Part 8

“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.