MARTIN’S ORDEAL
Martin was only partly conscious of what he passed through during the next minute, and not at all aware of the risks he ran.
The old timber house had ignited from the top; the roof had burnt through, and blazing fragments, falling on to the landings below, had set fire to the walls and the floors. Already the flames were eating away the stairs, and Martin, groping his way up through the smoke and by the aid of the banisters, was awakened to realities by a sudden sharp stinging pain as his hand touched a place that was on fire.
“Mounseer! Mounseer!” he called as he bounded up.
There was no answer.
He reached the landing at the top of the first flight. Through the Frenchman’s open doorway, a little way to the right, thick grey smoke was pouring. Moment by moment red-hot splinters crashed down upon the landing, and from above came the roar and crackle of the devouring flames.
“Mounseer!” Martin shouted; then caught his breath and coughed as the acrid smoke filled his throat.
His smarting eyes streamed with water. Half blinded, he pressed his lips firmly together and dashed across the landing into the open doorway. The room was thick with smoke: for a moment Martin was compelled to close his eyes; when he opened them again he saw flames bursting through the ceiling. Part of a blazing rafter fell at his feet, and he staggered back as innumerable sparks flew up in his face.
“Mounseer! Mounseer!” he spluttered.
There was no sound but the ever-growing roar of the flames.
Guessing from the denseness of the smoke that the windows were closed, unable to see anything clearly, Martin in desperation caught up a small stool which he had touched with his feet and hurled it in the direction of the window overlooking the waste ground at the back. There was a crash of breaking glass; the smoke began to pour out through the shattered pane, and taking advantage of the immediate lightening of the air Martin started to grope round the room in search of the Frenchman.
He stumbled against the table, knocked his shins against the edge of the bed, felt across it with his hands: there was no sign of Mounseer. Finding that he could breathe more freely near the floor he dropped on his hands and knees and began to crawl, wincing every now and then as he touched a fragment of burning wood.
He made for the cupboard in the corner, thinking that Mounseer might have been overpowered by the smoke as he stood to save some of his few possessions there. But there was no sign of him in the corner. He worked back, and had almost completed the tour of the room when, behind the door, he stumbled upon something hard. It was the sole of a shoe. In another moment he knew that the body of the Frenchman was stretched along the floor close against the wall.
Raising himself, he seized Mounseer’s feet and tried to drag him out upon the landing. But suddenly his strength failed: overcome by the smoke he fell gasping across the prostrate body, and lay for a few moments in a state of collapse.
Collecting himself with a great effort, he struggled to his feet and managed to pull the inert form as far as the doorway before once more faintness overtook him, and again he fell.
He tried to shout for help, but only a feeble croak issued from his parched lips. A terrible fear assailed him: if a few minutes’ immersion in the smoke could rob him of his strength, how must it be with the Frenchman, who had been so much longer exposed? Was he too late? Was the old gentleman past help?
The thought nerved him to one more effort. He rose, and pulled with all his might at the Frenchman’s legs. Staggering, he got him through the doorway on to the landing. Here there was a little more air, but Martin’s head swam; sick and dizzy he reeled, fell, and struck his head against the banisters. At the moment of his losing consciousness there was a noise in his ears, above the roar of the flames—a noise as of people shouting and running.
When he came to himself he was lying in the roadway. His head and chest were wet. His dazed, aching eyes saw Susan Gollop bending over him; in the background were other figures, among which he by and by recognised that of George Hopton.
“Mounseer!” he murmured.
“Mounseer is safe, my lamb,” said Susan, her tone unusually soft. “Take a drink: you’ll soon be all right again.”
He drank greedily from the cup she offered. A well-dressed elderly gentleman came forward.
“He is recovering, mistress?” he said.
“Ay, sir, thank God!” replied Susan. “But I wish Gollop would come. I don’t know what in the world we are to do now. The old house is done for: we’ve got our little bits of furniture here, but nowhere to go.”
“Don’t distress yourself, my good woman,” said the gentleman. “I will make it my charge to look after you all until something can be arranged. I would take you to my own house were it not so far away; that is impossible; but I will at once ride off to a farm I know at Islington, where I make no doubt I can arrange for your housing.”
He crossed the road to where a boy was holding a horse, mounted, and rode away.
“Who is that?” Martin murmured. George Hopton came and stood by him.
“Mr. Greatorex, to be sure,” answered Susan, “and a real kind gentleman. Brave too; ay, a man of bravery if ever there was one, and quick of his mind. He came riding up with this lad perched behind him, and the way he got off that horse—well, ’twas a wonderful spring for a man of his years. ‘Where’s Martin Leake?’ he sings out. ‘In the house,’ says I, ‘a-saving of the old gentleman on the first floor.’ ‘Isn’t there a man that could have done that?’ says he, scornful-like, looking round on the crowd. And I must own they was an idle lot, all eyes and no sense. Well, he didn’t wait a moment, but dashed into the house—though I’ll own this lad was in front of him. My heart was in my mouth when I saw ’em vanish into that furnace and heard ’em shouting for you——”
“Mounseer! what of Mounseer?” asked Martin again, as remembrance came to his dazed mind.
“Safe and sound, bless you,” replied Susan; “that is, he will be, when he’s come to proper. He’s over yonder, with a doctor looking after him. It seemed an age before Mr. Greatorex came out again, though I suppose ’twas no more than a minute or two. He had you in his arms, and my heart went pit-a-pat that dreadful when I saw your pale face and your poor burnt hands. And behind him was this lad with Mounseer on his back: a strong lad, and a good lad too. And you hadn’t been out of the house two ticks when the floors fell in with a terrible crash, and sparks flying all across the street. ’Twas a merciful Providence that sent Mr. Greatorex in the very nick of time to save you from being burnt alive.”
“But I don’t understand—Mr. Greatorex—how—why did he want me?”
“I can tell you that,” said Hopton. “I went up to the shop to see if there was anything left of it. My word! the ground did scorch my feet. Of course it’s nothing but a black ruin: all Cheapside is burnt. I was just coming away when Mr. Greatorex rode up. He’d come up from the country; only think: the smoke and bits of black paper and stuff have been carried forty or fifty miles away. He asked me about Slocum, and whether the goods had been saved in time; and then I told him all I knew, and said that the goods were safe on board the ship, and ’twas all owing to you. ‘Take me at once to that Martin Leake,’ says he, and he was in such a hurry that he made me get up on the saddle behind him: first time in my life I’ve ever been on a horse, and don’t I ache with the jolting! Then it happened as Mrs. Gollop said: we found you and the old Frenchman in a heap on the landing, and we weren’t long bringing you out, I can tell you.”
“And such foolishness of Mounseer!” said Susan. “Nearly lost his life, and yours too, and what for? Just for a bit of a box.”
“A brass-bound box?” said Martin.
“No, there’s no brass about it, so far as I could see, though he kept it so tight in his arms that no one could see it proper. He’d quite lost his senses when the lad brought him out, but d’you think he’d let go of that box? Not for ever so. He clung to it as if it was the most vallyble thing in the whole world—just a bit of a box, leather I fancy, but so old and worn that—there, you never can tell what queer things some folks take a fancy to.”
“But what’s in the box?”
“Ah, who’s to say? He’s got it in his arms still, and there it’ll be until he’s rightly come to himself. Are you feeling better now, my dear?”
“Yes, though I’m rather chokey, and my hands smart.”
“To be sure they do, and I’ve no oil to put on ’em. But I’ll get some soon, and if Mr. Greatorex is a man of his word—and I don’t say he isn’t—we’ll soon have you in a comfortable bed in a farm-house, and milk and cream, and—why, it’ll be a holiday in the country, what I’ve wanted for years. You’ll like that, won’t you, Lucy?” she asked, as the child ran up.
“Mounseer’s opened his eyes,” said Lucy. “I’m so glad. He smiled at me. And then he asked for Martin. And then he said some funny words I couldn’t understand. And then he told me to come and say ‘Thank you’ a thousand times to Martin. That was just his fun, of course, for I couldn’t say it so many times as that, could I?”
“That’s just his foreign way, my dear,” said Susan. “Once is enough with English people. Run back and tell him that Martin is all right, and we’re all going to a farm in the country. I do wish Gollop would come home.”