Part 5

Before Martin started on his river journey next morning, Mr. Faryner impressed upon him that he must not leave bread upon the _Santa Maria_ without payment.

“I’ve been done before now,” said the baker. “I’ve given credit to foreign captains and they’ve sailed away without settling. Once bit, twice shy.”

Martin visited his regular customers as usual, then rowed on to the Portugal vessel, which lay some distance from the other ships, and was the last for that morning’s delivery.

His fears of the previous evening had left him, but he was conscious of a rather quickening pulse as he brought his boat under the side. Dark-browed men, leaning on the bulwarks, peered curiously at him, and he could not help wondering whether one or another of them might recognise his features.

A rope ladder hung from the waist. Catching hold of this, he looked up and called:

“Bread for the _Santa Maria_.”

To his surprise none of the men answered. They continued to stare at him but did not change their positions. Even if they did not understand English, he thought they might guess his errand from the sight of the loaves in his basket.

“Bread,” he called again, “ordered by the captain.”

Then someone repeated the word _capitano_, and Martin inferred from the way they talked among themselves that the captain was not on board. Emboldened by this discovery, Martin pointed to the loaves, and made signs that they were intended for the ship.

“Ha, Sebastian,” cried one of the men.

A few moments later a very fat man came from behind and pushed his way through to the side. His swarthy cheeks hung like dewlaps over his thick neck, his shirt was open, revealing a massive chest almost as dark as his face.

“What want?” he said.

“The captain ordered these loaves from the King’s baker,” Martin replied.

“Up, up,” said the man, whose English appeared to be limited to monosyllables.

Martin began to do as he had been instructed: to place the loaves in a small sack, sling this on his back, and swarm up the ladder. But when Sebastian, whom he supposed to be the cook, saw his intention, he cried “No, no,” waved him back, and let down a rope, indicating that Martin was to tie the sack to that.

There seemed to be nothing else to be done, though Martin was disappointed: he had hoped for an opportunity of seeing something of this mysterious vessel. The sack was drawn up; the man took it in his huge dirty hands, and was turning away when Martin detained him by calling out the word “money,” at the same time jingling the bag that contained his morning’s takings.

“No money; captain not here,” said the man. “Come again other time.”

“I can’t do that,” said Martin. “My master’s orders were not to go without the money.”

“Basta!” exclaimed the cook; then he turned on his heel and disappeared.

Without an instant’s hesitation, Martin hitched his painter to the rope ladder, and, swarming up, sprang on to the deck. The seamen made way for him, and looked on impassively as he darted across the deck.

The cook was on the point of entering the galley, carrying the sack slung loosely across his shoulders. He turned as he heard quick footsteps, but was too late to prevent Martin from snatching the sack away.

The man snarled an ejaculation in his own tongue, and lurched heavily forward with arms outstretched as if to recapture the sack. But Martin skipped back, held the sack behind him, and said firmly:

“I must have two shillings, or I cannot leave the bread.”

Before the cook could reply, one of the crew made a remark which drew a roar of laughter from his mates, and brought a fierce scowl upon Sebastian’s face, and a torrent of angry words from his lips. Martin noticed how his multiple chin shook as he denounced the men who were chaffing him.

He came on, threateningly, and Martin edged back, intending to toss the sack into the boat and at least save his bread. But at this moment there appeared round the side of the galley a slight, thin, dusky-faced boy, in whom Martin at once recognised the child he had vainly tried to save from his pursuers a few nights before. The boy’s manner suggested that curiosity had drawn him to see what was going on.

His appearance served to divert the cook’s wrath. Turning aside, Sebastian dealt the boy a heavy blow that struck him sprawling upon the deck, and lifted his foot to kick him as he lay. With a sudden spring Martin thrust himself between the bully and his victim.

For a moment there was dead silence; then a jesting remark from the seaman who had spoken before evoked loud guffaws from the rest of the crew. Purple with rage, Sebastian aimed a kick at Martin, who evaded it by a quick sidelong movement, at the same time swinging his sack and banging the man on the side of the head.

The sudden blow upset his balance. He toppled sideways, and with a resounding thump measured his huge bulk on the deck. The boy, meanwhile, had picked himself up and darted into the galley.

At this moment a man, somewhat better dressed than the others, came up through the open hatchway and uttered a few words in a commanding tone of voice. Martin guessed that he was demanding the meaning of the uproar. A babel of explanations broke from the crew. The newcomer silenced them with a stern gesture, his uneasy manner suggesting he was anxious to put a stop to the scene and avoid further trouble.

With a contemptuous look at Sebastian, who had now risen to his feet, he ordered him away, and opening a wallet that was slung at his belt, made signs that Martin was to take from it the money due to him. Martin picked out two shillings, emptied the sack on the deck, then clambered down the side into his boat and rowed away.

Remembering the vindictive scowl on the cook’s face as he slunk off, he wondered whether his impetuous action might not have done the boy more harm than good. He felt a great pity for the wretched-looking little fellow, with his thin cheeks and wistful, melancholy eyes.

“I wasn’t much good to him before,” he thought, “and only got myself a sore head. I suppose he is cook’s mate to that fat bully, and leads a dog’s life on board this strange ship. No doubt they’ll tell Blackbeard all about it when he comes on board, and I shouldn’t wonder if he complains to Mr. Faryner, and I shall get into hot water again. Well, I couldn’t do anything else, and as Dick Gollop says, what you can’t help, make the best of.”

CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH

COFFEE FOR TWO

Martin debated with himself whether to tell Mr. Faryner what had happened on board the _Santa Maria_.

“If I mention the squabble he may think I’m a quarrelsome fellow,” he said to himself ruefully. “He’ll say I get into trouble everywhere, on land and on water too, and tell me to go. And I did want to go aboard again: there’s something queer about that ship, and I’d like to know more about her.”

It happened when he got back to the shop that the baker was so much concerned with another matter that he gave Martin no opportunity of telling his story.

“I’ve got another job for you, my lad,” he said. “You know Mr. Pasqua’s coffee-house in Newman’s Court?”

“No, sir; and I don’t know where Newman’s Court is,” Martin replied.

“It’s off Cornhill; you know that. Well, Mr. Pasqua came himself this morning and ordered a quantity of rolls and cakes to be sent to his coffee-house. It’s a feather in my cap, my lad. He used to deal with Grimes of Gracious Street, but he’s dissatisfied. I never did think much of Grimes. Mr. Pasqua will be a very good customer if I please him, and I promised that the things should be sent by one o’clock, and you’re back just in time.”

“Must I go before dinner, sir?” asked Martin, who had been out in the heat since early morning.

“Before dinner? Of course you must. What does your dinner matter when there’s a new customer to be served? The basket will be ready in five minutes; you can have your dinner presently. And let me tell you, you must be very polite to Mr. Pasqua if you see him. He has been a servant, and there’s no one more likely to take offence at want of politeness in a servant than a man who has been a servant himself. And he’s a foreigner too.”

“A Frenchman, sir?”

“No, a Sicilian. I wonder you haven’t heard of him. He was the servant of an English merchant who lived in the East, and came back with his master a few years ago to make coffee for him in the Eastern way. Mr. Edwards, the merchant, had learnt the use of coffee-beans, and he was so plagued and pestered by his friends and visitors wanting to taste the new drink that he set his servant up in a coffee-house, and the man is now a good deal richer than I am. Here’s the last batch.”

A man came from the bakery bearing a tray laden with crisp brown rolls and rice-cakes. These were placed in the basket and Martin set off.

Following the fashion set by Mr. Pasqua, others had opened coffee-houses in different parts of the city; but they were frequented only by merchants and gentlemen, and Martin had never been inside one. It was therefore with considerable interest that he entered the coffee-house in Newman’s Court.

It was a large square room with a counter at one end, on which stood glistening urns, porcelain cups, and silver sugar-basins. Behind it was a young woman with golden hair piled high upon her head. A kettle hung from a hook over a wood-fire.

Here and there about the room were small tables surrounded by wooden chairs. At one side the room was partitioned off into compartments, some with doors, within which the merchants could sip their coffee and talk over their business in privacy.

Two boys were serving customers at the tables, and a small, dark, foreign-looking man was moving about, exchanging a word here and a word there.

When Martin entered with his laden basket, the foreigner, Mr. Pasqua himself, came up to him, and speaking in very good English, said:

“You are from Faryner’s, boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are in very good time. It is not yet one o’clock, and I am pleased. Grimes’s boy was late, over and over again, and I was in danger of losing my customers, the gentlemen who honour me. Tell Mr. Faryner that he has begun well. And now let me see what you have brought.”

He took a cake and a roll from the basket, and bit each of them in turn.

“Very good,” he said, as he munched, smacking his lips and blinking his eyelids. Martin was amused at the little man’s serious air.

Calling one of his boys, he bade him take the basket to the signorina. This was evidently the young woman behind the counter, but as she spoke in a very decided London accent Martin felt sure she was not a foreigner and wondered why she was so called. It was a harmless affectation of Mr. Pasqua’s, like that which, in those days of Charles II, gave Italian names to English musicians and mountebanks.

While the basket was being emptied, Mr. Pasqua said to Martin:

“You look tired, boy. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“I have never tasted it, sir,” Martin answered.

“Then this shall be a great day in your life. A cup of coffee, signorina.”

A small cup was brought to Martin. Sipping it, he made a wry face.

“Ah! You find it bitter,” said Mr. Pasqua. “But stir it with the spoon, then taste again.”

At the bottom of the cup was thick brown sugar. Martin stirred and tasted.

“That is good, eh?” said the man, smiling. “It will refresh you. And you shall have another cup when you come the next time.”

At this moment a bell rang in one of the closed compartments. Mr. Pasqua himself hurried to answer the summons. As the door opened, Martin was startled, and hastily turned his head. Seated at the little table were two men, Mr. Slocum and Mr. Seymour.

He was careful not to look towards them again, and was glad when the empty basket was brought to him and he was able to get out into the street.

His first feeling was relief that he had not been seen by Mr. Slocum. He thoroughly distrusted his former employer, and was ready to believe that he would not hesitate to make mischief with Mr. Pasqua.

“Why am I always coming across that man?” he thought.

Then as he walked back towards Pudding Lane, he grew uneasy and suspicious. It was a shock to him that Mr. Slocum and Mr. Seymour were acquainted. He had seen each of them at different times with Blackbeard, and the fact that all three were acquainted brought a crowd of recollections to his mind.

He remembered that he had seen Mr. Slocum carrying a brass-bound box exactly like those which Blackbeard had brought to Mr. Seymour. He recalled how angry Mr. Slocum had been on that occasion, without any obvious reasonable cause.

Blackbeard’s visits to Mr. Seymour had been secret. Was Mr. Slocum’s anger due to the fact that he also had something to conceal? What was the connection between the three men? Had it anything to do with the boxes? What did they contain? Were they part of the cargo of the _Santa Maria_?—perhaps held smuggled goods?

Puzzling about these questions, Martin suddenly thought of another—one that startled him. What was the nature of the business between Mr. Slocum and the old Frenchman?

The question came as a surprise to Martin himself. At first he did not understand what had given rise to it, but he found himself fitting together incidents that had previously seemed unrelated, and the more he thought of them the more disturbed he grew.

Hitherto no one had been able to account for the strange attacks on the Frenchman’s room. But Martin now remembered that the face he had seen one night at the window was the face of the man who had waylaid him going an errand for Mr. Slocum. He remembered also Mounseer’s dislike of Mr. Seymour—and Mr. Seymour knew Mr. Slocum. It was odd that, somehow or other, Mr. Slocum came into everything.

What was the mystery behind it all? To all appearance the Frenchman possessed nothing that was worth stealing; yet what other motive than robbery could anyone have had for breaking into his room? Mounseer knew Mr. Slocum. Mr. Slocum knew Mr. Seymour, and that gentleman, in spite of his politeness and his neighbourly intentions, was evidently suspected and detested by the Frenchman.

Martin began to feel very much worried, and had the extraordinary conviction that the clue to the whole mystery lay with Mr. Slocum.

“I dare say it’s very silly,” he thought; “it’s simply because I dislike the man. Yet I can’t help it. The question is, what is Mr. Slocum at?”

This question was dinning in Martin’s head as he walked back along the street. So intent was he on his own thoughts that he stepped rather heedlessly, and was brought up by the sudden collision with a man proceeding in the opposite direction. The man let out a savage oath, and Martin, uttering an apology, edged away, only then recognising that the angry footfarer was Blackbeard.

Fortunately, he thought, he had not himself been recognised, and, allowing a short interval to elapse, he had the curiosity to follow the man. It was with no surprise that he saw him enter Mr. Pasqua’s coffee-house. Beyond doubt he was going to meet the two men whom Martin had already seen there.

More curious than ever, Martin wished that he could find some means of discovering what the three conspirators, as he now considered them, were about to discuss. He thought of going in and buying a cup of coffee on the chance that he might learn something, but after a moment’s reflection gave up the idea; there would be too much danger of his being caught.

CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH

WHAT MARTIN FOUND

The tide was running strong up the river when Martin started on his round next morning. There was promise that the day would be hotter than ever, but the wind, blowing briskly from the east, tempered the heat, though at the same time it rendered doubly hard the task of rowing the heavy wherry.

Martin was just pulling away from a brig at which he had delivered some loaves, when a boat, sculled by a single seaman, passed him in the opposite direction. He recognised it at once as the boat belonging to the _Santa Maria_, and the oarsman as the man who found it so difficult to keep awake.

Previously he had seen him only in the evening, and he could not help feeling curious as to what his errand was.

After visiting in turn the ships on his list, and scratching off the name of one that had left her moorings, he came at length to the last, the _Santa Maria_.

“She won’t be here long,” he thought, noticing that a lighter lay on each side of her.

From the one on the starboard side cargo was being hoisted on board by means of a clumsy kind of derrick. He made his boat fast to the other, put the loaves into his sack, threw the empty basket into the stern, and, with the sack slung over his shoulder, swarmed up by a rope that hung from a second derrick, placed ready for use when the second lighter should be discharged.

All hands were busy with the cargo. Some of the crew grinned when they recognised him, and as he looked inquiringly round they pointed to the cook’s galley. Wondering what his reception would be, he went on, and found the fat man frying some fish on his brazier, the timid-looking boy standing by with a flask of oil.

The cook glanced at Martin with a surly scowl, and paid him no further attention until he had turned out the fried fish on to a plate standing on a tray. Then he took one of the fresh, crisp rolls that Martin had brought, set this also on the tray, and ordered the boy to carry breakfast to the captain.

The boy had only just gone, and Sebastian was counting the contents of Martin’s sack, when the captain, Blackbeard himself, came along, as if attracted by the smell of the frizzling fish. Catching sight of Martin he stopped, looked hard at him for a moment or two, then, in his husky voice with its foreign intonation, asked:

“What you do here?”

“I have brought the bread from Mr. Faryner,” Martin replied.

“Ah!” There was a slight pause. “I see you before?” he said.

It was clear that he had not at once recognised Martin as the boy who in the evening dusk had rowed him down the river. Anxious to avoid identification, Martin answered:

“I was in Mr. Faryner’s shop when you came to give your order.”

“Ah! So! I see you there—yes—perhaps. I think so.”

But there was a puzzled look on his face as he followed the boy with the tray, and Martin was on thorns lest clearer recollection should come to him.

Having counted the loaves and rolls, the cook, who had not addressed a word to Martin, went away to fetch the money for them. Martin would not have been surprised if he had been summoned to the captain’s cabin; but Sebastian on his return simply handed him the coins, and he was free to go.

Without loss of time he swarmed down on to the lighter, threw his sack upon the upturned basket in the stern of the boat rocking alongside, hauled on the painter until the boat was near enough for him to step in, then cast loose, drifting on the tide while he got out his oars. Then he pulled the boat round, but rested on the oars as he looked back at the _Santa Maria_.

“Perhaps I ought to have asked when she is sailing,” he thought. “But I suppose Blackbeard will give notice. I wonder what her cargo is and where she is bound for? Perhaps Mr. Seymour and Mr. Slocum are engaged in some venture overseas, and there is nothing really to be suspicious about.”

He was still in a sort of daydream, moving the oars only enough to keep the boat’s head straight, when a shout ahead roused him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a ferryboat crossing his bows. A collision seemed inevitable, but he eased his left oar and put all his strength into his right, and scraped by with an inch or two to spare, the ferryman pouring out a torrent of abuse such as only the Thames waterman of those days could command.

The boat rocked under the sudden change of course and the wash of the ferryboat. Martin pulled her round again, and noticed that the basket had shifted slightly. It was now partly resting on its side against the stern thwart. And then he caught sight of something dark between the rim of the basket and the floor of the boat—something that surprised him so much that for a few moments he ceased rowing and could only stare.

It was a small dark-skinned foot, the toes and instep just protruding from the basket.

“Who’s there?” he called.

The foot was suddenly withdrawn, the basket moved, settling down so as to cover completely the person underneath.

“I’ve seen you; you’d better show yourself,” said Martin. An idea struck him, and he added: “Just show your face.”

The basket moved again, and now Martin saw without surprise the dark, pathetic face of the cook’s boy of the _Santa Maria_.

“Don’t come out. I’ll row on,” he said.

He looked back towards the _Santa Maria_, now some two hundred yards astern. The crew were still hoisting and stowing the cargo; there was no sign of excitement, nothing to show that the boy had been missed.

Martin rowed on in silence for a few minutes until the bend in the river hid the vessel from sight. Then he said again:

“Don’t come out. Keep the basket over you. But tell me why you are on my boat, and what it is that you want.”

CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH

STOP, THIEF!

It was a strange scene—had anyone witnessed it. But Martin was careful to keep out of the course of passing wherries, and so far from the ships at anchor that the bottom of his boat was not visible from their decks. The rim of the basket rested on the boy’s neck, and his dusky face, with its large pleading eyes upturned towards Martin, looked as though it projected from the planking.

“Me run away,” said the boy in a strange, high-pitched sing-song. “No takee me back. No let catchee me. I pray sahib very much.”

“Where do you come from?” said Martin. “What are you?”

“Me India boy, come long way over black water. They beat me. See!”

He moved the basket a little, disclosing his thin, bare arms and legs, on which were old scars and the long livid weals of recent lashes.

“Cover yourself,” said Martin hastily. “Go on. Tell me more.”

The boy went on to relate, in his halting broken English, a story that Martin heard with indignation and pity. His name was Gundra, and his parents were servants of an English merchant at Surat. He had been allowed to run in and out of the merchant’s godowns, and had thus picked up the little English he knew.

One day, when he was straying some little distance from the factory, he was kidnapped by two big men, who carried him aboard their ship. There he had been kept as a slave, half-starved, and cruelly used. He had not one real friend among the crew, though the captain now and then interposed when the fat cook was thrashing him.

So wretched was his life that he had long wished he might die, and if he were taken back to the ship he would throw himself overboard and let himself drown, though he could swim, as the sahib had seen. More than once he had been tempted to destroy himself, but had been restrained by the hope that some day he might be rescued and restored to his home.

“Keep me to be your slave, sahib,” he pleaded. “Me do all you tell.”

The boy’s woebegone look, and the sight of the wounds on his limbs, moved Martin so deeply that he had already determined to do what he could to save him from his oppressors. But he foresaw great difficulties. What could he do with the boy? There was no room in Dick Gollop’s apartments; besides, he felt sure the constable, as a man of law, would hold strong views about the offence of harbouring runaways.

Yet he could not land the boy and leave him to his own devices. He would be taken up as a vagrant, and what would become of him then? His lot could hardly be worse than it had been on board the _Santa Maria_; but Martin felt that by giving the boy shelter he had shouldered a certain responsibility, and that he must not throw the little fellow into the uncertain hands of chance.