WHAT MARTIN FOUND
The tide was running strong up the river when Martin started on his round next morning. There was promise that the day would be hotter than ever, but the wind, blowing briskly from the east, tempered the heat, though at the same time it rendered doubly hard the task of rowing the heavy wherry.
Martin was just pulling away from a brig at which he had delivered some loaves, when a boat, sculled by a single seaman, passed him in the opposite direction. He recognised it at once as the boat belonging to the Santa Maria, and the oarsman as the man who found it so difficult to keep awake.
Previously he had seen him only in the evening, and he could not help feeling curious as to what his errand was.
After visiting in turn the ships on his list, and scratching off the name of one that had left her moorings, he came at length to the last, the Santa Maria.
“She won’t be here long,” he thought, noticing that a lighter lay on each side of her.
From the one on the starboard side cargo was being hoisted on board by means of a clumsy kind of derrick. He made his boat fast to the other, put the loaves into his sack, threw the empty basket into the stern, and, with the sack slung over his shoulder, swarmed up by a rope that hung from a second derrick, placed ready for use when the second lighter should be discharged.
All hands were busy with the cargo. Some of the crew grinned when they recognised him, and as he looked inquiringly round they pointed to the cook’s galley. Wondering what his reception would be, he went on, and found the fat man frying some fish on his brazier, the timid-looking boy standing by with a flask of oil.
The cook glanced at Martin with a surly scowl, and paid him no further attention until he had turned out the fried fish on to a plate standing on a tray. Then he took one of the fresh, crisp rolls that Martin had brought, set this also on the tray, and ordered the boy to carry breakfast to the captain.
The boy had only just gone, and Sebastian was counting the contents of Martin’s sack, when the captain, Blackbeard himself, came along, as if attracted by the smell of the frizzling fish. Catching sight of Martin he stopped, looked hard at him for a moment or two, then, in his husky voice with its foreign intonation, asked:
“What you do here?”
“I have brought the bread from Mr. Faryner,” Martin replied.
“Ah!” There was a slight pause. “I see you before?” he said.
It was clear that he had not at once recognised Martin as the boy who in the evening dusk had rowed him down the river. Anxious to avoid identification, Martin answered:
“I was in Mr. Faryner’s shop when you came to give your order.”
“Ah! So! I see you there—yes—perhaps. I think so.”
But there was a puzzled look on his face as he followed the boy with the tray, and Martin was on thorns lest clearer recollection should come to him.
Having counted the loaves and rolls, the cook, who had not addressed a word to Martin, went away to fetch the money for them. Martin would not have been surprised if he had been summoned to the captain’s cabin; but Sebastian on his return simply handed him the coins, and he was free to go.
Without loss of time he swarmed down on to the lighter, threw his sack upon the upturned basket in the stern of the boat rocking alongside, hauled on the painter until the boat was near enough for him to step in, then cast loose, drifting on the tide while he got out his oars. Then he pulled the boat round, but rested on the oars as he looked back at the Santa Maria.
“Perhaps I ought to have asked when she is sailing,” he thought. “But I suppose Blackbeard will give notice. I wonder what her cargo is and where she is bound for? Perhaps Mr. Seymour and Mr. Slocum are engaged in some venture overseas, and there is nothing really to be suspicious about.”
He was still in a sort of daydream, moving the oars only enough to keep the boat’s head straight, when a shout ahead roused him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a ferryboat crossing his bows. A collision seemed inevitable, but he eased his left oar and put all his strength into his right, and scraped by with an inch or two to spare, the ferryman pouring out a torrent of abuse such as only the Thames waterman of those days could command.
The boat rocked under the sudden change of course and the wash of the ferryboat. Martin pulled her round again, and noticed that the basket had shifted slightly. It was now partly resting on its side against the stern thwart. And then he caught sight of something dark between the rim of the basket and the floor of the boat—something that surprised him so much that for a few moments he ceased rowing and could only stare.
It was a small dark-skinned foot, the toes and instep just protruding from the basket.
“Who’s there?” he called.
The foot was suddenly withdrawn, the basket moved, settling down so as to cover completely the person underneath.
“I’ve seen you; you’d better show yourself,” said Martin. An idea struck him, and he added: “Just show your face.”
The basket moved again, and now Martin saw without surprise the dark, pathetic face of the cook’s boy of the Santa Maria.
“Don’t come out. I’ll row on,” he said.
He looked back towards the Santa Maria, now some two hundred yards astern. The crew were still hoisting and stowing the cargo; there was no sign of excitement, nothing to show that the boy had been missed.
Martin rowed on in silence for a few minutes until the bend in the river hid the vessel from sight. Then he said again:
“Don’t come out. Keep the basket over you. But tell me why you are on my boat, and what it is that you want.”