When Trowley recovered consciousness, he was lying in his berth, with a bandage around his head. Kingswell looked in at him, smiling in a way that the old mariner was beginning to fear as well as hate.
"I hope you are feeling more amiable since your sleep," said Kingswell.
Trowley muttered a word or two of apology, damned the rum, and asked the time of day. His recollections of the argument in the cabin were hazy and fragmentary.
In reply to his question the gentleman told him that the sun was well up, the fog cleared, and that he was having his boat provisioned for the coastwise exploration trip.
"And mind you," he added, grimly, "that the eighty beaver skins which are now being stowed away in my berth are my property."
"Certainly, sir," replied Trowley. "An' may I ask how ye come by such a power o' trade in a night-time?"
"Yes, you may ask," replied Kingswell. He grinned at the wounded skipper for fully a minute, leaning on the edge of the bunk. Then he said: "I'll now bid you farewell until October. Don't sail without me, good Master Trowley, and look not upon the rum of the Indies when that same is red. A knife-thrust given in drunkenness might lead to the gallows."
He turned and nimbly scaled the companion-ladder, leaving the shipmaster speechless with rage.
Half an hour later the staunch little craft Pelican spread her square sail and slid away from the Heart of the West. She was manned by old Tom Bent, young Peter Harding, and Richard Clotworthy. Master Bernard Kingswell sat at the tiller, with Ouenwa beside him. Their provisions, extra clothing, arms, and ammunition were stowed amidships and covered with sail-cloth. The sun was bright, and the sky blue. The wind bowled them along at a clipping pace. From a mound above the harbour Black Feather gazed after them under a level hand. In the little harbour Trowley's ship alone swung in her anchorage. The others had run out to the fishing-grounds,—for in those days the fishing was done over the sides of the ships, and not from small boats. On either side the brown shores fell back, and the dancing waters widened and widened. White gulls screamed above and around them, flashing silvery wings, snowy breasts, and inquisitive eyes.
Ouenwa looked back, and then ahead, and felt a great misgiving. But Kingswell patted him on the shoulder, and the sailors nodded their heads at him and grinned.
Soon they were among the fleet. The ungainly, high-sterned vessels rocked and bobbed under naked spars. The great business that had brought them so far was going forward. Along both sides of every ship were hung barrels, and in each barrel was stationed a man with two or more fishing-lines. Splashing desperately, the great fish were hauled up, unhooked, and tossed to the deck behind. As the little Pelican slid by, the fishers paused in their work to cheer her, and wave their caps. The masters shouted "God speed" from their narrow quarter-decks, and doffed their hats. Kingswell waved them gracious farewells; Ouenwa gazed spellbound toward the widening outlook; and Tom Bent trimmed the sail to a nicety.
They passed headland after headland, rocky island after rocky island, cove after cove. The shores behind them turned from brown to purple, and from purple to azure. The waves ran higher and the wind freshened. Kingswell shaped the boat's course a few points to the northward. The stout little craft skipped like a lamb and plunged like some less playful creature. Spray flew over her blunt bows, and the sailors laughed like children, and called her a brave lass, and many other endearing names, as if she were human.
"A smart wench, sir," said Tom Bent to Master Kingswell. The commander nodded, and shifted the tiller knowingly. His blue eyes were flashing with the excitement of the speed and motion. His bright, pale hair streamed in the wind. He leaned forward, to pick out the course through a group of small islands that cluttered the bay ahead of them. He gave an order, and the seamen hauled on the wet sheet. But Ouenwa did not share the high spirits of his companions. A terrible, unknown feeling got hold of him. His dark cheeks lost their bloom. Kingswell glanced at him.
"Let it go, lad," he said. "A sailor is made in this way. Tom, pass me along a blanket."
With his unemployed hand he fixed a comfortable rest for the boy, and helped him to a drink of water. For an hour or more he maintained a hold on the young Beothic's belt, for, by this time, the soaring and sinking of the Pelican were enough to unsteady even a seasoned mariner. As for Ouenwa!—the poor lad simply clung to the gunwale with the grip of despair, and entertained regretful, beautiful visions of level shores and unshaken hills. Tom Bent eyed him kindly.
"The young un has it wicked, sir," he said. "Maybe, like as not, a swig o' rum ud sweeten his bilge, sir."
Kingswell acted on the old tar's advice. The rank liquor completed the boy's breakdown. In so doing it served the purpose which Bent had intended. The sufferer was soon sleeping soundly, already half a sailor.
When Ouenwa next took interest in his surroundings, the Pelican had the surf of a sheer coast close aboard on her port side. She was heading due north. The sun was half-way down his western slope. Behind the Pelican's bubbling wake, hills and headlands and high, naked barrens lay brown and purple and smoky blue. In front, and on the right hand, loomed surf-rimmed islands and flashed the innumerable, ever-altering yet unchanged hills and valleys of the deep. Tom Bent was now at the tiller, and Kingswell was in the bows, gazing intently at the austere coast. Ouenwa crawled over the thwarts and cargo of provisions, under the straining sail, and crouched beside him. His head felt light and his stomach painfully empty, but again life seemed worth living and the adventure worth while.
About an hour before sunset the Pelican ran into a little cove, and her two grappling anchors were heaved overboard. She lay within five yards of the land-wash, swinging on an easy tide. Ouenwa sprang into the water and waded ashore. It was a dismal anchorage, with only a strip of shingle, and grim cliffs rising in front and on either hand. But at the base of the cliffs, in fissures of the rock, grew stunted spruce-trees and birches. Ouenwa soon found a little stream dribbling a zigzag course from the levels above. It gathered, clear and cold, in a shallow basin at the foot of the rock, and from there spilled over into the obliterating sand.
By this time the others were ashore. Clotworthy hacked down a couple of armfuls of the spruce and birch shrubs with his cutlass, and started a fire. Then he filled a pot from the little well and commenced preparations for a meal. The other seamen erected a shelter, composed of a sail and three oars, against the cliff. Kingswell and Ouenwa sat on a convenient boulder, and the commander filled a long pipe with tobacco and lit it at a brand from the fire. He seemed in high spirits, and in a mood to further his young companion's education. Pointing to the roll of Virginian leaf, from which he had cut the charge for his pipe, he said, "Tobacco." Ouenwa repeated it many times, and nodded his comprehension. Then Kingswell pointed to old Tom Bent, who was watching Clotworthy drop lumps of dried venison into the pot of water.
"Boatswain," he said.
Ouenwa mastered the word, as well as the term "able seamen," applied to Clotworthy and Peter Harding. By that time the stew was ready for them. They were all sound asleep, under their frail shelter, before the last glimmer of twilight was gone from the sky.
It was very early when Ouenwa awoke. A pale flood of dawn illumined the tent and the recumbent forms of Master Kingswell and Clotworthy. Tom Bent and Harding were not in their places. The boy wondered at that, but was about to close his eyes again, when he was startled to his feet by a shrill cry that went ringing overhead and echoing along the cliffs. He darted from the tent, with Kingswell and Clotworthy hot on his heels. Bent and Harding were on the extreme edge of the beach, with their backs to the sea, staring upward. Ouenwa and the others turned their faces in the same direction. They were amazed to see about a dozen native warriors on the cliff above them, fully armed, and evidently deeply interested in what was going on in the little cove. One of them was pointing to the Pelican, and talking vehemently to the brave beside him. In two of them Ouenwa recognized young Wolf Slayer, and his father, the chief of the village on the River of Three Fires. He called up to them, and asked what brought them so far from their village.
"We are at the salt water to take the fish," replied Wolf Slayer, "and we saw the smoke of your fire before the last darkness. But what do you with the great strangers, little Dreamer?"
"They are my friends," replied Ouenwa, "and I am voyaging with them to learn wisdom."
"What are you talking about?" asked Kingswell.
The lad tried to explain. He pointed to the tent and provisions and then to the boat. "Put in," he said.
At a word from Kingswell the three sailors quickly dismantled their night's shelter and carried the sail, the oars, and such food and blankets as they had brought ashore, out to the Pelican. At that the shrill cry rang out again, and echoed along the cliffs.
"What does that mean?" inquired Kingswell.
"Bad," replied Ouenwa, shortly.
"What is in your fine canoe, little Dreamer?" called Wolf Slayer.
"Our food and our clothing, little Fox Stabber," Ouenwa cried back, with indignation in his voice.
"Your dreams must have unsettled your wits, my friend," replied Wolf Slayer, "or you would not talk so loud before a chief of the tribe."
Just then, in answer to the cry that had sounded so dismally across the dawn a few moments before, five more warriors, armed with bows, appeared on the top of the cliff—for the cry was the hunting-call of the tribe.
"Do you fish with war-bows?" shouted Ouenwa. "And why do you summon to trade with the cry of the hunt?"
"You ask too many questions, even for a seeker of wisdom," replied the other youth, mockingly.
"Does Soft Hand, the great bear, slumber, that the foxes bark with such assurance?" retorted Ouenwa.
By this time the Pelican was ready to put out of the cove. Both anchors were up, and Harding and Clotworthy held her off with the oars. Old Tom Bent was also in the boat, busy with something beside the mast. Suddenly a bow-string twanged, and an arrow buried its flint head in the sand at Kingswell's feet. Another struck a stone and, glancing out, rattled against Harding's oar. Kingswell and Ouenwa backed hastily into the water. Above them, silhouetted against the lightening sky, they saw bending bows and downward thrust arms. Then, with a clap and a roar, and a gust of smoke, old Tom Bent replied to the warriors on the cliff. The echoes of the discharge bellowed around and around the rock-girt harbour. Ouenwa and Kingswell sprang through the smoke and climbed aboard, and the seamen pushed into deep water and then bent to their oars. But the Pelican proved a heavy boat to row, with her blunt bows and comfortable beam. She surged slowly beyond the cloud of bitter smoke that the musket had hung in the windless air. Clear of that, the voyagers looked for their treacherous assailants—and, behold, the great warriors were not to be seen. Kingswell and the three seamen laughed, as if the incident were a fine joke; but Ouenwa was hot with shame and anger. He stood erect and shouted abuse to the deserted cliff-top. He called upon Wolf Slayer and Panounia to show their cowardly faces. He threatened them with the displeasure of Soft Hand and with the anger of the English. A figure appeared on the sky-line.
"You speak of Soft Hand," it cried. "Know you, then, that Soft Hand set out on the Long Trail four suns ago, when he marched into my village to dispute my power. I, Panounia, am now the great chief of the people. So carry yourself accordingly, O whelp without teeth and without a den to crawl into. Whose hand has overthrown the lodge of the totem of the Black Bear? Mine! Panounia's! Soft Hand has fallen under it as his son, your father, succumbed to it when you were a squalling babe." He paused for a moment, and held out a gleaming knife, with its point toward the Pelican. "The totem of the Wolf now hangs from the great lodge," he cried.
Quick and noiseless as a breath, the edge of the cliff was lined with warriors. Like a sudden flight of birds their arrows flashed outward and downward.
"Lie down!" cried Kingswell. With a strong hand he snatched Ouenwa to the bottom of the boat. Harding and Clotworthy sprawled forward between the thwarts. Only Tom Bent, crouched beside the naked mast, did not move. The arrows thumped against plank and gunwale. They pierced the cargo. They glanced from tiller and sweep and mast. One, turning from the rail, struck Bent on the shoulder. He cursed angrily, but did not look for the wound. His match was burning with a thread of blue smoke and a spark of red fire. His clumsy gun was geared to the rail by an impromptu swivel of cords. He lay flat and elevated the muzzle.
"Steady her," he said, softly. "She's driftin' in."
Kingswell sprang forward to one of the oars, thrust it to the bottom, and held the boat as steady as might be. Arrows whispered around him. He shouted a challenge to the befeathered warriors above him. Tom touched the slow-match to the quick fuse. Something hissed and sizzled. A plume of smoke darted up. Then, with a rebound that shook the boat from stem to stern, the gun hurled forth its lead, and fire, and black breath of hate.
"Double charge, sir," gasped Tom Bent, from where he sagged against the mast. The kick of his musket had hurt him more than the blow from the arrow.
Again the Pelican fought her way toward the open waters, with Harding and Clotworthy pulling lustily at the sweeps. Kingswell, flushed and joyful, sat at the tiller and headed her for the channel, through which the tide was running landward at a fair pace. Bent was busy reloading his firearm. Ouenwa stood in the stern-sheets, with his bow in his left hand and an arrow on the string. A breath of wind brushed the smoke aside and cleared the view. Ouenwa pointed to the beach, and gave vent to a shrill whoop of triumph. The others looked, and saw a huddled shape of bronzed limbs and painted leather at the foot of the rock.
"One more red devil for hell," muttered the boatswain. "I learned mun to shoot his pesky sticks at a Bristol gentleman."
As if in answer, an arrow bit a splinter from the mast, not six inches from the old man's head. Ouenwa's bow bent, and sprang straight. The shaft flew with all the skill that Montaw had taught the boy, and with all the hate that was in his heart for the big murderer on the cliff. Every man of the little company narrowed his eyes to follow the flight of it. They saw it curve. They saw a warrior drop his bow from his menacing hand and sink to his knees.
"The wolf falls," cried Ouenwa, in his own tongue. "The wolf bites the moss. Who, now, is the wolf slayer?"
The Englishmen cheered again and again, and the good boat Pelican, urged forward by triumphant sinews, won through the channel and swam into the outer waters.
As soon as the Pelican was out of arrow-shot of the cliff, the Beothics disappeared. Ouenwa laid aside his bow with a sigh of regret. Then he tried to repeat to Kingswell what he had heard from Panounia. After a deal of questioning, sign-making, and mental exertion, the Englishman gathered the information that treachery and murder had taken place up the river, and that his young friend hated the new leader of the tribe with a bitter hatred. He did not wonder at the bitterness. He looked at the young savage's flushed face and glowing eyes with sympathy and admiration. His liking for the boy had grown in every hour of their companionship, and, by this time, had developed into a decided fondness.
"Sit down, lad, and let your guns cool," he said, with a light hand on the other's knee. "Your enemies are my enemies," he continued, "and we'll fight the dogs every time we see 'em."
Ouenwa sat quiet and tried to look calm. He was soothed by the evident kindliness of Kingswell's tone and manner, though he had failed to translate his speech. The men on the thwarts had caught the words, however. They nodded heavily to one another.
"Ye say the very word what was in my mind, sir," spoke up Tom Bent, "an', if I may make so bold as to say further, your enemies be your servants' enemies, sir. Therefore the young un's enemies must be our enemies, holus bolus." The other sailors nodded decidedly. "Therefore," continued Tom Bent, "all they cowardly heathen aft on the cliff has to reckon, hereafter, with Thomas Bent an' the crew o' this craft."
"Well spoken, Tom," replied Kingswell, with the smile that always won him the heart and hand of every man he favoured with it,—and of every maid, too, more than likely. "But we can't enthuse on empty stomachs. Pass out the bread and the cold meat," he added.
For fully two hours the Pelican rocked about within half a mile of her night's anchorage. Kingswell was not in a desperate hurry, and so his men pulled at the oars just enough to hold the boat clear of the rocks. A sharp lookout was kept along the coast, but not a sight nor a sound of the Beothics rewarded their vigilance.
"They be up to some devilment, ye may lay to that," said Tom Bent.
At last a wind fluttered to them out of the nor'east, and the square sail was hoisted and sheeted home. Again the Pelican dipped her bows and wet her rail on the voyage of exploration.
After two hours of sailing, and just when they were off the mouth of a little river and a fair valley, a fog overtook them. Kingswell was for running in, but Ouenwa objected.
"Panounia follow," he said. "He great angry. Drop irons," he added, pointing to the little anchors.
"Panounia is wounded. You winged him yourself," replied Kingswell. "He could not follow us around that coast, lad, at the clip we were coming."
Ouenwa considered the words with puckered brows. They were beyond him. The commander pointed shoreward.
"All safe," he said. "All safe."
"No, no," cried the lad. "All kill. No safe."
During this controversy the sail had been partly lowered, and the Pelican had been slowly running landward with the fog.
Kingswell looked from the young Beothic to the seamen with a smile of whimsical uncertainty.
"Out o' the mouths o' babes an' sucklin's," remarked Tom Bent, with his deep-set eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Kingswell's glance rested, for a moment, on the ancient mariner.
"Lower away," he said. The sail flapped down, and was quickly stowed. "Let go the anchors," he commanded. The grapplings splashed into the gray waves. The fog crawled over the boat and shut her off from land and sky. With a last dreary whistle, the wind died out entirely.
"Rip me!" exclaimed Master Kingswell, "but here is caution that smells remarkably like cowardice." Fretfully sighing, he produced his pipe, tobacco, and tinder-box. Soon the fragrant smoke was mingling with the fog. The young commander leaned back, taking his comfort where he could, like the courageous gentleman that he was. The habit of burning Virginian tobacco was an expensive one, confined to the wealthy and the adventurous. The seamen, who, of course, had not yet acquired it, watched their captain with open interest. When a puff was blown through the nostrils, or sent aloft in a series of rings, they nudged one another, like children at a show. By this time the walls of fog had made of the Pelican a tiny, lost world by itself. Suddenly Ouenwa raised his hand. "Sh!" he whispered. Kingswell removed the pipe-stem from his mouth, and inclined his head toward the hidden river and valley. All strained their ears, to wrest some sound from the surrounding gray other than the lapping of the tide along the unseen land-wash. But they could hear nothing.
"Village," whispered Ouenwa, pointing landward.
"But we saw no signs of a village," protested Kingswell, gently.
"Village," repeated the lad. "Ouenwa hear. Ouenwa smell."
Immediately the four Englishmen began to sniff the fog, like hounds taking a scent on the wind. But their nostrils were not the nostrils of either hounds or Beothics. They sniffed to no purpose. They shook their heads. Kingswell wagged a chiding finger at their keen-nosed companion. The boy read the inference of the gesture, and flushed indignantly.
"Village," he whispered, shrilly. "Village, village, village."
Kingswell looked distressed. The sailors grinned leniently at the determined boy. They had great faith in their own noses, had those mariners of Bristol and thereabouts. Ouenwa, frowning a little, sank into a moody contemplation of the fog.
"This is dull," exclaimed Kingswell, after a half-hour of silence. "Tom, pipe us a stave, like a good lad."
The boatswain scratched his head reflectively. Presently he cleared his throat with energy.
"Me voice be a bit husky, sir, to what it once were," he murmured, "but I'll do me best—an' no sailorman can say fairer nor that."
Straightway he struck into a heroic ballad of a sea-fight, in a high, tottering tenor. The song dealt with Spanish swagger and English daring, with bloody decks, falling spars, and flying splinters. Harding joined in the chorus with a booming bass. Clotworthy and the commander soon followed. Kingswell's voice was clear and strong and wonderfully melodious. Ouenwa's eyes glowed and his muscles trembled. Though the words held no meaning for him, the rollicking, dashing swing of the tune fired his excitable blood. He forgot all about Panounia, and the suspected village on the river so near at hand ceased to trouble him. He beat time to the singing with his moccasined feet, and clapped his hands together in rhythmic appreciation of his comrades' efforts. In time the ballad was finished. The last member of the craven crew of the Teressa Maria had tasted English steel and been tossed to the sharks. Then Master Kingswell sprang to his feet and sang a sentimental ditty. It was of roses and fountains, of latticed windows and undying affection. The air was captivating. The singer's voice rang tender and clear. Old Tom Bent remembered lost years. Harding thought of a Devon orchard, and of a Devon lass at work harvesting the ruddy fruit. Clotworthy saw a cottage beside a little wood, and a woman and a little child gazing seaward and westward from the door.
For several seconds after the last note had died away, the little company remained silent and motionless, fully occupied with its various thoughts. Ouenwa was the first to break the spell of the song. He laid his hand on Kingswell's arm with a quick gesture, and leaned toward him.
"Canoe," he whispered.
The sound that had caught Ouenwa's attention was repeated—a short rap, like the inadvertent striking of a paddle against a gunwale. They all heard it, and, with as little noise as possible, set to work at getting out cutlasses and loading muskets. Kingswell crawled forward and whispered with old Tom Bent. The boatswain nodded and turned to Harding. That sturdy young seaman crawled to the bows and placed his hands on the hawser of the forward anchor. He looked aft. Kingswell, who had returned to his seat at the tiller, leaned over the stern and cut the manilla rope that tethered the boat at that end. Harding immediately pulled on his rope until he was directly over the light bow anchor. Then, strongly and slowly, and without noise, he brought the four-fingered iron up and into the bows. They were free of the bottom, anyway, and with the loss of only one anchor. Kingswell breathed a sigh of relief.
The Pelican drifted, and the crew stared into the fog, with wide eyes and alert ears. Then, to seaward and surely not ten yards away, sounded a plover-call. Kingswell signalled to Bent to man the seaward side and Clotworthy and Harding the other. They rested the barrels of their great matchlocks on the gunwales. Suddenly the prow of a canoe pierced the curtain of fog not four yards from Tom Bent. He touched the match to the short fuse. There was a terrific report, and a chorus of wild yells. In the excitement that followed, the others discharged their pieces. Kingswell grabbed an oar, slipped it into a notch beside the tiller and began to "scull" the boat seaward. The men reloaded their muskets and peered into the fog. They heard splashings and cries on all sides, but could see nothing. Ouenwa, standing erect, discharged arrow after arrow at the hidden enemy.
The splashings grew fainter, and the cries ceased entirely. Kingswell passed the oar which he had been using to Harding, and told the men to lay aside their muskets and row. Ouenwa let fly his last arrow, in the names of his murdered father and grandfather.
For a long and weary time the Pelican lay off the hidden land, shrouded in fog and silence. A few hours before sunset a wind from the west found her out, drove away the fog, and disclosed the sea and the coast and the open sky.
"Pull her head 'round," commanded Kingswell, "and hoist the sail. We are going back to have a look at that village."
The men obeyed eagerly. They were itching for a chance to repay the savages for the fright in the dark.
Two headlands were rounded before the valley of the river opened again to the eyes of the adventurers. The brown water of the stream stole down and merged into the dancing, wind-bitten sea. The gradual hillsides, green-swarded, basked in the golden light. The lower levels of the valley were already in shadow. No sign of man, or of his habitation, was disclosed to the voyagers.
"A fair spot," remarked Kingswell. "I feel a desire stirring within me to stretch my legs on that grassy bank. What do you say to the idea, Tom?"
The old fellow grinned. "'Twould be pleasant, sir, an' no mistake," he replied—"a little walk along the brook, with our hands not very far from our hangers. Ay, sir, Tom Bent's for a spell o' nater worship."
The boat ran in, and was beached on the sand well within the mouth of the river. Harding and Clotworthy, with loaded muskets, were left on guard, and the other three, fully armed, started along the bank of the stream. They advanced cautiously, with a sharp lookout on every clump of bushes and every spur of rock. A kingfisher dropped from its perch above the water and flew up-stream with shrill clamour. They turned a bend of the little river and halted short in their track with muttered exclamations. Before them, on a level meadow between the brown waters of the stream and the dark green wall of the forest, stood half a dozen wigwams. The place seemed deserted. They scanned the dark edge of the wood and the brown hills behind. They peered everywhere, expecting to catch the glint of hostile eyes at every turn. But neither grove nor hill, nor silent lodge, disclosed any sign of life.
"Where the devil are they?" exclaimed Kingswell, thoroughly perplexed.
Ouenwa smiled, and swept his hand in a half-circle.
"Watch us," he remarked, nodding his head. "Yes, watch us."
"He means they are lying around looking at us," said Kingswell to the boatswain. "Rip me, but I don't relish the chance of one of those stone-tipped arrows in my vitals."
Tom Bent glanced about him in visible trepidation. Ouenwa noticed it, and pointed to the seaman's musket. "No 'fraid," he said. "Shoot."
"What at?" inquired Bent.
"Make shoot," cried the boy, indicating the silent wood, dusky in the gathering shadows.
"He wants you to fire into the wood, and frighten them out," said Kingswell.
"If they be there, I'm for lettin' 'em stay there," replied Tom.
However, he fixed his murderous weapon in its support, aimed at the edge of the forest beyond the wigwams, and fired. The flame cut across the twilight like a red sword; a dismal howl arose and quivered in the air. It was answered from the hilltops on both sides of the stream.
Before the echoes had died away, Ouenwa was inside the nearest lodge. Kingswell followed, and found him dismantling the couches and walls of their valuable furs. He instantly took a hand in the looting. Soon each had all he could handle. They carried their burdens from the lodge, and, with Tom as a rear-guard, marched back toward the Pelican. They had rounded the bend of the river, and the two seamen were hurrying to meet them, when old Tom Bent suddenly uttered an indignant whoop and leaped into the air. His musket flew from his shoulder and clattered against a stone. Kingswell and Ouenwa threw down their bundles and sprang to where he lay, kicking and spluttering. The feathered shaft of an arrow clung to the middle of his left thigh. He was swearing wildly, and vowing vengeance on the "heathen varment" who had pinked him.
Harding and Clotworthy fired into the shadows of the wooded hillside, and Kingswell hoisted the struggling boatswain to his shoulders and continued his advance on the boat. The old sailor begged and implored his commander to put him down, assuring him that he was more surprised than hurt. But Kingswell turned a deaf ear to his entreaties, and did not release him until they were safe beside the Pelican's bows. Just then Ouenwa and the sailors came running up with the looted pelts. All were puzzled. Why had the hidden enemy fired only one arrow, when they might have annihilated the little party with a volley?
That night the Pelican lay at anchor in the mouth of the river. Twice, during the long, eerie hours between dark and dawn, the man on duty woke his companions; but on both occasions the alarms proved to be false—the splashing of a marauding otter near the shore or the flop of a feeding trout. Under the pale lights of the morning the valley and the stream lay as peaceful and deserted as on the preceding evening. The voyagers ate their breakfast aboard. Then, as soon as the sun had cleared the light mist from the water, they got up their anchor and rowed up-stream. Harding and Clotworthy pulled on the oars. Bent and the commander crouched in the bows, with ready muskets, and Ouenwa sat at the tiller. The current was strong, and the boat crawled slowly against the twirling sinews of water. Little patches of spindrift, from some fall or rapid farther up the river, floated past them. The pebbly bottom flashed beneath the amber tide. Leaping fish gleamed and splashed on either hand, and sent silver circles rippling to the toiling boat. A moist, sweet fragrance of foliage and mould and dew filled the air.
Soon the deserted lodges came into view, standing smokeless and pathetic between the murmuring river and the brooding trees. Kingswell motioned to Ouenwa to head for the low bank in front of the wigwams. They landed without incident, and all walked toward the village, with their firearms ready and their matches lighted. They explored every lodge and even beat the underbrush. The dwellings had been cleared of pelts and weapons and cooking utensils evidently during the night. A village of this size must have possessed at least six canoes; but not a canoe, nor so much as a paddle, could they find.
"All run in canoe," remarked Ouenwa, pointing up-stream.
"What be this?" asked Tom Bent, limping toward Kingswell with an arrow and a small square of birch bark in his hand. He had found the bark, pinned by the arrow, to the side of one of the wigwams. Kingswell examined it intently, and shook his head.
"Pictures," he said. "I suppose it is a letter of some kind, in which their wise man tells us what he thinks of us."
Ouenwa took the bark and surveyed the roughly sketched figures, with which it was covered, with a scornful twist of his face.
"Wolf," he said, indicating the central figure. "See! Very big! Bear"—he touched another point of the missive and then tapped his own breast—"see bear! Him no big! Wolf eat bear." He laughed shrilly, and shook his head. "No, no," he said. "No, no."
"What be mun jabberin' about?" muttered Tom Bent.
Kingswell explained that the bear stood for Ouenwa's family, and that the wolf was the symbol of the people who had killed his grandfather.
The Pelican continued her voyage before noon, and all day skirted an austere and broken coast. She crossed the mouths of many wide bays, steering for the purple headlands beyond. She rounded many islands and braved intricate channels. Toward evening she rounded a bluffer, grimmer cape than any of the day's experience, and Kingswell, who had just relieved Harding at the tiller, forsook the straight course and headed up the bay. Two hours of brisk sailing brought them to a sheltered roadstead behind an island and just off a wooded cove. They lowered the sail and rowed in close to the beach. They built no fire, and spent the night close to the tide, with their muskets and cutlasses beside them, and the watch changed every two hours.
Three days later the voyagers happened upon a ship. They ran close in to where she lay at anchor, believing her to be English, and did not discover their mistake until the little tub of a brig opened fire from a brass cannonade. The first shot went wide, and the Pelican lay off with a straining sail. The second shot fell short, and that ended the encounter, for the Frenchmen were too busy fishing to get up anchor and give chase.
Old Tom Bent was quite cast down over the incident. "It be the first time," he said, "that I ever seen a Frencher admiral o' a bay in Newfoundland. One year I were fishin' in the Maid o' Bristol, in Dog's Harbour, Conception, an', though we was last to drop anchor, an' the only English ship agin six Frenchers and two Spanishers, by Gad, our skipper said he were admiral—an', by Gad, so he were."
But the valorous old mariner did not suggest that they put about and dispute the admiralty of the little harbour which they had just passed.
In a cave in White Bay the voyagers traded with a party of friendly natives. Farther north they found indications of copper, and collected a bagful of the mother rock. In late August a sickness prostrated Master Kingswell and Clotworthy, and camp was made on the mainland. For three weeks the sufferers were unable to lift their heads. They lost flesh until they were little more than skin and bone. Ouenwa undertook the dual position of physician and nurse. He had some knowledge of the science of medicine, as practised by the Beothics, and treated the malady with teas of roots and herbs. He also managed to kill a young caribou, and fed his patients with broth made from the meat. But it was close upon the end of September when the Pelican again took up her northward journey.
Kingswell's real reason for this adventurous cruise was the quest of gold. Other explorers had seen gold ore in the possession of the natives, and he had heard stories of a French sailor having been wounded by a gold-barbed arrow. But the precious metal eluded him. Upon gaining the farthest cape of the great island, he wanted to cross the straits and continue his search along the Labrador coast; but the men shook their heads. The boat was too small for the voyage. Their provisions were running low. The northern summer was already far spent. So Kingswell headed the Pelican southward. After a week of fair winds, they were caught in a squall, and the starboard bow of their stout little craft was shattered while they were in the act of winning to a sheltered anchorage. Everything was salvaged; but it took them three days to patch the boat back to a seaworthiness. Even after this unlooked-for delay, the young commander persisted in exploring every likely looking cave and river mouth that had been neglected on the northward trip. The men grumbled sometimes, but it was not in the heart of any sailor to deny the wishes of so charming and brave a gentleman as Master Kingswell. Ouenwa's long conversations in his partially acquired English helped to keep the company in good spirits.
It was November, and nipping weather in that northern bay, when the Pelican threaded the islands of Exploits and opened Wigwam Harbour to the eager gaze of her company. The harbour was empty! They had not sighted a vessel in any of the outer reaches of the bay. The drying-stages and fish stores stood deserted above the green tide.
Kingswell turned a bloodless face toward his men. "They have sailed for home without us," he said, and swallowed hard. Old Tom Bent gazed reflectively about him, and scratched a hoary whisker with a mahogany finger. He had grumbled at the chance of this very disaster, but now that he was face to face with it the thought of grumbling did not occur to him.
"Ay, sir," said he, "the damned rascals has sailed without us—an' we are lucky not to be in such dirty company!"
He spat contemptuously over the gunwale. The colour returned to Kingswell's cheeks, and a flash of the old humour to his eyes. He smiled approvingly on the boatswain. But young Peter Harding, being neither as old nor as wise as Bent, nor as cool-headed as Clotworthy, had something to say on the subject. He ripped out an oath. Then—"By God," he cried, "here's one man who'd rather sail in a ship with what ye calls dirty company, Tom Bent, than starve in a damn skiff with—with you all," he finished, lamely.
Kingswell and Ouenwa looked at the young seaman with mute indignation in their eyes. But Tom Bent laughed softly.
"Ay, Peter, boy," he said, "ye be one o' these fine, lion-hearted English mariners what's the pride o' the king an' the terror o' the seas. The likes o' ye don't sail shipmates with men, but with the duff an' the soup an' the prize-money." His voice shrilled a little. "Ay, if it wasn't that I know ye for a better man than ye sound just now, I'd ax cap'n's leave to twist the snivellin' nose off the fat face o' ye."
"Tom be right," remarked Clotworthy, with a knowing and well-considered wag of his heavy head.
Harding, who had delivered his speech from a commanding position on a thwart, sat down very softly, as if anxious not to attract any further attention.
"We'll have a look at the old arrow-maker, lads," said Kingswell, cheerfully, "and stock up with enough dried venison to carry us south to Trinity, or even to Conception. Ships often lie in those bays till the snow flies. At the worst we can sail the old Pelican right 'round to St. John's, and winter there. I'll wager the governor would be glad enough of a few extra fighting men to scare off the French and the privateers."
Despite Master Kingswell's brave words, there was no store of dried venison to be obtained from the arrow-maker, for both the old philosopher's lodge and Black Feather's were gone—gone utterly, and only the round, level circles on the sward to show where they had stood. What had become of Montaw and his friends could only be surmised. Ouenwa's opinion that the enemies of Soft Hand were responsible for their disappearance was shared by the Englishman. All agreed that immediate flight was safer than a further investigation of the mystery. So the storm-beaten, wave-weary Pelican turned seaward again.
Two days later, toward nightfall, and after having sailed far up an arm of the sea and into the mouth of a great river, in fruitless search of some belated fishing-ship, the adventurers were startled and cheered by the sound of a musket-shot. It came from inland, from up the shadowy river. It was muffled by distance. It clapped dully on their eager ears like the slamming of a wooden door. But every lonely heart of them knew it for the voice of the black powder. They drifted back a little and lay at anchor all night, just off the mouth of the river. With the dark came the cruel frost. But they crawled beneath their freight of furs and slept. They were astir with the first gray lights, and before sunrise were pulling cautiously up the middle of the channel. White frost sparkled on thwart and gunwale. Dark, mist-wrapped forests of spruce and fir and red pine came down to the water on both sides. Here and there a fang of black rock, noisy with roosting gulls, jutted above the dark current. A jay screamed in the woods. A belated snipe skimmed across their bows. An eagle eyed them from the crown of an ancient pine, and swooped down and away.
They must have ascended the stream a matter of two miles—and hard pulling it was—when Ouenwa's sharp eyes detected the haze of wood smoke beyond a wooded bend.
"Cooking-fire there!" he exclaimed. "Maybe get something to eat? Maybe get killed?"
He spoke cheerfully, as if neither prospect was devoid of charm.
"We'll risk it," remarked Kingswell, quietly. "Put your weight into the stroke, lads—and, Tom, keep your match handy."
At last the bend was rounded, and the rowers turned on the thwarts and peered over their shoulders, and Kingswell uttered a low cry of delight. Close ahead of them the right-hand bank lay level and open, and along its edge were beached three skiffs. About twenty yards back stood a little settlement of log cabins enclosed by palisades. From the chimneys of the cabins plumes of comfortable smoke rose to the clearer azure above. In front of this civilized spot, in mid-stream, a small high-pooped vessel lay moored. Her masts and spars were gone. She swung like a dead body in the brown current.
Tom Bent swore softly and with grave deliberation. "Damn my eyes," he murmured. "Ay, sir, dash my old figger-head, if there don't lay a reggler, complete plantation! Blast my eyes!"
"A tidy, Christian appearin' place," remarked Clotworthy, joyously. "An' real chimleys, too! Well, that do look homely, for certain."
At that moment three men, armed with muskets, ran from the gateway of the enclosure and stood uncertain half-way between the palisade and the river. Kingswell hailed them, standing in the bluff bows of the little Pelican. He stated the nationality, the names, and degrees of himself and the other of the little company, and the manner of their misfortune, even while the boat was covering the short distance to the shore.
The settlers laid aside their weapons, and received Master Kingswell and his men with every show of cordiality and good faith. They were strapping fellows, with weather-tanned faces, broad foreheads, steady eyes, and herculean shoulders. They doffed their skin caps to the gentleman adventurer.
"Ye be our first visitors, sir, since we come ashore here two year and two months ago come to-morrow," said one of the three. "Yes, it be just two year and two months ago, come to-morrow, that we dropped anchor off the mouth of this river," he added, turning to his companions. They agreed silently. Their eyes and attention were fully absorbed by Master Kingswell's imposing, though sadly stained, yellow boots and gold-laced coat. Another settler joined the group, and welcomed the voyagers with sheepish grins. A fifth, arrayed in finery and a sword, approached and halted near by.
"These," said the spokesman, "be Donnellys—father and son." With a casual tip of the thumb, he indicated two rugged members of the company. He turned to a handsome young giant beside him and smote him affectionately on the shoulder. "This here be my boy John—John Trigget," he said, "an' that gentleman be Captain Pierre d'Antons." He bowed, with ungracious deference, to the dark, lean, fashionably dressed individual who stood a few paces away. "An' my name be William Trigget, master mariner," he concluded.
Kingswell bowed low for the second time, and again shook hands with the elder Trigget. Then he stepped over to D'Antons and murmured a few courteous words in so low a voice that his men caught nothing of them. Each gentleman laid his left hand lightly on the hilt of his sword. Each bowed, laced hat in hand, until his long hair fell forward about his face. D'Antons' locks were raven-black, and straight as a horse's mane. Young Kingswell's were bright as pale gold, and soft as a woman's. Both were of goodly proportions and gallant bearing, though the Frenchman was the taller and thinner of the two.
D'Antons slipped his arm within Kingswell's, and, motioning to the others to follow, started toward the stockade. William Trigget immediately strode forward and walked on Master Kingswell's other hand, as if determined to assert his rights as a leader of the mixed company. Ouenwa and the seamen of the Pelican, and the Donnellys and young Trigget, followed close on the heels of their superiors.
"And who may ye be, lad?" inquired John Trigget of Ouenwa, as they crossed the level of frost-seared grass.
"I am Ouenwa," replied the boy, frankly, "and Master Kingswell is my strong friend and protector. My grandsire was Soft Hand, the head chief of this country. His enemies—barking foxes who name themselves wolves—pulled him down in the night-time."
The big settler nodded, and the others uttered ejaculations of pity and interest. The story was not news to them, however.
"Ay," said John Trigget, "Soft Hand were pulled down in the night, sure enough. The Injuns run fair crazy, what with murderin' each other an' burnin' each other's camps. I was huntin', two days to the north, when the trouble began. I come home without stoppin' to make any objections, an' the skipper kep' our gates shut for a whole week. They rebels was for wipin' out everybody; an' they captured two French ships, an' did for the crews. They be moved away inlan' now, thank God. We be safe till spring, I'm thinkin'."
"There be worse folks nor they tormentin' Injuns around these here soundin's, an' ye can take my word for that," growled the elder Donnelly, in guarded tones.
"Belay that," whispered John Trigget. "The devil can cook his stew plenty quick enough. Us won't bear a hand till the pot boils over."
Captain d'Antons glanced back at the talkers. His black eyes gleamed suspiciously.
Inside the stockade, posted unevenly around three sides of a foot-worn square, were five buildings of rough logs. From a platform in the southeast corner two small cannon presented their muzzles to the river. At the back of this platform, on the southern side of the square, stood the Donnelly cabin. It was stoutly built, and measured fifteen paces across the front. Against the western palisade the Trigget cabin and Captain d'Antons' habitation faced the square. On the north side stood a fourth dwelling and a small storehouse. In the centre of the yard bubbled a spring of clear water under a rustic shed. A tiny brook sparkled away from it, under the stockade and down to the river. The well was flanked on both sides by a couple of slim birches, now leafless under the white November sun.
The visitors were led to the Triggets' cabin, and Skipper Trigget's wife and daughter—both big, comely women—fed them with the best in the little plantation. After breakfast, Kingswell and Ouenwa were taken to D'Antons' quarters. The Frenchman was the spirit of hospitality, and took blankets and sheets from his own bed to dress their couches. Also he produced a flask of priceless brandy, from which he and Kingswell pledged a couple of glasses to the Goddess of Chance. The toast was D'Antons' suggestion.
Presently D'Antons excused himself, saying that he had a matter of business to attend to, and left his guests to their own devices. The house was divided into two apartments by curtains of caribou hides, which were hung from one of the low crossbeams of the ceiling. At the end of each room a fire burned on a roughly built hearth. Two small windows of clouded glass partially lit the sombre interior. Books in English, French, and Spanish, a packet of papers, ink and quills, and a neatly executed drawing of a pinnace under sail lay on a table near one of the windows. Antlers of stags, decorated quivers and bows, painted hides, and glossy skins adorned the rough walls. Above the hearth in the room in which Kingswell and his young companion sat, hung a musket with a silver inlaid stock, a carved powder-horn, and several knives and daggers in beaded sheaths. On the floor lay two great, pink-lipped West Indian shells. A steel head-piece, a breastplate of the same sure metal, and a heavy sword with a basket hilt hung above D'Antons' bed.
Kingswell looked over the books on the table. He found that one of them was a manual of arms, written in the Spanish language; another a work of navigation, by a Frenchman; a third a weighty thesis on the science and practice of surgery; and the fourth was a volume as well-loved as familiar,—Master William Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet." He took up this last, and, seating himself with his shoulder to the window, was soon far away from the failures and daily perils of the wilderness. The greedy, hard-bitted materialist Present, with its quests of "fish," and fur, and gold, was replaced by the magic All-Time of the playwright poet.
Ouenwa wandered about the room, prying into every nook and corner, and examining the shells, the arms, and the decorations. He even knelt on the hearthstone, and, at the risk of setting fire to his hair, tried to solve the mystery of the chimney—for a fire indoor unaccompanied by a lodgeful of smoke was a new thing in his experience. He looked frequently at Kingswell, in the hope of finding him open to questions, but was always disappointed. At last the thought occurred to him that it would be a fine thing to get hold of the great sword above the bed, and make cut, lunge, and parry with it as Kingswell had shown him how to do on several occasions. So he climbed on to the bed, and, in trying to clear the sword from its peg, knocked the steel cap ringing to the floor. Kingswell sprang from his stool, with his arm across his body and his hand on his sword-hilt, and Master Shakespeare's immortal drama sprawled at his feet. "Oh, that's all, is it?" he exclaimed, in tones of relief. "But you must not handle other people's goods, lad," he added, kindly, "especially a gentleman's arms and armour."
Ouenwa flushed and apologized, and was about to step from D'Antons' couch to recover the head-piece, when D'Antons himself entered the cabin. Kingswell turned to him and explained the accident.
"My young friend is very sorry," he said, "and would beg your pardon if he felt less embarrassed. However, captain, I beg it for him. I was so intent on the affairs of Romeo that I was not watching him. He is naturally of an investigating turn of mind."
The Frenchman waved a slim hand and flashed his white teeth. "It is nothing, nothing," he cried. "I beg you not to mention it again, or give it another thought. The old pot has sustained many a shrewder whack than a tumble on the floor. Ah, it has turned blades of Damascus before now! But enough of this triviality! I have returned to request you to come with me to our governor. Neither Trigget nor I have mentioned him to you, as he is not desirous of meeting strangers. But he will make his own apologies, Master Kingswell."
He stood aside, for Kingswell and Ouenwa to pass out before him. Kingswell went first. As Ouenwa crossed the threshold, D'Antons nipped him sharply by the arm, and hissed, "Dog! Cur!" in a voice so low, so sinister, that the boy gasped. But in a breath the Frenchman was his affable self again, and the Beothic, with the invectives still burning his ears, almost believed that he had been the victim of some evil magic. Kingswell caught nothing of the incident.
Ouenwa was requested to wait outside. Master Kingswell was ushered into the governor's cabin, and D'Antons closed the door behind him. The young Englishman found himself in a dimly lit apartment very similar to that which he had just left. He hesitated, a step inside the threshold, and narrowed his lids in an effort to see more clearly. The Frenchman paused at his elbow. Two figures advanced from the farther side of the room. He ventured another step, and bowed with all the grace at his command, for one of the figures was that of a young woman in flashing raiment. The other was of a slim, foppishly dressed man of a little past middle age, with a worn face that somehow retained its air of youthfulness despite its haggard lines and faded skin.
"Welcome to our humble retreat, Master Kingswell," said the gentleman, extending his hand and laughing softly. "This is indeed an unlooked-for pleasure. We last met, I believe, at Randon Hall—or was it at Beverly?"
"Sir Ralph Westleigh!" exclaimed Kingswell, in a voice of ill-concealed consternation and surprise. For a moment he stood in an attitude of half-recoil. For a moment he hesitated, staring at the other with wide eyes. Then he caught the waiting hand in a firm grip.
"Thank you, Sir Ralph. Yes, it was at Beverly that we last met," he said, evenly. He turned to the girl, who stood beside her father with downcast eyes and flaming cheeks and throat. The baronet hastened to make her known to the visitor.
"My daughter Beatrix," he said. "A good girl, who willingly and cheerfully shares her worthless father's exile."
Mistress Westleigh extended a firm and shapely hand, and Kingswell, bending low above it, intoxicated by the sudden presence of beauty and a flood of homesick memories, pressed his lips to the slim fingers with a warmth that startled the lady and brought a flash of anger to D'Antons' eyes. He recovered himself in an instant. "To see you in this wilderness—amid these bleak surroundings!" he exclaimed, scarcely above a whisper. "I cannot realize it, Mistress Beatrix! And once we played at racquets together in the court at Beverly."
The girl smiled at him, with a gleam of understanding in her dark, parti-coloured eyes.
"I remember," she said. "You have not changed greatly, save in size." And at that she laughed, with a note of embarrassment.
"But you have," replied Kingswell. "You were not very beautiful as a little girl. To me you looked much the same as my own sisters."
For a second, or less, the maiden's eyes met his with merriment and questioning in their depths. Then they were lowered. Sir Ralph moved uneasily.
"Come, come," he said, "we must not stand here all day, like geese on a village green. There are seats by the fire." He led the way. "Captain, if you are not busy I hope you'll stay and hear some of Master Kingswell's adventures," he added, turning to D'Antons.
"With pleasure," answered the captain.
"One moment, sir," said Kingswell to Sir Ralph Westleigh. "I have a young friend—a sort of ward—whom I left outside. I'll tell him to run over to the men and amuse himself with them."
As he opened the door and spoke a few kind words to Ouenwa, there was a sneer on D'Antons' lips that did not escape Mistress Beatrix Westleigh. It irritated her beyond measure, and she had all she could do to restrain herself from slapping him—for hot blood and a fighting spirit dwelt in that fair body. She wondered how she had once considered him attractive. She blushed crimson at the thought.
Kingswell returned and seated himself on a stool between the governor of the little colony and the maiden. First of all, he told them who Ouenwa was, and of the time the lad saved him from injury by flooring old Trowley with his canoe paddle. Then he briefly sketched the voyage of the Pelican, and told something of his interests in the fishing fleet and in the new land.
"And you found no indications of gold?" queried D'Antons.
"None," replied the voyager, "but some splendid copper ore in great quantities, and one mine of 'fool's gold.'"
The baronet nodded, with one of his wan smiles. "There are other kinds of fool's gold than these iron pyrites, I believe," he said, "and one finds it nearer home than in this God-forsaken—ah—in this wild country."
The others understood the reference, and even the polished Frenchman looked into the fire and had nothing to say. Kingswell studied the water-bleached toes of his boots, and Beatrix glanced piteously at her father. For Sir Ralph Westleigh's life had known much of fool's gold, and much of many another folly, and something of that to which his acquaintances in Somerset—and, for that matter, in all England—gave a stronger and less lenient name. The baronet had lived hard; but his story comes later.
"I knew nothing of this plantation of yours," said Kingswell, presently. "I did not know, even, that you were interested in colonization—and yet you have been here a matter of two years, so Trigget tells me."
"Yes, and likely to die here—unless I am unearthed," replied Sir Ralph, bitterly, and with a meaning glance at Kingswell. "I put entire faith in my friends," he added. "And they are all in this little fort on Gray Goose River. My undoing lies in their hands."
"Sir Ralph," replied Kingswell, uneasily but stoutly, "I hope your trust has been extended to me,—yes, and to my men. Your wishes in any matter of—of silence or the like—are our orders. My fellows are true as steel. My friends are theirs. The young Beothic would risk his life for you at a word from me."
The baronet was visibly affected by this speech. He laid a hand on the young man's knee and peered into his face.
"Then you are a friend—out and out?" he inquired.
"To the death," said the other, huskily.
"And you have heard? Of course you have heard!"
"Yes."
"It is not for me to say 'God bless you' to any man," said Sir Ralph, "but it's good of you. I feel your kindness more deeply than I can say. I have forgotten my old trick of making pretty speeches."
Kingswell blushed uncomfortably and wished that D'Antons, with his polite, superior, inscrutable smile, was a thousand miles out of sight of his embarrassment. The girl leaned toward him. But she did not look at him. "God bless you—my fellow countryman," she whispered, in a voice so low that he alone caught the words. He had no answer to make to that unexpected reward. For a little they maintained a painful silence. It was broken by the Frenchman.
"You understand, Master Kingswell, that, for certain reasons, it is advisable that the place of Sir Ralph Westleigh's retreat be kept from the knowledge of every one save ourselves," he said, slowly and easily.
"I understand," replied Kingswell, shortly. Captain d'Antons jarred on him, despite all his faultless and affable manners.