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 EMPTY ROOM
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’s_ not 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’ll_ talk to him!” said the angry woman, as she began to climb the
stairs. “_I’ll_ teach him to come stealing down in the dead of night and
poking his nose into the rooms of honest people! _I’ll_ give 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 the _Santa 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
’PRENTICES TO THE RESCUE
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.
[Illustration]
“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
MR. SLOCUM MOVES AT LAST
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 the
_Santa 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.