MARTIN TO THE RESCUE
Gollop was in a quandary.
He had got possession of the Santa Maria, which would henceforth be called by her old name, the Merry Maid: what was he to do with her? Night had fallen; the tide was running out again to the sea; it seemed necessary to wait for morning light and the turn of the tide before the vessel could be floated back to London. But the constable had left his duty without leave from his commanding officer, and though he had Mr. Pemberton’s warrant to produce in self-justification, he felt that if a strict judgment were passed upon his action, he was in danger of losing his livelihood.
“Seems to me I’d better leave you in command, lad,” he said to Martin, “the ship being yours, and row back to the city.”
“But you are tired,” replied Martin; “it would be a terribly hard pull against the tide, and we can’t spare anyone to go with you; we’re very few to hold the ship if the crew break out of the forecastle.”
“Besides, there’s them boxes,” Boulter put in. The boxes had been opened and examined: they were full of plate and jewellery. “I reckon they’re worth a good few thousands of pounds, and Mr. Greatorex is so much beholden to you that he’ll see you don’t lose by the night’s work.”
“Maybe; gratitude ain’t a partickler common virtue. Howsomever, what you can’t help, make the best of. I’ll bide here till morning, and then we’ll see. Martin, my lad, you’re dead beat; you’ve got old eyes; turn in, you and your friend, and sleep sound till I wake you.”
Martin was glad enough to stretch himself on the deck against the bulwark; his recent experiences had worn him out.
“Your Gollop’s a Trojan,” said Hopton as he threw himself beside him. “I say, I’ll go with you to Tyburn to see Slocum hanged.”
“I suppose he will be hanged?” said Martin sleepily.
“Certain sure. It will be a great show. I expect he’ll make a fine speech on the gallows.”
But Martin was already asleep.
When he awoke in the early morning he found that Gollop, in consultation with the watermen, had planned out his course of action. The vessel would be left in charge of the Customs officers, who would put a crew on board, and lodge the criminals, Slocum, Blackbeard, and Seymour, in jail; then the boarding party would return to the City, Gollop would report to his captain, and a posse of constables would no doubt be dispatched to convey the criminals to London for trial.
About half-past five Boulter’s wherry set off on its return journey to London. The party were well satisfied with the result of their expedition, but the pleasure of some of them was alloyed with anxiety. During the night the wind had fallen away; the air was still; and Gollop, equally with the Frenchman, was filled with foreboding as to the progress the Fire might have made during the twelve hours of his absence. Already, before his departure, the flames had worked back against the wind in the direction of the Tower, and now that there was not even the wind to check them, he was on tenterhooks lest they might have gained his house.
Mounseer, so calm and self-possessed during the scene in the round-house of the Merry Maid, was now a prey to nervous agitation, which increased minute by minute as the wherry neared its destination. He said nothing, but the twitching of his eyelids and the restless movements of his hands were clear signs of his perturbation of spirit. Martin wondered, for, like Susan Gollop, he had seen nothing of value in the old gentleman’s apartment, and such possessions as he had could be removed in a few minutes if the house were attacked by the Fire.
The watermen pulled in to the steps where Martin had first become suspicious of Slocum. There the party separated: Gollop to seek his captain, Hopton to return home, the watermen to resume their vocation; Martin and the Frenchman to regain their dwelling-house.
“If so be the house has caught, lad,” said Gollop at parting, “I trust to you to look after my Sue and the little one. I’ll come home the very first minute I can.”
Martin’s misgivings increased as he hurried with Mounseer through the streets.
“I’m sure that’s Clothworkers Hall in Mincing Lane,” he said, noticing a huge body of yellow flame rising high into the air some distance to the left.
He stopped a man who was hurrying past, and asked him how far the Fire had got.
“How far? Where have you been, then?” was the reply. “Paul’s Church is in ashes; so’s Fleet Street and——”
“I mean on this side.”
“Why, the Custom House by the river has gone, so’s a part of Tower Street, and Mincing Lane, and the parsonage of Barking Church——”
“Juste ciel!” cried the Frenchman. “Our house is near of that. Haste! haste!”
His mental distress, following on the fatigues of the night, rendered the old gentleman’s steps unsteady, and he clung to Martin’s arm for support. They hurried on, their alarm growing from moment to moment. Every now and then they heard a terrific explosion, and saw immense columns of smoke, dust, and fragments of wood spring into the air.
“What’s that?” asked Martin of a passer-by.
“Blowing up houses in Seething Lane,” the man replied.
“Mon Dieu! How close!” muttered the Frenchman. “For me it is ruin, ruin!”
At last they turned the corner from which their house could be seen. One glance was enough. Flames were bursting from the roof. It appeared that the house had caught fire at the top from floating sparks. People were running hither and thither in the street, carrying away their goods from the neighbouring houses. In the roadway before the house was a little group of three—Susan Gollop, Lucy, and the Indian boy, standing guard over the household gear piled in the roadway.
Susan’s set face relaxed as she saw Martin running towards her.
“Where’s Gollop? Where’s my man?” she cried.
“He’s quite safe; he’ll be here soon,” Martin replied. “Have you got everything out?”
“Everything but the copper. We couldn’t lift that. Come back, Mounseer; we’ve got your things too.”
The Frenchman had withdrawn his arm from Martin’s and was hurrying into the open doorway of the house. He paid no attention to Susan’s cry, but disappeared.
“Well I declare!’ cried Susan. “Did you ever know such a foolish old gentleman! Because he’s French, I suppose. Me and the blackamoor brought out all his bits of things with our own hands: here they are. But I suppose he wants to make sure we’ve got ’em all.”
“I’ll go and bring him back,” said Martin.
“No, no; bide here. He’ll see the room’s empty and come back himself in a twink. There’s no call for you to go into the smother.”
Martin allowed himself to be restrained. A knot of spectators had gathered, and stared up at the burning house. The flames were spreading from the roof downwards. Smoke was pouring out of the windows. Susan watched grimly; Lucy, her eyes wide with awe, clung convulsively to Gundra, who seemed the least concerned of all.
Minute after minute passed. There was no sign of the Frenchman. The window of his room was closed, but smoke was trickling out at the edges of the casement.
“Oh! where is my dear Mounseer?” cried Lucy, tearfully.
“Drat the man!” said Susan. “What in the world he’s doing I don’t know. He must have a bee in his bonnet. Here now—Martin—come back! Come back, I say!”
But Martin, unable to bear the suspense any longer, had broken away and dashed into the burning house to find his old friend.