also, for before the boys had gained the end of the court the pursuer
was hard on their heels. To make matters worse, he shouted. “’Ware!
’ware! Stop, thief!”
No one was at the moment passing in the court, but windows flew open,
heads looked out, and Martin knew that it was only a matter of minutes
before the chase would be in full cry.
Dashing out of the court with the Indian, he ran a few yards along the
street, then darted into a narrow alley on the other side. In a moment
he realised the mistake into which his haste had led him. The place was
a cul-de-sac; there was no opening at the farther end. He was trapped.
CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH
SALLY TAKES A HAND
For a moment or two Martin felt as a hunted fox might feel when the
chase had driven it into an enclosure from which there was no escape.
The narrow alley, a sort of tunnel under the houses, opened into a
broader yard, bounded on the one side by a high blank wall, on the other
by the palings of square grass plots in front of a row of small houses.
At the farther end another wall presented an obstacle which only a cat
could have climbed.
But just as Martin was on the verge of despair he caught sight of a
familiar figure, and in a flash he saw a possible chance of safety.
On one of the grass plots a buxom woman was bending over a large washtub
that stood on a three-legged stool. A clothes-line, propped on poles,
was extended from a nail in the house-wall to one of the palings, and
from it hung a blue shirt, a pair of stockings, a spotted neck-cloth,
and other articles, pegged up to dry in the sun.
“Sally Boulter!” Martin exclaimed, rushing through the little gate.
He had recognised her as the wife of his friend Boulter the waterman, to
whom she sometimes brought his dinner to the stairs.
“Please let us come into your house,” he went on breathlessly. “There’s
a man after us.”
“Well, to be sure!” she cried, keeping her hands in the tub. “In with
you, young master.”
The boys ran past her into the open doorway of the little house. At the
same moment the pursuer, red-faced with running, came out of the alley
into the yard. Apparently he had seen the boys before they disappeared,
for he pounded along straight to Mrs. Boulter’s gate.
When he reached it he found it closed, and on the other side of it a
strapping young woman, her stout, muscular arms bared to the shoulder,
and in her hands a blanket which she had just wrung dry. Her lips were
pressed close together, and her friends would have said that she was in
a difficult mood.
Brought up by the gate, the man asked, rather gaspingly:
“Have you seen a baker’s boy and a blackamoor?”
“Have I seen—what did you say?” replied Sally.
“A baker’s boy.”
“Many a one; baker’s boys aren’t that uncommon.”
“Just now, I mean.”
Sally looked up and down the yard.
“No, I can’t see a baker’s boy just now,” she said. “But if you want a
baker’s boy, there’s a baker just round the corner, and another two
streets away. I’m busy with my man’s washing, so don’t bother me no
more.”
“Don’t you talk of bothers, mistress,” said the man, tartly. “You’ll be
more bothered yet if you’re not careful. Didn’t I see the tail-end of
the basket going into your door? The baker’s boy is inside, and the
blackamoor too, and I’ve something to say to them, so——”
He suddenly pushed open the gate, forcing the woman back a pace, and was
starting to run across the grass towards the house. But Sally was a
woman of spirit. Whirling the roll of blanket round her head she brought
it with a swish across the man’s neck, hurling him against the washtub.
He caught at the rim to steady himself, disturbing the balance of the
tub upon its stool. It toppled over with a crash, and the man lay
between the stool and the tub in a pool of soapy water.
“What’s all this, missus?” cried a bluff voice.
In the doorway stood the burly waterman, Boulter himself, surveying the
scene. Above his breeches he wore nothing but his shirt.
“Wants bakers’ boys and blackamoors, he does,” answered his wife,
jerking her elbow towards the fallen man. “Pushes in, he does, and
upsets my washtub; clumsy, I call it.”
“He does, does he!” said the waterman, licking his hands as he stepped
out on to the grass. “Bakers’ boys, and blackamoors, _and_ washtubs,
does he? Pushes in, does he? I’m thinking it’s black eyes what he really
wants.”
With every sentence he had drawn a step nearer to the discomfited
intruder, who, spluttering with soapsuds, was still recumbent in the
swamp, half-hidden by the tub.
“Get up!” cried Boulter.
The man pushed the tub off, and rose slowly to his feet.
“Out you go, after that,” the waterman continued, kicking the man’s hat
over the fence into the yard.
The man slunk through the gateway, leaving a trail of soapsuds.
“Messing up my garden!” growled Boulter, close on his heels. “Pick up
your hat.”
As soon as the man had recovered his dripping hat he set off to run to
the alley-way. But Boulter took a stride forward, seized him by the
collar, and marched him down the yard, prodding him on with regular
applications of a bony knee.
“I’ll learn you to come pushing into decent folk’s gardens!” said the
waterman. “On a Saturday too! After bakers’ boys and blackamoors! And
washtubs! Spilling the water! You get out!”
He had come to the entrance of the alley, and with a parting kick sent
the man headlong towards the street.
“Now don’t you tell me nothing,” he said to Martin when he returned to
the house. “I’m much mistook if I didn’t see this blackamoor aboard that
there Portugal ship, and if I don’t hear no stories I won’t tell no
lies, for there may be questions asked.”
“Very well, Boulter,” said Martin. “Thank you very much for your help.
Will it be safe for us to go home now?”
“I’ll see to that,” said the waterman.
He accompanied the boys to the street. Lurking at the corner stood the
pursuer. On seeing Boulter he shambled away in the direction of the
river.
“Drawed out of action,” said Boulter with a chuckle. “You’ve a clear
course on t’other tack, and I reckon you’ll come safe to port.”
CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH
GUNDRA DISAPPEARS
Gundra, the Indian boy, had been a silent, nervous spectator of these
scenes. His lean body seemed to be quivering from top to toe when Martin
once more struck away for home, and the curious glances of the persons
they met brought a scared look into his eyes.
“Cheer up!” said Martin, noticing his timorousness. “We’ll soon be home,
and I’m sure Susan Gollop will be kind to you.”
But the first aspect of Susan Gollop made Gundra shrink back and clutch
Martin by the sleeve. The good woman was beating a mat on the waste
ground at the rear of the house, and the vigour of her strokes with the
cane, and the fierce set of her mouth, seemed to promise little
kindness.
“Here’s a poor little Indian boy, Susan,” Martin began.
“Don’t worry me!” Susan interrupted. “I’m late as it is; Gollop will be
roaring for his breakfast in a minute. And why aren’t you at your work,
I’d like to know?”
All the same, she looked inquisitively at the shrinking child. Martin,
knowing her morning temper of old, discreetly said nothing, but took
Gundra back into the house, and set him on a stool with a wedge of
treacle-cake from the table.
Presently Susan came in, flung the mat upon the floor; then, placing her
hands on her hips, stood over the boys and demanded:
“Now what’s all this about? Who’s this black boy?”
“He’s an Indian, and has run away from a ship where they were ill-using
him,” Martin replied.
“Sakes alive! And what’s that to do with you, Martin Leake?”
“I want to help him. I want you to keep him here for a day or two, until
we can decide what to do with him.”
“Do with him? Take him back, to be sure. There’s no room for a runaway
here; you’ll get us all into trouble; and I can’t afford another mouth
to feed. I’m surprised at you. And you’ll be out of a job again. What
will Mr. Faryner say, neglecting your work like this?”
“We can’t send him back, Susan, to be thrashed and half-starved,” Martin
began.
He said no more, for Gundra slipped from the stool, fell upon his knees,
and holding up his bare arms, pleaded his own cause.
“Not go back; not go back!” he cried piteously. “Me not eat much; me
work very, very hard!”
“What’s them marks on his arms?” said Susan, suddenly.
“Where’s he’s been lashed!” said Martin.
“Wicked; downright wicked!” Susan exclaimed. “Poor lamb! What if he is
black? But I don’t know what Gollop will say.”
At this moment the constable entered the room, his cheeks well lathered,
and shaving-brush in hand.
“What’s that squeaky voice I hear?” he said. “Bless my eyes, who’s this
I see?”
“You may well ask,” said Susan. “It’s a poor little creature of a slave
boy what’s run away.”
“From that Portugal ship I’ve told you about,” Martin added.
“Run away, has he?” said Gollop. “Then you’ll convoy him back as quick
as quick. Harbouring runaways is an offence in law, and as a man of law
’tis my bounden duty to give him up.”
“For shame, Gollop!” said his wife, now completely won over. “You and
your law! What’s law, I’d like to know?”
“Law’s your master and my living, woman,” said Gollop. “Don’t you make
any mistake about that. The boy’s a runaway, and back he goes.”
“You’re a hard-hearted monster,” said Susan. “Look at this!” She seized
Gundra by the arm and drew him towards her husband. “Scars! Look at
’em!”
“Show your back, Gundra,” said Martin.
Susan herself pulled up the boy’s shirt and revealed livid streaks upon
his flesh.
“Is there no law about that?” she demanded indignantly.
The constable stood with his brush poised in his hand.
“Them Portugals did that!” he cried. “Flog a poor little shrimp, eh?
Sink me if I give ’em another chance. I’m a freeborn Englishman, I am,
and law or no law, I’ll not give up any mortal soul, black or white, to
be treated that cruel. Cover him up, Sue. Split my timbers! I’ve never
seen anything like it.” He began to stamp up and down the room, kicking
over a stool, flourishing his soapy brush. “Brutes, that’s what they
are. How dare they run into an English port! Constable as I am, English
seaman I was, and sooner than send the poor little wretch back into a
ship where they treat them so savage, I’d—I’d——”
He knocked over a chair.
“I understand your feelings, Gollop,” said Susan mildly, “but you
needn’t smash the furniture. And you’ll want a steady hand for your
shaving, my man. Just go and make yourself tidy while I get your
breakfast.”
“I will. Mind you, Sue, that boy stays here till the ship sails. Don’t
you give him up to no one whatsoever. And keep a still tongue. Don’t go
a-babbling.”
“And keep him out of Mr. Seymour’s sight,” said Martin.
“Why?” asked Susan in surprise.
“Because—I’ll tell you later on. It’s a long story, and Mr. Faryner
will be in a rage with me if I don’t hurry back. I’m very late.”
“What you can’t help, make the best of,” said Gollop, as he went back
into his bedroom to finish his interrupted toilet.
The baker was in an irritable mood when Martin reached the shop. He had
had to find another messenger to carry the morning’s delivery of bread
and pastries to Mr. Pasqua’s coffee-house. His annoyance was increased
when Martin told him that the _Santa Maria_ was taking in cargo in
preparation for sailing.
“They’ve given me no notice,” he said. “But I’ve given no credit, that’s
a blessing. What have you been doing all this time? Gaping at the
sailors, I suppose. I know you boys—eyes for anything but your proper
work. Get away into the back shop and scrub the floor.”
Martin was thankful not to be questioned further. He had half expected
that by this time Mr. Faryner had been informed of his having brought an
Indian boy away from the ship, and he was on thorns for the rest of the
day. But nothing was said about it, and he left the shop at the usual
hour.
When he got home, he found that Gundra was the centre of interest.
Seated on a settle beside Lucy, he was chatting cheerfully to the little
girl, answering her innumerable questions in his queer, broken English.
“He is such a nice little boy,” she whispered to Martin. “I am so glad
you brought him.”
Mrs. Gollop, in high good humour, was full of his praises. She related
how eagerly he had made himself useful, scouring her pots and pans,
peeling potatoes, and even showing her how to cook rice in the Indian
way.
She had made him a shakedown in a cupboard under the stairs.
“It’s a dark place,” she said, “and I won’t say but he’ll have mice for
company, but it was the only place I could think of, and when I’d swept
it out he was quite pleased with it. It’s very stuffy this hot weather,
but I told him to leave the door open when he goes to bed, or he’ll be
stifled. He’s a willing little fellow, that I will say.”
The next day was Sunday, but Martin rose at his usual hour, because he
had to make a round with fresh hot rolls before the day was his own. He
noticed as he passed the cupboard under the stairs that the door, which
had been open when he said good-night to the boy, was now nearly closed.
“Well, let it be,” said Susan, upon his telling her. “Them Indians live
in a hot country, by all that’s said, and he won’t mind the stuffiness.
And we won’t wake him; a long sleep will do him good, poor lamb.”
Martin cleaned his boots and ate his breakfast; then, as he was about to
start for the shop, he thought he would peep into the cupboard and see
if the boy was awake.
He listened at the door. There was no sound from within. Then very
cautiously he pulled the door towards him and looked in. The narrow
cupboard with its sloping roof was in black darkness, and for a few
moments his eyes could not distinguish even the shakedown on the floor.
But presently he was able to discern its dim outlines, and then he
started and hurriedly entered.
Half a minute later he rushed back into the living-room, where Mrs.
Gollop was cleaning the hearth.
“Susan,” he cried, “the cupboard is empty. Gundra has gone!”
Mrs. Gollop was considerably upset.
“Well, of all the ungrateful little wretches!” she exclaimed. “Coming
here whining and dropping on his knees, and me making up a bed for him
and all—and then to slink out without a word! I’ll never do anything
for a foreigner again.”
“But we don’t know that he slunk out, Susan,” Martin protested.
“We don’t _know_!” she retorted sarcastically. “Did he say good-bye to
_you_, then? Did you hear him go? And I warrant he didn’t go
empty-handed, either. Wait till I count my spoons!”
“I don’t believe he’s a thief!” said Martin. “I don’t believe he ran
away. I believe someone got into the house and took him!”
“Well, them that took him had a right to him, didn’t they? A good
riddance to bad rubbish! Now eat your fill, and be off; ’tis your first
Sunday with Mr. Faryner, and he won’t thank you if you’re late.”
It was only six o’clock. Gollop had not returned from his nightly duty,
and Lucy was still asleep. Martin hurriedly swallowed a thick slice of
bread-and-dripping, thinking hard all the time, while Susan inspected
her drawers and cupboards to find evidence of the Indian boy’s knavery.
“I’m sure he did not go willingly,” thought Martin. “Mr. Seymour’s man
saw him with me, and no doubt told Mr. Seymour, and he knows Blackbeard,
and—oh, what a puzzle everything is!”
His mind was full of the matter as he started for the shop. He wondered
whether Mr. Seymour had let Blackbeard into the house during the
night—whether the boy was now back on board the _Santa Maria_, perhaps
at that very moment being thrashed by that fat bully the cook. And he
foresaw a very unpleasant time for himself when he took his bread to the
ship on Monday morning.
CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH
FIRE! FIRE!
Within a minute or two Martin’s mind was taken off the fate of the
Indian boy by something much more actual and immediate. On turning the
corner he was aware that there were many more people in the streets than
was usual at that hour on Sunday morning. They were all hurrying in one
direction—the same direction as himself. There was excitement in their
looks and in the way they spoke to one another; some appeared to be
asking eager questions which those they addressed were in too great
haste to answer.
He caught the word Fire!
“Is there a fire? Where is it?” he asked a lad in a ’prentice’s cap who
was trotting over the cobblestones.
“London Bridge,” panted the lad, and ran on.
Martin began to run too. The crowd grew thicker; from every street and
lane poured men and boys, and a few women, some only half dressed, all
excited, all eager. From mouth to mouth ran the terrible word Fire! and
as the throng swelled their pace quickened, and their cries, mingling
with the clatter of their shoes, raised a din that strangely disturbed
the Sabbath quiet of the bright morning.
“It must be a big fire,” thought Martin, and he remembered hearing
Gollop speak of a fire on London Bridge when he was a boy, which had
burned all night and destroyed more than forty houses.
“Where is it? Where is it?”
The question was repeated again and again as newcomers joined the crowd.
No one seemed to know with certainty. Some said London Bridge, others
Cannon Street. Nothing could be seen of it. The streets were narrow, the
houses high and overlapping in their upper storeys; between their tops
the sky was cloudless blue.
The clamour grew louder; every now and then there were strange popping
noises which for a moment startled the crowd to silence. They ran faster
and faster, jostling one another, pushing aside the less active. Swept
along in the pouring tide, Martin found himself in Little Eastcheap, and
then, far ahead in that broader thoroughfare, he saw over the roofs a
brownish tinge in the sky.
On and on he ran, his excitement growing with every step he took. At the
corner of Gracechurch Street the meeting streams of people made so dense
a block that for a while his progress was checked; he was hemmed in amid
a press of stout citizens, unable to see anything but their backs.
His ears were deafened by their shouts, which rose above the distant
roar and crackle. Presently, when he again began to move onward, he
heard a man near him say, in a loud voice:
“’Tis Pudding Lane, I tell you.”
The words were taken up around him. Pudding Lane! The cry flew from lip
to lip, and stirred the crowd into a vast surging movement southward.
“Pudding Lane! What house, I wonder?” thought Martin. “The Three Tuns,
perhaps; they’ve a lot of straw in their yard. Or perhaps it’s at
Noakes’s, the oil-man’s. His shop would blaze.”
More and more eager to reach the scene of the fire, he began to push and
wriggle and worm his way through the mob, getting his toes trodden on,
and indignant thrusts and cuffings from those he incommoded. As he drew
nearer to his goal the roar swelled; at moments, when he was able to
look ahead, he saw dense clouds of smoke, brown and black, sweeping
across the housetops westward, carried swiftly along by the north-east
wind.
After what seemed to be hours of struggling he arrived at the corner of
Fish Street Hill. The air was full of smoke and floating blacks and the
suffocating smell of burning. The crowd here was denser than ever; the
din louder and more terrible. Martin, already half-choked with the
smoke, felt that his breath would be squeezed out of him by the pressure
around. But he pushed and prodded, taking advantage of the least gap
that opened as the throng swayed, and by and by he managed to force his
way to a point where he should be able to see the houses on Fish Street
Hill and in Pudding Lane opposite.
But where were the houses? He rubbed his smarting eyes, and looked and
looked again. There were no houses any more. Where the great Star Inn
had stood, with its galleries and yards and outbuildings, there was now
nothing but a black smouldering heap. All down the Hill, all down the
Lane, it was the same black waste and desolation: not a house remained
standing. And as he looked he saw flames burst from the belfry of St.
Magnus Church beyond, and a huge column of smoke shoot up around its
lofty tower.
“The church is ablaze!” roared the crowd.
“The parsonage too! Save us all!”
Here and there among the throng were persons wringing their hands and
lamenting the loss of all their possessions. Martin forced his way to
one of them, and asked eagerly:
“Have you seen Mr. Faryner?”
“My house is gone—my house is gone!” was all the reply he received.
He went from one to another, repeating his question; no one knew the
whereabouts of the baker. Martin felt anxious; the house and shop were
utterly destroyed, their site was occupied only by heaps of charred and
smouldering debris. Had Mr. Faryner and his family and journeyman
escaped? It was clear that the fire must have broken out in the middle
of the night. Had they been taken by surprise and perished in the
flames?
Martin was at a loss what to do. His occupation was gone; there was no
bread for him to carry; he could learn nothing of his employer, and he
debated with himself whether to stay and watch the progress of the fire
or to run home and tell the Gollops what he had seen. Deciding for the
second course, he turned his back and tried to fight his way to
Gracechurch Street. But the crowd had enormously increased. There were
no policemen in those days to clear the streets, no firemen to dash up
with their engines and pour water on the flames. In the churches were
kept a few leather buckets and metal squirts, but they were useless in
so great a conflagration.
An eddy in the stream of people carried Martin into Cannon Street, and
he suddenly found himself pressed against Mr. Faryner’s man. He was
swept past him, but managed to dodge back, and seized his arm firmly.
“Where is Mr. Faryner?” he cried.
“Safe and sound, thank God, with his friend the mercer in Cheapside,”
the man answered. “But he’s in a terrible state of mind, and no wonder,
seeing as the fire broke out in his shop.”
“In our shop?” asked Martin, in amazement.
“Ay, about two o’clock this morning. I woke out of my sleep feeling I
was choking, and the place was full of smoke. I roused the master. We
couldn’t get downstairs, so we had to climb through the garret window
and along a gutter-pipe to the roof next door. How we did it, Heaven
alone knows, and I wouldn’t venture it again for a thousand pounds.”
“What caused the fire?”
“Who knows? ’Tis my belief——”
But at this moment there was a cry of “Make way for the Lord Mayor!”
People pushed this way and that, and in the commotion Martin was torn
from the man’s side and swept along the street. It was hopeless to
attempt to reach him again, or to take a direct course for home, and
Martin allowed himself to drift on the tide.
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST
WHAT SUSAN FOUND
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.