Chapter THE TENTH: A Mysterious Visitor (3)

The Fire was still raging unchecked, and was spreading from the riverside streets towards the heart of the city. Many people who had indulged a careless belief in the safety of their dwellings had now flown to the opposite extreme of panic and despair, and the supply of carts, barrows, and wherries was hopelessly unequal to the demands of those anxious to save their goods. The streets in every direction were blocked by frantic fugitives, and the fields north of the city were already dotted with the encampments of homeless people.

When Martin reached the stairs where he had left his boat he found that it had disappeared. It was hopeless to look for it among the hundreds that were plying on the river, and Martin, feeling himself deprived of his occupation, made his way westwards, first with the idea of inquiring after Mr. Faryner, and then of getting a view of the progress of the Fire.

As he was jostling his way among the crowds who were moving up Cheapside, he was thrown against the old Frenchman, struggling along in the opposite direction. It flashed into his mind that Mounseer might have been paying another visit to Mr. Slocum, and his former feeling of puzzlement returned with redoubled force.

“Ah, my friend, what do you here?” asked the old man.

“My boat has been taken,” replied Martin, looking around rather anxiously; for the Frenchman’s words must have been heard by the persons near him, and his accent, coupled with the cut of his clothes and his general appearance, would certainly betray him as a foreigner.

“So you have nothing to do,” the Frenchman continued. “Same as me; your little sister go not to the school to-day, therefore am I unoccupied. I enjoy the holiday,” he added, with a smile. “We shall enjoy it together, eh?”

“Hadn’t you better go home, sir?” said Martin, remembering what Gollop had said overnight about the mob’s treatment of foreigners.

“Not at all, not at all. This great sight interest me very much. You shall take me to a place where the spectacle is most beautiful.”

Martin noticed one or two people scowling, and wished that Mounseer would hold his tongue. Determined to draw him away from the main stream of traffic he turned into an alley-way, intending to go by back streets as far as St. Paul’s, where, perhaps, the sacristan might allow them to ascend the tower.

Their course led them past the back entrance to Mr. Greatorex’s premises. Just before they reached it a man came out and walked towards Cheapside. Martin and the Frenchman recognised him at the same moment; he was the man whose scarred face they had seen at the window—the man who had knocked Martin down in Whitefriars.

“What next?” thought Martin. This was a new shock of surprise. Was this man also among Mr. Slocum’s acquaintances? The idea would never have occurred to Martin but for his thorough distrust of Mr. Slocum, and a strange suspicion was dawning on his mind when his attention was diverted by a sudden movement of the Frenchman, who hurried after the man, seized his arm, and began to speak excitedly in French.

The man stared, swore, caught sight of Martin, then suddenly shouted:

“Frenchy! Ho, boys, here’s one of the foreign spies what sets us afire. Down with all Frenchies!”

They were near the end of the lane, and the man’s words were heard and taken up by the crowd in Cheapside. A number of roughs surged towards them, and the accuser, finding himself supported, turned on the Frenchman, dealt him a violent blow, and started to tear his coat off.

“Away, you coward!” cried Martin, rushing forward to help the old gentleman; but a burly ruffian caught him in his arms and hurled him back.

At this moment there was a cry from behind.

“Why, it’s Martin Leake! Clubs! Clubs! ’Prentices to the rescue!”

A tall figure dashed past Martin, who was staggering under the big man’s assault, and with doubled fists attacked the aggressor with a whirling ferocity that drove him back reeling. In the lad who had come to his help Martin recognised his fellow-'prentice and opponent, George Hopton.

Next moment from several doors in the neighbourhood darted one or more flat-capped ’prentices brandishing the clubs from which they took their rallying cry.

For centuries the London ’prentices had been renowned for their prowess in faction fights among themselves and against the rougher elements of the population. The street now rang with the cry “Clubs! Clubs!” and those formidable weapons were soon thudding on the heads and shoulders of the rabble.

The Frenchman had fallen to the ground, but rose when his assailant turned to defend himself against the ’prentices, and leant, bruised and shaken, against the wall. The success of the ’prentices’ attack was due to its suddenness rather than its strength. There were only about six of them altogether, and the man with the scar, seeing that no more were joining them, again raised his cry of “Down with all Frenchies!” and called on all true Englishmen to support him.

By this time the crowd had increased, and several truculent fellows broke from it and rushed towards the fight. They were heavier metal than the ’prentice lads; soon they outnumbered them; the little band was forced back step by step, some of them losing their clubs to the enemy. The combat swept past the old Frenchman, carrying Martin with it, and in a few moments the ’prentices would have suffered a disastrous rout had not a loud shout in a tone of authority imposed a sudden peace.

All eyes were turned upon the speaker, an elderly gentleman wearing a well-curled periwig, and a coat of purple cloth, and carrying a gold-headed cane which he brandished at the crowd. Martin recognised him as the important customer of Mr. Slocum’s who had been hustled in the course of his fight with George Hopton.

“Back, rascals!” cried the gentleman. “Are you fools enough to believe these absurd tales of foreign incendiaries? I tell you there’s no ground for them. Foreigners in our midst should be treated as guests. Your conduct is a disgrace to Englishmen and citizens of London. Away with you, and find something useful to do.”

“Hurrah for Mr. Pemberton!” cried the ’prentices.

The combatants shamefacedly drew back and mingled with the more peaceable spectators. Martin hurried to the old Frenchman’s side.

“What! You again!” said Mr. Pemberton, recognising him. “Are you always fighting?”

“I owe my life to him and the others,” began Mounseer.

“You had better go home, sir,” was the reply, “and remain within doors while men’s minds are affected by this great calamity. As for you lads, I hope, though I don’t expect, that you will always use your clubs in as good a cause.”

He moved away, followed by another cheer from the ’prentices, and Martin started to accompany the Frenchman home, supporting him on his arm. George Hopton and one or two other ’prentices set off to see them a little distance on their way.

In a few moments they became aware that the man with the scar was skulking after them.

“Whoop!” cried Hopton. “Clubs! Clubs!”

With his fellow ’prentices he turned and chased the man, who did not wait their onslaught, but dived into a narrow entry and disappeared. And all the way home Martin was wondering what the baffled ruffian had to do with Mr. Slocum.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH

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.

“So I did. I was wrong. I own it; dash my sleepy head! Never you sleep your brains away, my lad. Them brass boxes, now. There’s no telling what mischief’s in them boxes. Still, what you can’t help, make the best of, and I say no more for the present. When the Fire’s over maybe I’ll look into things a bit: I’ve no time for it now—indeed, I must get back to my duty.”

He went out hurriedly, before Martin had related what had happened to the old Frenchman. Susan and Lucy, when that story was told, were both indignant at the crowd’s treatment of their friend, and nothing would satisfy the girl but that she must take him a bowl of syllabub to comfort him, as she said.

Martin was too restless to remain indoors. The fascination of the Fire drew him again into the streets, which were now still more congested, the stream of fugitives hurrying to the fields meeting a stream of countrymen whom the prospect of making money by hiring out their carts had drawn to the City. The roar of the flames, the crash of falling houses, the cries and oaths of the people struggling to save their goods, the smells from burning oil and spices, the blazing flakes fantastically whirling in the wind, made up a series of vivid impressions that remained in Martin’s memory for many a day.

Towards evening he found himself again in the neighbourhood of Mr. Slocum’s house. He had not gone there of set purpose, but had been drawn there unconsciously, perhaps, by a vague recollection of Dick Gollop’s remarks.

Going down the lane towards the back entrance, he was brought to a halt by the sight of a large hand-truck at the door. The three ’prentices, in their shirt sleeves, were loading it with boxes under the direction of Mr. Slocum.

“He’s scared at last,” thought Martin. “But what a strange time to choose for going away.”

He remained in a shady corner, watching. It was certainly high time that the goldsmith’s valuables were removed, for the Fire had reached the foot of the streets leading up to Cheapside.

The loading was finished a few minutes after Martin’s arrival, and the ’prentices put on their coats.

“Am I not to come, sir?” Martin heard Hopton say.

“No; you are to stay and guard the shop. Jenks and Butler can wheel the truck. Too many of us would attract attention, and the dusk will bring out the thieves.”

He threw a sheet over the truck, tying it down at the corners. So far as appearance went, the load might have consisted only of household goods like those which hundreds of citizens had been moving all the day.

The two younger ’prentices seized the handles of the truck and wheeled it up the lane. Martin, shrinking back in his corner, noticed that Mr. Slocum, walking close behind, had a pistol projecting from his pocket.

When they had turned into Cheapside, Martin went up to Hopton as he was going back to the door.

“Hallo!” said Hopton. “Is the Frenchman in trouble again?”

“No; he won’t stir out again,” replied Martin. “So Slocum has moved at last.”

“The lunatic! Why didn’t he go earlier? He’ll have to make a long round to get to the Tower, and it will be nearly dark before he arrives: just the time for footpads to attack him. There’s nobody left in the house, or I’d follow and see that he gets there safely.”

“I’ll go,” said Martin, once more amused at Hopton’s idea of his own importance.

Hopton gave a snort. “What could you do if they were attacked?” he asked. “You’ve no weapons.”

“But I could shout.”

“Go, then. It’s no concern of yours, but you might raise a hullabaloo if anything happens. I suppose I must kick my heels here until Slocum releases me, though I promise you I won’t stay if the flames come anywhere near.”

Martin set off, but during the minute or two he had been talking with Hopton the barrow had passed out of sight among the thronging people. Knowing that it must take a northerly direction in order to skirt the Fire, he crossed Cheapside and dodged his way into Milk Street, the nearest of the streets branching out of the main thoroughfare. There was no sign of the barrow, yet it could not have got far, owing to the crowd.

He struck into a by-lane and came to Wood Street. The crowd here was not so thick, and he was able to move more quickly. At the corner of Silver Street he stopped and looked round on all sides. The evening gloom was already descending, though the glow in the sky lit up the over-arching houses.

“I shall never find them now,” he thought. But just at that moment the grinding of wheels on the cobbles drew his attention. He glanced round and saw the barrow coming along from the direction of the Guildhall.

“They tried that way and couldn’t get through, I suppose,” he said to himself, and slipped into the entrance of a yard until the barrow had passed. “Now to keep them in sight.”

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH

MARTIN FOLLOWS

Martin could hardly have explained why he felt so keenly interested in the progress of the barrow. Mr. Slocum was only doing what most of the goldsmiths had already done, and it was certainly his duty to save the property of his master, Mr. Greatorex. But recent incidents had inspired Martin with so deep a distrust of Mr. Slocum that he was determined not to lose sight of him until the barrow had safely entered the portals of the Tower.

He kept far enough behind not to be observed, yet close enough to run no risk of missing the party again.

“I’m glad I’m not shoving the barrow,” he thought.

The air that summer evening was hot, and its oppressiveness was enhanced by the pervasive smell of burning. Martin followed the toiling ’prentices into Aldersgate Street and turned after them into London Wall, expecting them to swing to the right at Bishopsgate, and so finish their long round to the Tower.

To his surprise, they took the eastward direction, and struck into a winding lane that would bring them, certainly, to the river, but at a point far away from their supposed destination. Martin was conscious of a growing curiosity, even of excitement. The lane was narrow, and as the dusk was deepening he lessened the distance between him and the barrow. But a little farther on, where the lane made a sharp curve, he hung back for a moment to give the party time to get well round the corner.

As he did so a man came suddenly round on the inside of the curve, brushed past him, and continued his course up the lane towards the main street. Martin glanced round; the man was fast disappearing into the dusk, but there was something in his shape and gait that reminded Martin vaguely of someone he had seen, he could not remember when or where. The impression passed in a moment, and he hurried on, anxious not to lose sight of his quarry.

Turning the corner, he found himself between parallel lines of tall warehouses, some flush with the lane, others standing back behind small yards in which goods were no doubt unloaded. He had not taken many steps when he heard shrill cries ahead, and broke into a run, wondering why thieves had been attracted to so quiet a spot, remote from the crowds.

Some thirty yards ahead the lane made another sharp twist. When Martin reached the bend he was just in time to see, dimly in the fading light, one of the ’prentices being shoved by a man through the gateway of a warehouse yard. The barrow, Mr. Slocum, and the other ’prentice were already out of sight.

Martin recognised the voice of the lad who was being roughly used as that of Butler, and he dashed on at his topmost speed, shouting as he ran. For a moment he had no other thought than to save the lad who had been his fellow-'prentice from the hands of his assailant. But before he gained the scene the wooden gate was banged to; he heard the grating of a bolt and Butler’s protesting cries as he was lugged across the yard.

He looked up. The gate and the wall on either side of it were at least ten feet high; their tops were studded with nails or jagged glass; even if he found a foothold it would be impossible to scale them. He banged at the door, still shouting; but there was no response. Work in the warehouse was over for the day, and no doubt any workmen or loungers who might ordinarily have been about were far away, watching the Fire. The cries of Butler had ceased; within the yard all was silent.

Feeling that to knock or shout any longer here would merely be wasting time, Martin wondered whether he could find admittance at the back of the warehouse. He ran on a few yards and came upon a narrow passage striking off at right angles to the lane. At a venture he turned into this, and found himself within a few moments in a lane that evidently ran parallel with the one he had left.

He had only just rounded the corner when he heard the rattling of cart wheels on the cobbles at the river-end of the lane, and caught sight of a few strange figures dimly outlined against the background of sky.

“Stop thief!” he shouted, dashing down the lane.

For some minutes he had been so confused that he only now guessed that Mr. Slocum’s barrow had entered by the gateway through which Butler had been forced; otherwise it could scarcely have disappeared so suddenly. As he ran, calling for help, he noticed that a large gateway, with a wicket beside it, stood wide open on his left. He rushed up to the first man he overtook.

“There is villainy going on,” he said. “Help me!”

“I’m helping myself,” the man growled; and the strangeness of his figure was accounted for by the huge bundle he carried on his back. He was one of the fugitives who were conveying their possessions to the river in the hope of finding a boat.

Martin ran on, and in the fast-gathering darkness cannoned into another man laden almost as heavily.

“Mind your steps!” shouted the man; and with his free hand he dealt Martin a blow that sent him staggering against the wall. Recovering himself he dashed on, his cries to one and another going unheeded. People were too much concerned with their own troubles to regard the vague demands of a lad.

And then suddenly he found himself on the edge of a little quay stretching into the river. There was a reddish glow reflected from the water, and by this light he recognised, at the farther end of the quay, the handcart he had lost sight of. It was standing deserted. A boat was putting off, piled with boxes. The glow of the fire glinted on their brass-bound corners and on the swarthy face of Blackbeard, who held the tiller strings while two other men rowed steadily down stream.

Beyond the quay there were two or three other boats into which fugitive citizens were dumping their goods.

“Row after that boat!” Martin cried to the watermen. “It contains stolen goods.”

“Not the only one,” chuckled one of the men.

“Things of great value,” Martin persisted, looking round in vain to find a waterman whom he knew. “The owner will reward you richly.”

“Out of my way,” cried the man with whom Martin had collided. “What’s your fare, waterman?”

“Five shillings a mile,” the man replied.

“You’re a shark, making your profit out of other folk’s calamities. But I suppose I must pay you, though ’tis five times the proper price. Take this bundle.”

Seeing that the watermen were too intent on present gain to trouble about a visionary reward, Martin turned away. And then he asked himself, what had become of Slocum and the other ’prentice? They were certainly not with Blackbeard in the boat. Was it possible that they too had been carried prisoners into the warehouse?

He retraced his steps and came to the large gateway which he had guessed to be the main entrance to the warehouse. It was now closed, as was also the wicket at the side. He was trying the latch when a man came up behind.

“Want to get in, eh? Well, so you shall.”

Martin turned hastily, and recognised with alarm the sinister face of the man with the scar.

Before he could recover his wits he was seized in an iron grip. His captor inserted a key in the lock of the wicket gate, turned it, and snarling: “Oh, you shall get in, you shall,” pushed Martin before him into the yard.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH

PRISONERS

Just inside the gate, on the right, was a small brick cabin, where during working hours the gatekeeper attended for the purpose of checking merchandise that entered or left the yard. It was now closed; its window was shuttered; but a streak of light shone between the door and the lintel.

Grasping Martin firmly with one hand, with the other the man unlocked the door, and pushed his prisoner in. An oil lamp stood on a table, and on a chair near it sat Mr. Slocum. He started up on seeing Martin.

“Heavens above! Have they caught you too?” he exclaimed, with an air of genuine surprise.

Martin glanced from him to his captor, and caught a fleeting grin on that man’s face.

“But how came you in this unhappy plight?” Slocum went on, speaking very rapidly. “Why should the wretches attack you? In my own case the explanation is simple. I set out to save Mr. Greatorex’s property from this disastrous Fire, with Jenks and Butler; you remember them? We were suddenly rushed upon by half a dozen footpads, hustled into the yard, and while I was shut up here the ’prentice lads were taken—who knows where?”

“Not far,” said the man, grinning again. “Not so very far. You can see ’em out in the yard there.”

He pointed through the open doorway. Shading his eyes against the light, Martin saw dimly two figures with their backs to the wall, and a big fellow apparently standing guard over them.

“You can cheer each other up,” said the man, going out and locking the door behind him.

“A monstrous outrage!” said Slocum. “But what have the villains against you?”

“I’d like to know that myself,” said Martin, cautiously.

“You were passing up from the waterside, no doubt?” said Slocum.

“No; I was going the other way.”

“Strange coincidence! You saw the ruffians attack me?”

“No, I did not.”

Martin’s answers were short. He guessed that the object of Slocum’s questions were to ascertain how much he knew, and though he had been almost taken in by Slocum’s manner, he now suspected that his surprise had been feigned, and that he was playing a part.

“Well, it is a gross attack on our personal liberty,” Slocum continued; “and I won’t stand it!”

He rose with an air of grim determination, and hammered sharply on the door. The man with the scar entered.

“Enough of this foolery!” said Slocum, elbowing the man from the doorway. “Let me out, fellow. I warn you that you are incurring punishment of the highest severity in holding two citizens in durance!”

“Take it easy; none of your shoving,” said the man. “You can’t go out without I get orders.”

“Orders! From whom do you get your orders?”

“That’s my look-out.”

“You are insolent, fellow! Don’t dare to use that tone to me! I will not put up with insolence from a ruffian and a gaol-bird!”

“Who are you a-calling a gaol-bird?” said the man, scowling fiercely.

Martin had already suspected that the men were play-acting. It now seemed that the captor had forgotten his part, and was taking Slocum’s expressions seriously. Slocum realised that he had gone too far with a person of limited intelligence, and hastened to reassure him by pantomimic signs which, slight as they were, did not pass unobserved by Martin.

“I demand to be taken outside,” Slocum went on. “I want air. What with the hot evening and the stinking lamp this place is suffocating.”

“Well, I’ve no orders to stifle you,” said the man. Thereupon, he took Slocum by the sleeve and marched him out into the yard. Martin was following, but the man turned at the door, thrust him back, and locked him in. “Your turn presently,” he said.

Martin sat down on the chair. He was convinced that Slocum and the man were acting in collusion, and supposed that their object was to retain him for an hour or two until the boat conveying Mr. Greatorex’s valuables had got away. Remembering that the _Santa Maria_ was to sail next day, he felt sure that those valuables would form part of her freight, the fruits of a conspiracy in which Slocum, Blackbeard, and Seymour were concerned.

Waiting in the hot, stuffy room soon became tedious and uncomfortable. Martin got up and tried the door and the window; both were securely fastened against him. Presently he heard voices outside, the creaking of the gate, and the rattle of wheels on the cobbles of the yard. A minute or two later the key was turned in the lock, the door was thrown open, and three men, one of them the man with the scar, who was now carrying a lantern, stamped into the room. They stood for a moment looking at Martin.

“Why not leave him here?” said one of them. “’Twill save trouble.”

“Won’t do,” said the man with the scar. “There’ll be folk about in the morning; he’ll be found, and then—you see he knows too much.”

“Well, then, why not shut his mouth? The river’s handy. With a stone round his neck——”

“Stow your gab, Bill,” interrupted the other irritably. “We can’t drown ’em all. Besides, orders is orders, so you’d better set about it.”

Martin had risen at their entrance, and stood facing them, his heart beating rather quickly and his cheeks flushing as he listened to this frank discussion of his fate. He was not prepared for what happened. The man who had wished to save trouble made a sudden pounce, flung his arm round Martin’s neck, and deftly slipped a gag into his mouth. He was then tripped up, and as he lay on the floor his hands were roped together, and he was shoved into a sack that covered him completely.

Thus bundled up, he was carried into the yard and dumped into the handcart, which had been brought empty from the quay. The cart jolted over the cobbles; he heard the gate slammed behind him, and wondered to what destination the men had orders to convey him.

The jolting did not last long. In a minute or two the legs of the handcart were let down with a bump, and Martin was hoisted out. His head being covered, he could not see where he had been brought, but he felt himself being carried downstairs, then flung down upon boards that rocked under his weight. He was in a boat.

He judged by their voices that two of the three men got into the boat after him. It moved away, and through the sack he heard the men talking of matters he knew nothing about. After a journey that seemed much longer than it was the boat stopped; he felt its side grate against stone. He was lifted out and carried up a few steps, then for some yards on the level.

Once more he was set down. There was a knock upon a door; after an interval of waiting the bolts were drawn; some words were exchanged between his bearers and the man who had opened; then he was carried along, up a flight of stairs, and finally dropped roughly to the floor.

“Cut the sack open,” said one of the men. “Better give him some air and take the gag out,” he added. “He won’t do no harm now.”

The string was cut, and the sack pulled down to his shoulders.

“Best tie him up,” said one.

“He can’t get away.”

“Never mind that; let’s make it sure.”

A rope was tied round the middle of the sack, and knotted to a staple in the wall.

“Now all’s snug,” said a man. “We’ve lost enough time over him; let’s get back to the City; we ought to be able to prig a thing or two out of those fine shops in Cheapside.”

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH

MARTIN FINDS A WAY

By the light of the lantern carried by the man with the scar Martin had made a hasty survey of his prison. It was a large, empty room, apparently part of a disused warehouse. When the men went away they took the lantern with them, leaving the place in complete darkness.

Martin was at once aware of sounds of movement on the floor above—sounds of heavy cases or bales being dragged over the boards. At intervals also he heard a creaking that suggested the lowering of goods over a rusty pulley.

“Where am I?” he thought.

The sounds lulled, and his ears caught a slight rustle in the room itself.

“Rats!” he said to himself. “I hope they won’t attack me.”

During the next pause in the louder sounds he heard another rustle somewhat more prolonged, a faint clanking, and he had the strange feeling that some human being besides himself was in the room. Startled, he called out quickly: “Who’s there?”

From some distant corner came a thin, piping voice:

“Me, Gundra.”

“Gundra!” He felt surprise and relief; the Indian boy was at least a friend. “Come and untie me.”

“Me no can,” was the reply.

“Why not?”

“Me tied, too.”

“How?”

“To thing in the wall. No can move it.”

“Your hands tied?”

“No; a band round me, tight.”

Martin guessed that the boy, like himself, was fastened to a staple, which was out of his reach. It was clear that neither could get to the other.

But Martin was not ready to admit that the situation was hopeless. His hands, it is true, were tied, so that he could not loose the knot at the staple, and he knew that if he strained on the rope he would only tighten the knot. It might be possible to jerk the staple from the wall. He made several attempts, but finding that there was no sound of tearing wood, no yielding of the metal, he bent his mind to considering another way.

There was only a few feet of rope between him and the staple. By a series of convulsive jerks he managed to wriggle over the floor until he lay at the foot of the wall. Supporting himself against it, he got on to his knees, and was then able to touch the rope with his mouth. He asked himself whether it would be easier to cut through it with his teeth, or to rise to his feet, trace the rope to the staple, and work away until he had loosed the knot.

Before he could make up his mind he heard heavy footsteps outside, growing louder as they approached. Instantly he dropped to the floor, wriggled back to his former position, and, when the door opened, lay on his elbow as though he were incapable of rising higher.

Through a door at the farther end of the room came Sebastian, the fat cook of the _Santa Maria_. From one hand swung a horn lantern; in the other he carried a large platter holding a pitcher of water and a hunk of bread. He crossed to the corner where Gundra lay, gave him a kick, set the platter beside him, then moved along to Martin, and leered down upon him, pouring out a stream of abuse in his own language. Having examined the staple and rope, he laughed maliciously, banged Martin’s head with the lantern, and left the room, locking the door behind him.

Martin had taken advantage of the lantern light to make a careful mental note of the position of the staple. As soon as the sound of Sebastian’s footsteps had died away he wriggled again to the wall, rose upon his knees, then upon his feet, and began to tug with his teeth at the knot about the staple.

For some time he toiled in vain, trying one part of the knot after another. Despairingly he felt that his teeth would yield before the hempen rope. But presently he was aware of a slight loosening, and taking heart, he continued to bite at the same coil. To his joy the knot grew looser and looser; the second coil was easier to undo than the first; now he felt the free end of the rope slipping out, and in a few more minutes it was clear of the staple and dropped on the floor.

His lips were sore, his jaw ached intolerably; and the uneasy posture he had had to maintain had strained his muscles to the point of extreme fatigue. For a while he lay quietly resting, not even telling Gundra that he was free. The noises still continued on the upper floor.

At length he started to jerk and worm his way across the floor.

“I’m coming to untie you,” he said in a low tone.

Moving only inch by inch, with frequent pauses for rest, he was a long time in reaching the Indian boy’s corner. When at last he rolled beside him he said:

“Now, your hands are free; untie the rope round the sack.”

Gundra groped with his fingers, and found the knot, but it had been so well tied that it was some minutes before he succeeded in loosening it. Then he pulled the sack away, and made a shorter job of untying Martin’s hands.

“Now to release you,” said Martin; “but I must wait until my hands are less cramped. What is this place, Gundra?”

“A big godown by the river,” replied the boy. “Plenty goods upstairs, belong for _Santa Maria_.”

Martin suddenly remembered that on the evening when he had rowed Blackbeard down the river his passenger had directed him at first to row towards a large warehouse on the bank, but had changed his mind. No doubt this was the very warehouse which had been chosen for the safe-keeping of the boys. It was plain, too, that it had been used as a place of storage for ill-gotten goods until the time came when they might safely be transferred to the _Santa Maria_.

“If only I can get out,” Martin thought, “I’ll be in time to put a spoke in Blackbeard’s wheel.”

He felt over Gundra’s body to ascertain how he was fastened. About his middle was a steel girdle, connected by a fine chain with the staple in the wall. Martin discovered in a few moments that it was impossible to detach the chain at either end; the links, though small, were of tough metal, and gave no sign of yielding under the strongest strain he could put upon them.

“This is thirsty work,” said Martin. “I’ll take a drink from your pitcher, Gundra. They haven’t brought me any water or food; I suppose they think they’ll tame me. They don’t starve you?”

“No; give food; not much.”

“And how long have you been here?”

Gundra explained that in the dead of Saturday night someone had come into the cupboard under the stairs, gagged him, and carried him out of the house. He had struggled hard.

“That accounts for Mr. Seymour’s button,” thought Martin. “But how am I to get Gundra free?”

He sat for a while considering, with his knees up and his chin on his hands. “I’ll try it,” he exclaimed at length.

The staple was driven deep into the wall, but Martin’s idea was that its setting might be loosened by picking at the wood around it, and that then a tug would wrench it away. Opening his clasp knife he began to scrape and chip at the wood, which being oak offered a considerable resistance to his rather blunt blade. More than once he pulled at the staple without detecting any sign of its yielding.

“What about a violent jerk?” he thought.

He explained to Gundra what he proposed to do. They both stood close to the wall. Martin got his hands firmly between Gundra’s body and the steel girdle; then at the same moment both he and the Indian made a sudden leap into the room. The staple was torn from its setting; the boys fell in a heap on the floor, and the metal rattled and clanged. Clasping each other, they listened breathlessly. Had the sounds been heard by the men above?

There were no cries, no sudden movement, no footsteps. Every now and then came the creaking of the pulley-block which had been going on at intervals ever since Martin had been brought into the room, and the exchange of a few words between the men who were presumably attending to the lowering of the goods. They were too much occupied with their task to notice the sounds in the room.

“Now to get out!” said Martin in a whisper. “I think I can find my way to the door.”

“Me come; no let go,” said Gundra, clinging to him.

They moved together in the direction of the door. The chain on the Indian boy’s girdle clanked.

“This won’t do,” said Martin. “Tuck it up inside the belt.”

When this was done they started again. Martin had taken his bearings by the light of the fat cook’s lantern, but in the pitch darkness he was at fault, and it was only by feeling round the wall that they at last reached the door. It was locked. There was no escape that way.

“Any windows?” asked Martin.

“No, sahib. But another door; oh, yes, over there.”

“You have seen it open?”

“No, but see light in crack.”

“Then we’ll make for that. Keep close to me.”

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH

THE BOYS ESCAPE

The two boys groped across the room to find the second door. Suddenly Martin tripped and almost fell; he had stepped into a hole where the floor-boards were rotted away.

“Take care, Gundra,” he said, recovering himself.

He felt on the floor to ascertain the size of the gap, then led the Indian boy cautiously across it, and almost immediately touched a wall. Passing his hand along it, he came upon an iron bar.

“I think this is it,” he said.

Feeling along the bar and the wall behind it, he discovered a vertical crack.

“A folding door,” he thought. “Now to lift the bar and see if we can open the door and find out where it leads to.”

The bar was thick and heavy, and so well settled down into its sockets that it had evidently not been used for some time. Martin’s efforts to lift it at first had no success, but after much pulling and pushing it shifted upward suddenly with a loud squeaking noise.

The boys held their breath, wondering whether the sound had been heard in the room above. But the slow creaking still went on, and Martin ventured to raise the bar from its place and lay it gently on the floor.

There was an iron ring in one of the panels of the double door. Inserting his finger in this Martin pulled, and the panel, sticking at first, presently came inward with a squeak; clearly its hinges needed oiling. Inch by inch he drew it towards him. A strong breeze blew into the room, carrying with it a salt tang. The clear sky eastward was studded with stars, which kindled reflections in the river. Nearer at hand a reddish glow suffused the sky.

While they were gazing out there was a creak above them, much louder than they had heard before, and a large object dangling at the end of a rope passed slowly downward within a yard of their faces. It was plain that goods were being let down from the store-room above with some care to avoid noise, for there was no shouting, no giving and receiving directions, no cries of “Are you ready?” “Lower away!” such as were usual in operations of the kind.

Holding on by the door, Martin bent down and peered over the edge, careful to keep out of sight. The package that had been lowered rested on a sort of quay between the wall of the warehouse and the shored-up bank of the river. A man was disengaging it from the rope. When it was free he shook the rope as a signal that it might be drawn up, then hoisted the package on to a truck and wheeled it along the quay until he came to a short jetty. There he halted and lowered it over the side; evidently a boat was moored below. Apparently the tide was too low to allow of the boat’s drawing in nearer to the bank.

Meanwhile a second load came slowly down over the pulley, and reached the ground with a slight jolt. The man had not yet returned from the jetty with the truck. Martin wondered whether it would be possible to slide down the rope without attracting attention. The stars gave very little light, and the glow from the Fire was intercepted by the angle of the warehouse. The distance from the door to the ground was less than twenty feet.

Leaning out he cautiously tried the rope. It gave under a slight pull, showing that the man above was no longer holding it firmly. But he must have noticed the movement, for Martin heard a hoarse voice whisper, “Don’t pull the rope through the block, you fool!”

He shrank back into the room.

“Are you there?” whispered the voice again.

At this moment the man below reached the package on the ground.

“What’s the matter?” he growled.

“I said, don’t pull on the rope!” repeated the man above.

“Didn’t touch it!” responded the other gruffly.

There was an inaudible reply from the upper storey. The second load was discharged and trundled away, the rope again wound up, and by the time the man returned from the jetty a third package had been lowered.

By this time Martin had arrived at a conclusion. If he and Gundra were to escape by the rope, they must cling to it while it was descending weighted with a load, and while the man below was still absent at the jetty. There was the risk of their being discovered through the man at the pulley feeling the extra drag on the rope, or through the return of the other man while they were still suspended in the air. Even should they reach the ground safely, there was the further risk of their being intercepted, for they would have to pass the jetty on their left, and go through the lower floor of the warehouse, the quay on the right apparently ending at a high blank wall.

But it was clear that they must either face these risks, with a chance, however slight, of escaping, or remain as prisoners in the room, with the certainty that the breaking of their bonds would be discovered as soon as fat Sebastian paid them his next visit.

In rapid whispers Martin explained his plan to the Indian boy. Timid as Gundra had hitherto appeared, it was plain that ill-usage had not utterly broken his spirit, for he agreed eagerly to make the attempt, and promised to follow Martin’s instructions faithfully.

“I will go first,” said Martin, with the idea of giving Gundra confidence. “We can’t both go down with the same load. You must wait for the next, but don’t come down till you see I am safe.”

They waited, tingling with impatience and excitement, until once more a heavy package came swaying past the open door. As soon as it had descended below the sill, Martin took a firm hold of the rope and swung off. There was a louder creaking of the pulley above, a more violent oscillation of the load, a sudden quickening of the rate of descent; then the slow, even movement was resumed.

Martin glanced up. The pulley block hung from the wall above a similar door some twelve feet above. The man who operated the machine was not visible.

Martin slid down until his feet touched the package. The moment this reached the ground he slipped off and glided along the wall until he came to a shaded corner beyond the shore end of the jetty. There he drew back as far as possible into the shadow and waited.

“Are you there?” he heard the man in the upper room whisper huskily, and saw him lean over, holding on to the rope.

There was no answer. His mate was at that moment half-way back from the jetty, pushing the truck before him. A minute or so later, when he began to loose the package, the man above noticed the movement of the rope, and said:

“You there, Bob?”

“Ay! What’s up? In a hurry, ain’t you? You’ve got the easy job.”

“No call to be nasty! Have a care to stand from under when the loads are coming down. These old blocks are sticking. There was a mighty bad jolt just now. I don’t trust ’em.”

“All right; be there much more?”

“Half a dozen boxes or so.”

“I’m not sorry. The tide is making. I might as well wait a few minutes, then I can pull the barge up a bit and save all this hiking with the truck.”

Martin’s heart sank. If the man did as he suggested, Gundra would have no opportunity of escaping. But next moment he was reassured.

“’Tain’t safe,” said the man above. “Barge might stick in the mud, and tide take an hour or more to lift her. The sooner we get these things on board the better.”

While the men were talking the rope had been drawn up, and another load was fastened to it almost as soon as the man below had started to wheel the previous one away.

The pulley creaked, the package descended. Martin watched anxiously, wondering whether Gundra’s nerve would fail, whether the addition of his weight to the rope would cause the man this time to look over. He saw the slight form issue from the doorway and clutch the rope. Gundra was much lighter than Martin; the extra weight made scarcely any difference to the rate at which the rope descended. But Martin did not feel secure until the load bumped on the ground, and the Indian boy, running as lightly as a wild animal, reached his side.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH

MARTIN USES HIS WITS

Both the boys were panting a little, as much from excitement as from exertion. For a few moments they remained, silent and still, in the shadowy recess. Martin’s thoughts were busy with the new problem, how to make good their escape. They were free, but they were not at large.

“Shall we wait until the loading is finished?” Martin asked himself. “There are only a few more loads to come down, then the barge will put off. No doubt these men will leave, too, and we shall be able to get away at leisure.”

But as he pondered the matter he decided for immediate action. Convinced that the goods now being removed were stolen property, he was bent on saving it if that were possible, and the only obvious means of saving it was to inform someone in authority who would send officers of the law to arrest both goods and men. There was very little time. To win complete freedom was a matter of urgency.

“Come along,” Martin whispered when the man was once more busy at the jetty.

They crept along by the wall to the door of the warehouse. It was shut and bolted. On each side of it was a window, but the shutters were up, and heavily barred. It would be impossible even to attempt to force an entrance without making a noise that would bring the man hot-foot upon them.

Martin glanced this way and that. The quay on the landward side was entirely enclosed. It seemed that there was no exit from it except through the warehouse, and that was shut. They were trapped after all.

But there was the river. Could they escape by that? Was there, below the jetty, a wherry or any kind of row-boat in addition to the barge that was being loaded? Martin could not see one. Nor could they seize an opportunity and dive into the river, for beneath the shore end of the jetty there was nothing at low tide but liquid mud, probably deep enough to engulf them.

All at once the man’s remark about pulling the barge up recurred to Martin. An idea struck him that made his heart bound and his nerves tingle. He whispered a few words to Gundra, and anyone who could have observed them would have noticed how they braced themselves up.

The result of Martin’s inspiration showed itself when the man next left the barge and wheeled the truck back along the jetty and across the quay. As soon as his back was turned, they quitted their hiding-place and, stooping low, made a dash for the jetty, the sound of their movements being drowned by the noise of the rumbling wheels.

At the place where the jetty sprang from the quay they stopped, lowered themselves over the side, and slipped on to one of the cross-beams that supported the planking. There they crouched breathlessly. It was a perilous position, for the timber was slippery with slime, and they had to hug it closely to prevent their sliding off. There, clinging and crouching, they remained until the man had again come and gone.

As soon as the man was at a safe distance, they clambered up to the jetty, and crept along it on all fours until they came just above the barge. This was now well afloat, but it was moored stem and stern to posts on the jetty, as they saw by the light of a small oil-lamp standing on a tub amidships. Boxes were piled fore and aft.