tightened on the pistol, and he made an almost imperceptible movement.
The Frenchman read the intention in his eyes. The smile disappeared,
giving place to a look of grim resolution. One twist of the wrist, and
the rapier point, an instant before at the man’s throat, flickered like
a flash of lightning and pricked him in the forearm. He winced; the
pistol fell clattering to the floor; and he let out a cry, a loud wild
cry that must have rung through the ship from stem to stern: a rallying
cry to his crew.
Next instant a door at the farther end of the round-house, which had
stood ajar, was flung open, and a water-bottle hurtled across the room.
It missed the Frenchman’s head by an inch, and crashed against the wall.
Through the door rushed two men, one behind the other. In the foremost
Martin recognised Mr. Seymour, the tenant of the upper floor whose
dealings with Blackbeard had first awakened his suspicions. It was he
who had thrown the bottle; the second man was for the moment hidden from
view behind him.
Between the table and the wall on either side there was only a narrow
gangway, partly obstructed by the chairs. As he dashed forward, Seymour
snatched at a cutlass hanging above the rack of arms. He grasped it, but
by the blade, for the hilt was higher than his head. To make effective
play with it he must needs lift it from its nail and reverse it: even
then the narrow gangway would allow him no room to swing it, nor the low
roof space in which to bring it above his head: he could only give
point.
But before he could reverse the weapon and grasp the hilt Gollop had
found himself. Dropping his warrant, he flung himself forward with a
leonine roar. Recalling the fight afterwards Martin wondered how the
burly constable had managed to squeeze himself between the table and the
wall to meet the attack. The chair went clattering along the floor; a
blow from Gollop’s sledge-hammer fist, with sixteen stone of brawn
behind it, caught Seymour clean between the eyes and sent him hurtling
over the broken chair upon the man behind. He dropped; his companion
staggered, recovered himself, and, shouting a furious curse, sprang
forward cutlass in hand.
Protected in some degree by the huddled form of Seymour, he made a
desperate lunge at Gollop, who had been carried forward by his own
momentum, and could now neither advance nor retreat. At this critical
moment Martin seized the second chair, and, gathering his strength,
hurled it at Slocum. It took him at the level of his belt and doubled
him up.
Then from without came a medley of shouts and the rustling thud of bare
feet upon the boards.
CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FOURTH
GOLLOP AT BAY
The light of battle gleamed in Gollop’s eyes. He was no longer the
constable, whose weapons were a staff and a rattle, but the boatswain of
old, who had borne his part in many a fight with pirates in the days
when he sailed the far seas with Captain Leake.
“I carries more flesh now than I did then,” he said afterwards, when
telling the story to his cronies. “That’s what comes of marrying a good
wife what looks after your vittles. Still, what you can’t help, make the
best of; that’s what I always say.”
Bulky though he was, at this critical moment he showed himself
astonishingly agile. He snatched two cutlasses from the stand of arms,
and thrust one into Martin’s hand.
“Better than a stick, my lad,” he said. “Stand you guard over they two
rascals”—he indicated Slocum and Seymour, who were sitting more or less
disabled on the floor. “If they stir, touch ’em with the point.”
Then, rather breathlessly, he turned to meet the rush at the door.
Meanwhile the Frenchman was keeping an eye on Blackbeard. Disarmed and
injured, the captain of the _Santa Maria_ stood between the table and
the wall, his dark face distorted with fury. Mounseer could not attack
him again while he was unarmed, nor was there space or time for the duel
that would have rejoiced the Frenchman’s heart. But he knew that if he
took his eye off him for a moment he might expect a rush, and all that
he could do was to shift his ground slightly so that he might be able to
lend aid to Gollop if the crew made a determined assault through the
door.
“You will have the goodness to retire yourself one step or two,” he said
to Blackbeard, his tone icily polite. To give himself room it was
necessary that the captain should move backward into the round-house.
Blackbeard muttered a curse under his breath, but refused to budge.
“Eh bien, voilà!” said the Frenchman, with a sudden deft movement
pricking him with the point of his rapier.
The captain winced, shrieked out an oath, but made no more ado about
obeying orders. Then Mounseer half turned, and stood so that he could
either check Blackbeard if he showed fight, or move to Gollop’s help, as
the occasion might demand.
Cutlass in hand, Martin stood over his prisoners, who had shown no sign
of activity themselves, but were looking eagerly, hopefully, towards the
door. Martin found it difficult to prevent his attention from being
distracted by the fight that was now raging there. The crew of the
vessel, headed by the officer whom Martin had seen once before, had
surged in a yelling crowd towards the round-house, catching up as they
ran any object that would serve as a weapon. Some had marline-spikes,
one brandished a short spar, another a hanger; several had drawn
evil-looking knives, and fat Sebastian wielded a meat chopper.
But there was no order or discipline among them. Shouting,
gesticulating, they got in one another’s way in their struggle to reach
the door, where Gollop coolly awaited their onset. His broad form
blocked up the narrow entrance; the foreigners could attack only one at
a time; and as they came on, one by one, each was put out of action by a
sudden thrust or cut or lunge of the cutlass wielded by a master hand.
Martin glowed with admiration as he watched the swift movements of the
big man. Planted firmly on his feet, his body scarcely swayed; but his
sword-arm swept from side to side, and the furious yells of his
opponents bespoke their sense of failure. Baffled, they fell back; they
collected in a group to devise some plan whereby they might overcome
this doughty defender of the door.
Suddenly there was a shout behind them.
“Ahoy! ahoy! Firk ’em! At ’em, my hearties!”
The startled group turned; there were a few moments of wild confusion.
Martin, looking under Gollop’s arm, saw a welter of men, some bowled
over like ninepins, others crawling away on hands and knees. The
watermen, with George Hopton, taking their cue from the noises on deck,
had swarmed up from the wherry and swept upon the foreigners from the
rear. They burst through, irresistible; the crew scattered to right and
left; and then Gollop issued forth from the doorway and joined his
friends with a roar of welcome.
“Round ’em up! Round ’em up!” he cried, and striding ahead of his little
party he chased the crew around the deck, across the waist, down the
ladders, into every corner where they sought refuge. Bereft of their
leaders they had no heart to fight. Within a very few minutes the
foreigners had surrendered, and were herded into the forecastle.
A few minutes more, and the prisoners in the round-house were sitting in
a disconsolate line against the wall, their hands and feet securely
tied.
“A very pretty job,” said Gollop, looking approvingly at the watermen’s
work. “I reckon they knots be firm enough, Mounseer; still, ’tis as well
to make sure; so maybe you’ll stand over ’em with that steel of yours
while we go and see what’s in them brass-bound boxes.”
The Frenchman smiled, and held his rapier at the salute.
CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIFTH
MARTIN TO THE RESCUE
Gollop was in a quandary.
He had got possession of the _Santa Maria_, which would henceforth be
called by her old name, the _Merry Maid_: what was he to do with her?
Night had fallen; the tide was running out again to the sea; it seemed
necessary to wait for morning light and the turn of the tide before the
vessel could be floated back to London. But the constable had left his
duty without leave from his commanding officer, and though he had Mr.
Pemberton’s warrant to produce in self-justification, he felt that if a
strict judgment were passed upon his action, he was in danger of losing
his livelihood.
“Seems to me I’d better leave you in command, lad,” he said to Martin,
“the ship being yours, and row back to the city.”
“But you are tired,” replied Martin; “it would be a terribly hard pull
against the tide, and we can’t spare anyone to go with you; we’re very
few to hold the ship if the crew break out of the forecastle.”
“Besides, there’s them boxes,” Boulter put in. The boxes had been opened
and examined: they were full of plate and jewellery. “I reckon they’re
worth a good few thousands of pounds, and Mr. Greatorex is so much
beholden to you that he’ll see you don’t lose by the night’s work.”
“Maybe; gratitude ain’t a partickler common virtue. Howsomever, what you
can’t help, make the best of. I’ll bide here till morning, and then
we’ll see. Martin, my lad, you’re dead beat; you’ve got old eyes; turn
in, you and your friend, and sleep sound till I wake you.”
Martin was glad enough to stretch himself on the deck against the
bulwark; his recent experiences had worn him out.
“Your Gollop’s a Trojan,” said Hopton as he threw himself beside him. “I
say, I’ll go with you to Tyburn to see Slocum hanged.”
“I suppose he _will_ be hanged?” said Martin sleepily.
“Certain sure. It will be a great show. I expect he’ll make a fine
speech on the gallows.”
But Martin was already asleep.
When he awoke in the early morning he found that Gollop, in consultation
with the watermen, had planned out his course of action. The vessel
would be left in charge of the Customs officers, who would put a crew on
board, and lodge the criminals, Slocum, Blackbeard, and Seymour, in
jail; then the boarding party would return to the City, Gollop would
report to his captain, and a posse of constables would no doubt be
dispatched to convey the criminals to London for trial.
About half-past five Boulter’s wherry set off on its return journey to
London. The party were well satisfied with the result of their
expedition, but the pleasure of some of them was alloyed with anxiety.
During the night the wind had fallen away; the air was still; and
Gollop, equally with the Frenchman, was filled with foreboding as to the
progress the Fire might have made during the twelve hours of his
absence. Already, before his departure, the flames had worked back
against the wind in the direction of the Tower, and now that there was
not even the wind to check them, he was on tenterhooks lest they might
have gained his house.
Mounseer, so calm and self-possessed during the scene in the round-house
of the _Merry Maid_, was now a prey to nervous agitation, which
increased minute by minute as the wherry neared its destination. He said
nothing, but the twitching of his eyelids and the restless movements of
his hands were clear signs of his perturbation of spirit. Martin
wondered, for, like Susan Gollop, he had seen nothing of value in the
old gentleman’s apartment, and such possessions as he had could be
removed in a few minutes if the house were attacked by the Fire.
The watermen pulled in to the steps where Martin had first become
suspicious of Slocum. There the party separated: Gollop to seek his
captain, Hopton to return home, the watermen to resume their vocation;
Martin and the Frenchman to regain their dwelling-house.
“If so be the house has caught, lad,” said Gollop at parting, “I trust
to you to look after my Sue and the little one. I’ll come home the very
first minute I can.”
Martin’s misgivings increased as he hurried with Mounseer through the
streets.
“I’m sure that’s Clothworkers Hall in Mincing Lane,” he said, noticing a
huge body of yellow flame rising high into the air some distance to the
left.
He stopped a man who was hurrying past, and asked him how far the Fire
had got.
“How far? Where have you been, then?” was the reply. “Paul’s Church is
in ashes; so’s Fleet Street and——”
“I mean on this side.”
“Why, the Custom House by the river has gone, so’s a part of Tower
Street, and Mincing Lane, and the parsonage of Barking Church——”
“Juste ciel!” cried the Frenchman. “Our house is near of that. Haste!
haste!”
His mental distress, following on the fatigues of the night, rendered
the old gentleman’s steps unsteady, and he clung to Martin’s arm for
support. They hurried on, their alarm growing from moment to moment.
Every now and then they heard a terrific explosion, and saw immense
columns of smoke, dust, and fragments of wood spring into the air.
“What’s that?” asked Martin of a passer-by.
“Blowing up houses in Seething Lane,” the man replied.
“Mon Dieu! How close!” muttered the Frenchman. “For me it is ruin,
ruin!”
At last they turned the corner from which their house could be seen. One
glance was enough. Flames were bursting from the roof. It appeared that
the house had caught fire at the top from floating sparks. People were
running hither and thither in the street, carrying away their goods from
the neighbouring houses. In the roadway before the house was a little
group of three—Susan Gollop, Lucy, and the Indian boy, standing guard
over the household gear piled in the roadway.
Susan’s set face relaxed as she saw Martin running towards her.
“Where’s Gollop? Where’s my man?” she cried.
“He’s quite safe; he’ll be here soon,” Martin replied. “Have you got
everything out?”
“Everything but the copper. We couldn’t lift that. Come back, Mounseer;
we’ve got your things too.”
The Frenchman had withdrawn his arm from Martin’s and was hurrying into
the open doorway of the house. He paid no attention to Susan’s cry, but
disappeared.
“Well I declare!’ cried Susan. “Did you ever know such a foolish old
gentleman! Because he’s French, I suppose. Me and the blackamoor brought
out all his bits of things with our own hands: here they are. But I
suppose he wants to make sure we’ve got ’em all.”
“I’ll go and bring him back,” said Martin.
“No, no; bide here. He’ll see the room’s empty and come back himself in
a twink. There’s no call for you to go into the smother.”
Martin allowed himself to be restrained. A knot of spectators had
gathered, and stared up at the burning house. The flames were spreading
from the roof downwards. Smoke was pouring out of the windows. Susan
watched grimly; Lucy, her eyes wide with awe, clung convulsively to
Gundra, who seemed the least concerned of all.
Minute after minute passed. There was no sign of the Frenchman. The
window of his room was closed, but smoke was trickling out at the edges
of the casement.
“Oh! where is my dear Mounseer?” cried Lucy, tearfully.
“Drat the man!” said Susan. “What in the world he’s doing I don’t know.
He must have a bee in his bonnet. Here now—Martin—come back! Come
back, I say!”
But Martin, unable to bear the suspense any longer, had broken away and
dashed into the burning house to find his old friend.
CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SIXTH
MARTIN’S ORDEAL
Martin was only partly conscious of what he passed through during the
next minute, and not at all aware of the risks he ran.
The old timber house had ignited from the top; the roof had burnt
through, and blazing fragments, falling on to the landings below, had
set fire to the walls and the floors. Already the flames were eating
away the stairs, and Martin, groping his way up through the smoke and by
the aid of the banisters, was awakened to realities by a sudden sharp
stinging pain as his hand touched a place that was on fire.
“Mounseer! Mounseer!” he called as he bounded up.
There was no answer.
He reached the landing at the top of the first flight. Through the
Frenchman’s open doorway, a little way to the right, thick grey smoke
was pouring. Moment by moment red-hot splinters crashed down upon the
landing, and from above came the roar and crackle of the devouring
flames.
“Mounseer!” Martin shouted; then caught his breath and coughed as the
acrid smoke filled his throat.
His smarting eyes streamed with water. Half blinded, he pressed his lips
firmly together and dashed across the landing into the open doorway. The
room was thick with smoke: for a moment Martin was compelled to close
his eyes; when he opened them again he saw flames bursting through the
ceiling. Part of a blazing rafter fell at his feet, and he staggered
back as innumerable sparks flew up in his face.
“Mounseer! Mounseer!” he spluttered.
There was no sound but the ever-growing roar of the flames.
Guessing from the denseness of the smoke that the windows were closed,
unable to see anything clearly, Martin in desperation caught up a small
stool which he had touched with his feet and hurled it in the direction
of the window overlooking the waste ground at the back. There was a
crash of breaking glass; the smoke began to pour out through the
shattered pane, and taking advantage of the immediate lightening of the
air Martin started to grope round the room in search of the Frenchman.
He stumbled against the table, knocked his shins against the edge of the
bed, felt across it with his hands: there was no sign of Mounseer.
Finding that he could breathe more freely near the floor he dropped on
his hands and knees and began to crawl, wincing every now and then as he
touched a fragment of burning wood.
He made for the cupboard in the corner, thinking that Mounseer might
have been overpowered by the smoke as he stood to save some of his few
possessions there. But there was no sign of him in the corner. He worked
back, and had almost completed the tour of the room when, behind the
door, he stumbled upon something hard. It was the sole of a shoe. In
another moment he knew that the body of the Frenchman was stretched
along the floor close against the wall.
Raising himself, he seized Mounseer’s feet and tried to drag him out
upon the landing. But suddenly his strength failed: overcome by the
smoke he fell gasping across the prostrate body, and lay for a few
moments in a state of collapse.
Collecting himself with a great effort, he struggled to his feet and
managed to pull the inert form as far as the doorway before once more
faintness overtook him, and again he fell.
He tried to shout for help, but only a feeble croak issued from his
parched lips. A terrible fear assailed him: if a few minutes’ immersion
in the smoke could rob him of his strength, how must it be with the
Frenchman, who had been so much longer exposed? Was he too late? Was the
old gentleman past help?
The thought nerved him to one more effort. He rose, and pulled with all
his might at the Frenchman’s legs. Staggering, he got him through the
doorway on to the landing. Here there was a little more air, but
Martin’s head swam; sick and dizzy he reeled, fell, and struck his head
against the banisters. At the moment of his losing consciousness there
was a noise in his ears, above the roar of the flames—a noise as of
people shouting and running.
When he came to himself he was lying in the roadway. His head and chest
were wet. His dazed, aching eyes saw Susan Gollop bending over him; in
the background were other figures, among which he by and by recognised
that of George Hopton.
“Mounseer!” he murmured.
“Mounseer is safe, my lamb,” said Susan, her tone unusually soft. “Take
a drink: you’ll soon be all right again.”
He drank greedily from the cup she offered. A well-dressed elderly
gentleman came forward.
“He is recovering, mistress?” he said.
“Ay, sir, thank God!” replied Susan. “But I wish Gollop would come. I
don’t know what in the world we are to do now. The old house is done
for: we’ve got our little bits of furniture here, but nowhere to go.”
“Don’t distress yourself, my good woman,” said the gentleman. “I will
make it my charge to look after you all until something can be arranged.
I would take you to my own house were it not so far away; that is
impossible; but I will at once ride off to a farm I know at Islington,
where I make no doubt I can arrange for your housing.”
He crossed the road to where a boy was holding a horse, mounted, and
rode away.
“Who is that?” Martin murmured. George Hopton came and stood by him.
“Mr. Greatorex, to be sure,” answered Susan, “and a real kind gentleman.
Brave too; ay, a man of bravery if ever there was one, and quick of his
mind. He came riding up with this lad perched behind him, and the way he
got off that horse—well, ’twas a wonderful spring for a man of his
years. ‘Where’s Martin Leake?’ he sings out. ‘In the house,’ says I,
‘a-saving of the old gentleman on the first floor.’ ‘Isn’t there a _man_
that could have done that?’ says he, scornful-like, looking round on the
crowd. And I must own they was an idle lot, all eyes and no sense. Well,
he didn’t wait a moment, but dashed into the house—though I’ll own this
lad was in front of him. My heart was in my mouth when I saw ’em vanish
into that furnace and heard ’em shouting for you——”
“Mounseer! what of Mounseer?” asked Martin again, as remembrance came to
his dazed mind.
“Safe and sound, bless you,” replied Susan; “that is, he will be, when
he’s come to proper. He’s over yonder, with a doctor looking after him.
It seemed an age before Mr. Greatorex came out again, though I suppose
’twas no more than a minute or two. He had you in his arms, and my heart
went pit-a-pat that dreadful when I saw your pale face and your poor
burnt hands. And behind him was this lad with Mounseer on his back: a
strong lad, and a good lad too. And you hadn’t been out of the house two
ticks when the floors fell in with a terrible crash, and sparks flying
all across the street. ’Twas a merciful Providence that sent Mr.
Greatorex in the very nick of time to save you from being burnt alive.”
“But I don’t understand—Mr. Greatorex—how—why did he want me?”
“I can tell you that,” said Hopton. “I went up to the shop to see if
there was anything left of it. My word! the ground did scorch my feet.
Of course it’s nothing but a black ruin: all Cheapside is burnt. I was
just coming away when Mr. Greatorex rode up. He’d come up from the
country; only think: the smoke and bits of black paper and stuff have
been carried forty or fifty miles away. He asked me about Slocum, and
whether the goods had been saved in time; and then I told him all I
knew, and said that the goods were safe on board the ship, and ’twas all
owing to you. ‘Take me at once to that Martin Leake,’ says he, and he
was in such a hurry that he made me get up on the saddle behind him:
first time in my life I’ve ever been on a horse, and don’t I ache with
the jolting! Then it happened as Mrs. Gollop said: we found you and the
old Frenchman in a heap on the landing, and we weren’t long bringing you
out, I can tell you.”
“And such foolishness of Mounseer!” said Susan. “Nearly lost his life,
and yours too, and what for? Just for a bit of a box.”
“A brass-bound box?” said Martin.
“No, there’s no brass about it, so far as I could see, though he kept it
so tight in his arms that no one could see it proper. He’d quite lost
his senses when the lad brought him out, but d’you think he’d let go of
that box? Not for ever so. He clung to it as if it was the most vallyble
thing in the whole world—just a bit of a box, leather I fancy, but so
old and worn that—there, you never can tell what queer things some
folks take a fancy to.”
“But what’s in the box?”
“Ah, who’s to say? He’s got it in his arms still, and there it’ll be
until he’s rightly come to himself. Are you feeling better now, my
dear?”
“Yes, though I’m rather chokey, and my hands smart.”
“To be sure they do, and I’ve no oil to put on ’em. But I’ll get some
soon, and if Mr. Greatorex is a man of his word—and I don’t say he
isn’t—we’ll soon have you in a comfortable bed in a farm-house, and
milk and cream, and—why, it’ll be a holiday in the country, what I’ve
wanted for years. You’ll like that, won’t you, Lucy?” she asked, as the
child ran up.
“Mounseer’s opened his eyes,” said Lucy. “I’m so glad. He smiled at me.
And then he asked for Martin. And then he said some funny words _I_
couldn’t understand. And then he told me to come and say ‘Thank you’ a
thousand times to Martin. That was just his fun, of course, for I
couldn’t say it so many times as that, could I?”
“That’s just his foreign way, my dear,” said Susan. “Once is enough with
English people. Run back and tell him that Martin is all right, and
we’re all going to a farm in the country. I do wish Gollop would come
home.”
CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SEVENTH
ALL’S WELL