought he decided that the simplest course was the best. He
would land at the stairs nearest his home, take the boy there as quickly
as possible, hand him over to good-hearted Susan Gollop, and go back to
his work. What was ultimately to be done with Gundra must be left for
discussion with the constable and his wife after the day’s work was
done.
There were two or three boats at the foot of the stairs as Martin
approached, intending to land on the up-river side. But as he pulled in
towards them he suddenly noticed that one of the boats on that side was
the ship’s boat of the _Santa Maria_, which he had passed when rowing
down. The foreign seaman was in his usual attitude when waiting, half
doubled up in the stern, and apparently asleep.
Martin at once altered his course, bearing hard on his right oar so as
to bring the boat to the nearer side of the stairs. At the same time he
gave Gundra an urgent warning to keep himself well covered by the
basket.
He pulled easily in to the landing-place. The other boats were
unoccupied, the watermen, their owners, being out of sight, though no
doubt within hail.
Martin was beginning to tie his boat to the post when footsteps on the
stairs above caused him to look up. It was with a feeling almost of
dismay that he saw Mr. Seymour coming down, carrying a large square
object wrapped in sacking—no doubt a box, perhaps one of the
brass-bound boxes that Blackboard had brought to the house. Behind him
came a man laden with a similar burden.
“Next oars, sir?” called a hoarse, loud voice, and a waterman appeared
at the head of the steps. “Next oars” was the phrase commonly used by
watermen plying for hire.
“Not to-day,” replied Mr. Seymour over his shoulder. “I have my own
boat.”
The waterman growled about people who did honest men out of a living,
and walked away.
Martin was desperately anxious that Mr. Seymour should not observe him.
He dared not go up the stairs and meet him face to face; not that he had
any dread of a meeting for himself, but because of his knowledge of the
runaway boy and his new-born suspicions of Mr. Seymour’s relations with
Blackbeard and Mr. Slocum.
Turning his back to the stairs, he fumbled with his painter, as if he
found a difficulty in tying up the boat. He had, in fact, tied, untied,
and tied again before Mr. Seymour and his companion had stowed their
burdens on board, and his back was still towards them when he knew by
the thudding of the oars in the rowlocks that their boat had put off.
It was some little time before he allowed himself to face about, hoping
that the danger of recognition was past. But he had not reckoned with
the strength of the current. The seaman, pulling the heavily-weighted
boat against the stream, had made only a few yards. Mr. Seymour’s face
was turned towards the shore. He caught sight of Martin, waved his hand
in recognition, and smiled in his usual pleasant way.
“He doesn’t guess what I’ve got under my basket,” Martin thought, at the
same time feeling unreasonably annoyed at having been recognised at all.
Now that the coast was clear he paddled round to the side of the stairs,
and tied up his wherry at the place vacated by the ship’s boat, wasting
time until that craft was well out of sight. Then, after a look all
round, he lifted the basket.
“Come with me,” he said to the Indian boy, taking him by the hand, and
slinging the basket over his other arm.
Hand in hand they ascended the stairs. Lolling against a rail was the
waterman who had offered his wherry to Mr. Seymour—a man whom he knew.
“Ahoy, young master! What have you got there?” said the man, looking
quizzingly at the dark-faced boy, who, at the sound of his rough voice,
shrank timidly to Martin’s side and clasped his hand more tightly.
“An Indian boy come ashore to see London,” Martin replied. “There’s no
need to mention it if questions are asked.”
“Mum’s the word, eh? Ay, ay, I’ll keep my tongue under hatches, never
fear.”
The two boys had walked only a few yards when they came upon the man who
had accompanied Mr. Seymour. He was seated on a tree-stump, smoking,
idly watching the river. As the boys passed him he turned and looked at
them, but Martin could not gather from his expression whether he had
paid them any special attention or not. A few minutes afterwards,
however, when they were going up the gentle hill that would presently
bring them to Bishopsgate, Martin chanced to turn his head, and saw,
with a feeling of alarm, that the man was following.
In a flash he realised that while he had been watching Mr. Seymour the
other man must have been watching him. No doubt he had noticed how he
was acting for the purpose of consuming time. Martin had never seen the
man before, and felt sure that he knew nothing about him, but had
guessed that he had something to conceal from Mr. Seymour. What could be
done to shake him off?
Martin knew every inch of this part of London, lying between the river
and his home. A minute or two after he had assured himself that the man
was indeed dogging him, he turned suddenly into a narrow court, dropped
Gundra’s hand, and telling the boy to keep pace with him, started to
run.