In a minute he was reassured. Blackbeard returned alone, and Martin noticed that his eyes at once sought Mounseer, who was sitting on a thwart next to Gollop.
“I have considered,” he said. “Perhaps for one. You said one?”
“Yes: one gentleman: a Frenchman,” said Boulter. “London is not safe for the French. He was beset in the street.”
“Very well; he shall come. And quick: soon will the tide turn.”
He called up a seaman, and bade him lower a rope-ladder from the waist. Mounseer got up, and staggered.
“He is old and weak,” said Boulter. “Some of you help him, there.”
According to the plan previously arranged, Martin and Gollop each took one of the Frenchman’s arms and led him to the ladder. Martin climbed nimbly to the deck, then turned to assist Mounseer, who ascended slowly, Gollop following. To all appearances the Frenchman was feeble, exhausted; he tottered and swayed between the others when all three were on board. Meanwhile Boulter’s two watermen friends were proceeding to carry up the sea-chest, which might be supposed to contain the passenger’s baggage.
“Come with me,” said Blackbeard. “We will make bargain.”
He led the way towards the round-house, a sort of cabin on the upper deck. Martin and Gollop led Mounseer between them. Slocum had disappeared; the only persons visible were Blackbeard, the dark-faced seaman, and some members of the crew who were lying outstretched on the planks, resting, no doubt, after their exertions in towing the vessel.
Martin looked curiously about the round-house as he entered. It contained a well-spread table, two chairs and two berths; the walls were lined with racks containing arms of all kinds: firelocks, picks, swords, pistols.