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.
“Why not leave him here?” said one of them. “ ’Twill save trouble.”
“Won’t do,” said the man with the scar. “There’ll be folk about in the morning; he’ll be found, and then—you see he knows too much.”
“Well, then, why not shut his mouth? The river’s handy. With a stone round his neck——”
“Stow your gab, Bill,” interrupted the other irritably. “We can’t drown ’em all. Besides, orders is orders, so you’d better set about it.”
Martin had risen at their entrance, and stood facing them, his heart beating rather quickly and his cheeks flushing as he listened to this frank discussion of his fate. He was not prepared for what happened. The man who had wished to save trouble made a sudden pounce, flung his arm round Martin’s neck, and deftly slipped a gag into his mouth. He was then tripped up, and as he lay on the floor his hands were roped together, and he was shoved into a sack that covered him completely.
Thus bundled up, he was carried into the yard and dumped into the handcart, which had been brought empty from the quay. The cart jolted over the cobbles; he heard the gate slammed behind him, and wondered to what destination the men had orders to convey him.
The jolting did not last long. In a minute or two the legs of the handcart were let down with a bump, and Martin was hoisted out. His head being covered, he could not see where he had been brought, but he felt himself being carried downstairs, then flung down upon boards that rocked under his weight. He was in a boat.
He judged by their voices that two of the three men got into the boat after him. It moved away, and through the sack he heard the men talking of matters he knew nothing about. After a journey that seemed much longer than it was the boat stopped; he felt its side grate against stone. He was lifted out and carried up a few steps, then for some yards on the level.
Once more he was set down. There was a knock upon a door; after an interval of waiting the bolts were drawn; some words were exchanged between his bearers and the man who had opened; then he was carried along, up a flight of stairs, and finally dropped roughly to the floor.
“Cut the sack open,” said one of the men. “Better give him some air and take the gag out,” he added. “He won’t do no harm now.”
The string was cut, and the sack pulled down to his shoulders.
“Best tie him up,” said one.
“He can’t get away.”
“Never mind that; let’s make it sure.”
A rope was tied round the middle of the sack, and knotted to a staple in the wall.
“Now all’s snug,” said a man. “We’ve lost enough time over him; let’s get back to the City; we ought to be able to prig a thing or two out of those fine shops in Cheapside.”