Part 6

While he was thinking over the problem so suddenly thrust upon him, he had been paddling gently, but the swift-flowing tide had already borne the boat a good distance up the river. It was clear that he must come to a decision within a few minutes.

He had no friends but the Gollops and some of the watermen, and he could not place the boy with them until he had consulted them. The idea of running up as far as Battersea or Chelsea, and leaving Gundra there until later, occurred to him; but he was due to return to the shop, and he shrank from incurring Mr. Faryner’s displeasure. If it had been evening, as on the former occasion, he might have left the boy in the boat until after dark, but there were still many hours of daylight to run, and the boat would be a very insecure shelter, even if the boy were hidden under sacking.

After much thought he decided that the simplest course was the best. He would land at the stairs nearest his home, take the boy there as quickly as possible, hand him over to good-hearted Susan Gollop, and go back to his work. What was ultimately to be done with Gundra must be left for discussion with the constable and his wife after the day’s work was done.

There were two or three boats at the foot of the stairs as Martin approached, intending to land on the up-river side. But as he pulled in towards them he suddenly noticed that one of the boats on that side was the ship’s boat of the _Santa Maria_, which he had passed when rowing down. The foreign seaman was in his usual attitude when waiting, half doubled up in the stern, and apparently asleep.

Martin at once altered his course, bearing hard on his right oar so as to bring the boat to the nearer side of the stairs. At the same time he gave Gundra an urgent warning to keep himself well covered by the basket.

He pulled easily in to the landing-place. The other boats were unoccupied, the watermen, their owners, being out of sight, though no doubt within hail.

Martin was beginning to tie his boat to the post when footsteps on the stairs above caused him to look up. It was with a feeling almost of dismay that he saw Mr. Seymour coming down, carrying a large square object wrapped in sacking—no doubt a box, perhaps one of the brass-bound boxes that Blackboard had brought to the house. Behind him came a man laden with a similar burden.

“Next oars, sir?” called a hoarse, loud voice, and a waterman appeared at the head of the steps. “Next oars” was the phrase commonly used by watermen plying for hire.

“Not to-day,” replied Mr. Seymour over his shoulder. “I have my own boat.”

The waterman growled about people who did honest men out of a living, and walked away.

Martin was desperately anxious that Mr. Seymour should not observe him. He dared not go up the stairs and meet him face to face; not that he had any dread of a meeting for himself, but because of his knowledge of the runaway boy and his new-born suspicions of Mr. Seymour’s relations with Blackbeard and Mr. Slocum.

Turning his back to the stairs, he fumbled with his painter, as if he found a difficulty in tying up the boat. He had, in fact, tied, untied, and tied again before Mr. Seymour and his companion had stowed their burdens on board, and his back was still towards them when he knew by the thudding of the oars in the rowlocks that their boat had put off.

It was some little time before he allowed himself to face about, hoping that the danger of recognition was past. But he had not reckoned with the strength of the current. The seaman, pulling the heavily-weighted boat against the stream, had made only a few yards. Mr. Seymour’s face was turned towards the shore. He caught sight of Martin, waved his hand in recognition, and smiled in his usual pleasant way.

“He doesn’t guess what I’ve got under my basket,” Martin thought, at the same time feeling unreasonably annoyed at having been recognised at all.

Now that the coast was clear he paddled round to the side of the stairs, and tied up his wherry at the place vacated by the ship’s boat, wasting time until that craft was well out of sight. Then, after a look all round, he lifted the basket.

“Come with me,” he said to the Indian boy, taking him by the hand, and slinging the basket over his other arm.

Hand in hand they ascended the stairs. Lolling against a rail was the waterman who had offered his wherry to Mr. Seymour—a man whom he knew.

“Ahoy, young master! What have you got there?” said the man, looking quizzingly at the dark-faced boy, who, at the sound of his rough voice, shrank timidly to Martin’s side and clasped his hand more tightly.

“An Indian boy come ashore to see London,” Martin replied. “There’s no need to mention it if questions are asked.”

“Mum’s the word, eh? Ay, ay, I’ll keep my tongue under hatches, never fear.”

The two boys had walked only a few yards when they came upon the man who had accompanied Mr. Seymour. He was seated on a tree-stump, smoking, idly watching the river. As the boys passed him he turned and looked at them, but Martin could not gather from his expression whether he had paid them any special attention or not. A few minutes afterwards, however, when they were going up the gentle hill that would presently bring them to Bishopsgate, Martin chanced to turn his head, and saw, with a feeling of alarm, that the man was following.

In a flash he realised that while he had been watching Mr. Seymour the other man must have been watching him. No doubt he had noticed how he was acting for the purpose of consuming time. Martin had never seen the man before, and felt sure that he knew nothing about him, but had guessed that he had something to conceal from Mr. Seymour. What could be done to shake him off?

Martin knew every inch of this part of London, lying between the river and his home. A minute or two after he had assured himself that the man was indeed dogging him, he turned suddenly into a narrow court, dropped Gundra’s hand, and telling the boy to keep pace with him, started to run.

But he was hindered by his basket. The man must have started to run also, for before the boys had gained the end of the court the pursuer was hard on their heels. To make matters worse, he shouted. “’Ware! ’ware! Stop, thief!”

No one was at the moment passing in the court, but windows flew open, heads looked out, and Martin knew that it was only a matter of minutes before the chase would be in full cry.

Dashing out of the court with the Indian, he ran a few yards along the street, then darted into a narrow alley on the other side. In a moment he realised the mistake into which his haste had led him. The place was a cul-de-sac; there was no opening at the farther end. He was trapped.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH

SALLY TAKES A HAND

For a moment or two Martin felt as a hunted fox might feel when the chase had driven it into an enclosure from which there was no escape.

The narrow alley, a sort of tunnel under the houses, opened into a broader yard, bounded on the one side by a high blank wall, on the other by the palings of square grass plots in front of a row of small houses. At the farther end another wall presented an obstacle which only a cat could have climbed.

But just as Martin was on the verge of despair he caught sight of a familiar figure, and in a flash he saw a possible chance of safety.

On one of the grass plots a buxom woman was bending over a large washtub that stood on a three-legged stool. A clothes-line, propped on poles, was extended from a nail in the house-wall to one of the palings, and from it hung a blue shirt, a pair of stockings, a spotted neck-cloth, and other articles, pegged up to dry in the sun.

“Sally Boulter!” Martin exclaimed, rushing through the little gate.

He had recognised her as the wife of his friend Boulter the waterman, to whom she sometimes brought his dinner to the stairs.

“Please let us come into your house,” he went on breathlessly. “There’s a man after us.”

“Well, to be sure!” she cried, keeping her hands in the tub. “In with you, young master.”

The boys ran past her into the open doorway of the little house. At the same moment the pursuer, red-faced with running, came out of the alley into the yard. Apparently he had seen the boys before they disappeared, for he pounded along straight to Mrs. Boulter’s gate.

When he reached it he found it closed, and on the other side of it a strapping young woman, her stout, muscular arms bared to the shoulder, and in her hands a blanket which she had just wrung dry. Her lips were pressed close together, and her friends would have said that she was in a difficult mood.

Brought up by the gate, the man asked, rather gaspingly:

“Have you seen a baker’s boy and a blackamoor?”

“Have I seen—what did you say?” replied Sally.

“A baker’s boy.”

“Many a one; baker’s boys aren’t that uncommon.”

“Just now, I mean.”

Sally looked up and down the yard.

“No, I can’t see a baker’s boy just now,” she said. “But if you want a baker’s boy, there’s a baker just round the corner, and another two streets away. I’m busy with my man’s washing, so don’t bother me no more.”

“Don’t you talk of bothers, mistress,” said the man, tartly. “You’ll be more bothered yet if you’re not careful. Didn’t I see the tail-end of the basket going into your door? The baker’s boy is inside, and the blackamoor too, and I’ve something to say to them, so——”

He suddenly pushed open the gate, forcing the woman back a pace, and was starting to run across the grass towards the house. But Sally was a woman of spirit. Whirling the roll of blanket round her head she brought it with a swish across the man’s neck, hurling him against the washtub. He caught at the rim to steady himself, disturbing the balance of the tub upon its stool. It toppled over with a crash, and the man lay between the stool and the tub in a pool of soapy water.

“What’s all this, missus?” cried a bluff voice.

In the doorway stood the burly waterman, Boulter himself, surveying the scene. Above his breeches he wore nothing but his shirt.

“Wants bakers’ boys and blackamoors, he does,” answered his wife, jerking her elbow towards the fallen man. “Pushes in, he does, and upsets my washtub; clumsy, I call it.”

“He does, does he!” said the waterman, licking his hands as he stepped out on to the grass. “Bakers’ boys, and blackamoors, _and_ washtubs, does he? Pushes in, does he? I’m thinking it’s black eyes what he really wants.”

With every sentence he had drawn a step nearer to the discomfited intruder, who, spluttering with soapsuds, was still recumbent in the swamp, half-hidden by the tub.

“Get up!” cried Boulter.

The man pushed the tub off, and rose slowly to his feet.

“Out you go, after that,” the waterman continued, kicking the man’s hat over the fence into the yard.

The man slunk through the gateway, leaving a trail of soapsuds.

“Messing up my garden!” growled Boulter, close on his heels. “Pick up your hat.”

As soon as the man had recovered his dripping hat he set off to run to the alley-way. But Boulter took a stride forward, seized him by the collar, and marched him down the yard, prodding him on with regular applications of a bony knee.

“I’ll learn you to come pushing into decent folk’s gardens!” said the waterman. “On a Saturday too! After bakers’ boys and blackamoors! And washtubs! Spilling the water! You get out!”

He had come to the entrance of the alley, and with a parting kick sent the man headlong towards the street.

“Now don’t you tell me nothing,” he said to Martin when he returned to the house. “I’m much mistook if I didn’t see this blackamoor aboard that there Portugal ship, and if I don’t hear no stories I won’t tell no lies, for there may be questions asked.”

“Very well, Boulter,” said Martin. “Thank you very much for your help. Will it be safe for us to go home now?”

“I’ll see to that,” said the waterman.

He accompanied the boys to the street. Lurking at the corner stood the pursuer. On seeing Boulter he shambled away in the direction of the river.

“Drawed out of action,” said Boulter with a chuckle. “You’ve a clear course on t’other tack, and I reckon you’ll come safe to port.”

CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH

GUNDRA DISAPPEARS

Gundra, the Indian boy, had been a silent, nervous spectator of these scenes. His lean body seemed to be quivering from top to toe when Martin once more struck away for home, and the curious glances of the persons they met brought a scared look into his eyes.

“Cheer up!” said Martin, noticing his timorousness. “We’ll soon be home, and I’m sure Susan Gollop will be kind to you.”

But the first aspect of Susan Gollop made Gundra shrink back and clutch Martin by the sleeve. The good woman was beating a mat on the waste ground at the rear of the house, and the vigour of her strokes with the cane, and the fierce set of her mouth, seemed to promise little kindness.

“Here’s a poor little Indian boy, Susan,” Martin began.

“Don’t worry me!” Susan interrupted. “I’m late as it is; Gollop will be roaring for his breakfast in a minute. And why aren’t you at your work, I’d like to know?”

All the same, she looked inquisitively at the shrinking child. Martin, knowing her morning temper of old, discreetly said nothing, but took Gundra back into the house, and set him on a stool with a wedge of treacle-cake from the table.

Presently Susan came in, flung the mat upon the floor; then, placing her hands on her hips, stood over the boys and demanded:

“Now what’s all this about? Who’s this black boy?”

“He’s an Indian, and has run away from a ship where they were ill-using him,” Martin replied.

“Sakes alive! And what’s that to do with you, Martin Leake?”

“I want to help him. I want you to keep him here for a day or two, until we can decide what to do with him.”

“Do with him? Take him back, to be sure. There’s no room for a runaway here; you’ll get us all into trouble; and I can’t afford another mouth to feed. I’m surprised at you. And you’ll be out of a job again. What will Mr. Faryner say, neglecting your work like this?”

“We can’t send him back, Susan, to be thrashed and half-starved,” Martin began.

He said no more, for Gundra slipped from the stool, fell upon his knees, and holding up his bare arms, pleaded his own cause.

“Not go back; not go back!” he cried piteously. “Me not eat much; me work very, very hard!”

“What’s them marks on his arms?” said Susan, suddenly.

“Where’s he’s been lashed!” said Martin.

“Wicked; downright wicked!” Susan exclaimed. “Poor lamb! What if he is black? But I don’t know what Gollop will say.”

At this moment the constable entered the room, his cheeks well lathered, and shaving-brush in hand.

“What’s that squeaky voice I hear?” he said. “Bless my eyes, who’s this I see?”

“You may well ask,” said Susan. “It’s a poor little creature of a slave boy what’s run away.”

“From that Portugal ship I’ve told you about,” Martin added.

“Run away, has he?” said Gollop. “Then you’ll convoy him back as quick as quick. Harbouring runaways is an offence in law, and as a man of law ’tis my bounden duty to give him up.”

“For shame, Gollop!” said his wife, now completely won over. “You and your law! What’s law, I’d like to know?”

“Law’s your master and my living, woman,” said Gollop. “Don’t you make any mistake about that. The boy’s a runaway, and back he goes.”

“You’re a hard-hearted monster,” said Susan. “Look at this!” She seized Gundra by the arm and drew him towards her husband. “Scars! Look at ’em!”

“Show your back, Gundra,” said Martin.

Susan herself pulled up the boy’s shirt and revealed livid streaks upon his flesh.

“Is there no law about that?” she demanded indignantly.

The constable stood with his brush poised in his hand.

“Them Portugals did that!” he cried. “Flog a poor little shrimp, eh? Sink me if I give ’em another chance. I’m a freeborn Englishman, I am, and law or no law, I’ll not give up any mortal soul, black or white, to be treated that cruel. Cover him up, Sue. Split my timbers! I’ve never seen anything like it.” He began to stamp up and down the room, kicking over a stool, flourishing his soapy brush. “Brutes, that’s what they are. How dare they run into an English port! Constable as I am, English seaman I was, and sooner than send the poor little wretch back into a ship where they treat them so savage, I’d—I’d——”

He knocked over a chair.

“I understand your feelings, Gollop,” said Susan mildly, “but you needn’t smash the furniture. And you’ll want a steady hand for your shaving, my man. Just go and make yourself tidy while I get your breakfast.”

“I will. Mind you, Sue, that boy stays here till the ship sails. Don’t you give him up to no one whatsoever. And keep a still tongue. Don’t go a-babbling.”

“And keep him out of Mr. Seymour’s sight,” said Martin.

“Why?” asked Susan in surprise.

“Because—I’ll tell you later on. It’s a long story, and Mr. Faryner will be in a rage with me if I don’t hurry back. I’m very late.”

“What you can’t help, make the best of,” said Gollop, as he went back into his bedroom to finish his interrupted toilet.

The baker was in an irritable mood when Martin reached the shop. He had had to find another messenger to carry the morning’s delivery of bread and pastries to Mr. Pasqua’s coffee-house. His annoyance was increased when Martin told him that the _Santa Maria_ was taking in cargo in preparation for sailing.

“They’ve given me no notice,” he said. “But I’ve given no credit, that’s a blessing. What have you been doing all this time? Gaping at the sailors, I suppose. I know you boys—eyes for anything but your proper work. Get away into the back shop and scrub the floor.”

Martin was thankful not to be questioned further. He had half expected that by this time Mr. Faryner had been informed of his having brought an Indian boy away from the ship, and he was on thorns for the rest of the day. But nothing was said about it, and he left the shop at the usual hour.

When he got home, he found that Gundra was the centre of interest. Seated on a settle beside Lucy, he was chatting cheerfully to the little girl, answering her innumerable questions in his queer, broken English.

“He is such a nice little boy,” she whispered to Martin. “I am so glad you brought him.”

Mrs. Gollop, in high good humour, was full of his praises. She related how eagerly he had made himself useful, scouring her pots and pans, peeling potatoes, and even showing her how to cook rice in the Indian way.

She had made him a shakedown in a cupboard under the stairs.

“It’s a dark place,” she said, “and I won’t say but he’ll have mice for company, but it was the only place I could think of, and when I’d swept it out he was quite pleased with it. It’s very stuffy this hot weather, but I told him to leave the door open when he goes to bed, or he’ll be stifled. He’s a willing little fellow, that I will say.”

The next day was Sunday, but Martin rose at his usual hour, because he had to make a round with fresh hot rolls before the day was his own. He noticed as he passed the cupboard under the stairs that the door, which had been open when he said good-night to the boy, was now nearly closed.

“Well, let it be,” said Susan, upon his telling her. “Them Indians live in a hot country, by all that’s said, and he won’t mind the stuffiness. And we won’t wake him; a long sleep will do him good, poor lamb.”

Martin cleaned his boots and ate his breakfast; then, as he was about to start for the shop, he thought he would peep into the cupboard and see if the boy was awake.

He listened at the door. There was no sound from within. Then very cautiously he pulled the door towards him and looked in. The narrow cupboard with its sloping roof was in black darkness, and for a few moments his eyes could not distinguish even the shakedown on the floor. But presently he was able to discern its dim outlines, and then he started and hurriedly entered.

Half a minute later he rushed back into the living-room, where Mrs. Gollop was cleaning the hearth.

“Susan,” he cried, “the cupboard is empty. Gundra has gone!”

Mrs. Gollop was considerably upset.

“Well, of all the ungrateful little wretches!” she exclaimed. “Coming here whining and dropping on his knees, and me making up a bed for him and all—and then to slink out without a word! I’ll never do anything for a foreigner again.”

“But we don’t know that he slunk out, Susan,” Martin protested.

“We don’t _know_!” she retorted sarcastically. “Did he say good-bye to _you_, then? Did you hear him go? And I warrant he didn’t go empty-handed, either. Wait till I count my spoons!”

“I don’t believe he’s a thief!” said Martin. “I don’t believe he ran away. I believe someone got into the house and took him!”

“Well, them that took him had a right to him, didn’t they? A good riddance to bad rubbish! Now eat your fill, and be off; ’tis your first Sunday with Mr. Faryner, and he won’t thank you if you’re late.”

It was only six o’clock. Gollop had not returned from his nightly duty, and Lucy was still asleep. Martin hurriedly swallowed a thick slice of bread-and-dripping, thinking hard all the time, while Susan inspected her drawers and cupboards to find evidence of the Indian boy’s knavery.

“I’m sure he did not go willingly,” thought Martin. “Mr. Seymour’s man saw him with me, and no doubt told Mr. Seymour, and he knows Blackbeard, and—oh, what a puzzle everything is!”

His mind was full of the matter as he started for the shop. He wondered whether Mr. Seymour had let Blackbeard into the house during the night—whether the boy was now back on board the _Santa Maria_, perhaps at that very moment being thrashed by that fat bully the cook. And he foresaw a very unpleasant time for himself when he took his bread to the ship on Monday morning.

CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH

FIRE! FIRE!

Within a minute or two Martin’s mind was taken off the fate of the Indian boy by something much more actual and immediate. On turning the corner he was aware that there were many more people in the streets than was usual at that hour on Sunday morning. They were all hurrying in one direction—the same direction as himself. There was excitement in their looks and in the way they spoke to one another; some appeared to be asking eager questions which those they addressed were in too great haste to answer.

He caught the word Fire!

“Is there a fire? Where is it?” he asked a lad in a ’prentice’s cap who was trotting over the cobblestones.

“London Bridge,” panted the lad, and ran on.

Martin began to run too. The crowd grew thicker; from every street and lane poured men and boys, and a few women, some only half dressed, all excited, all eager. From mouth to mouth ran the terrible word Fire! and as the throng swelled their pace quickened, and their cries, mingling with the clatter of their shoes, raised a din that strangely disturbed the Sabbath quiet of the bright morning.

“It must be a big fire,” thought Martin, and he remembered hearing Gollop speak of a fire on London Bridge when he was a boy, which had burned all night and destroyed more than forty houses.

“Where is it? Where is it?”

The question was repeated again and again as newcomers joined the crowd. No one seemed to know with certainty. Some said London Bridge, others Cannon Street. Nothing could be seen of it. The streets were narrow, the houses high and overlapping in their upper storeys; between their tops the sky was cloudless blue.

The clamour grew louder; every now and then there were strange popping noises which for a moment startled the crowd to silence. They ran faster and faster, jostling one another, pushing aside the less active. Swept along in the pouring tide, Martin found himself in Little Eastcheap, and then, far ahead in that broader thoroughfare, he saw over the roofs a brownish tinge in the sky.