The dainty bride leaned on her husband's arm, and together they looked back and waved farewell. Flags answered them from the battery above the cliff. Then she turned to the bridegroom and gazed into his eyes with so radiant and tender a smile that, all forgetful of the abashed salt at the tiller, he drew her to him and kissed her on brow and lips.
"Dear wife," he murmured, and could say no more.
Both were brave in marriage finery,—she in a pearl gown of brocaded silk, a scarlet cloak lined with white fur, and a feathered hat, and he in buff and blue from the wardrobe of the commandant of St. John's.
They gazed astern, across the dancing azure, to the brown and purple rocks beautified by the sunlight and crystal air. "Homeward bound," she whispered, happily, and turned her face from the mellowing coast of the wilderness to the wide east.
Together they walked forward to the break of the high deck. A fair wind bellied the sails. The tarred rigging and scraped spars shone like polished metal. The men, in their brightest sashes and cleanest shirts (in honour of the occasion), went about their duties briskly. The mates wore their side-arms; both watches were on deck, with the gaiety of the days ashore still in their hearts. Not a soul was below save the cook (who sorted provisions in the forward lazaret), Maggie Stone (who sulked in her mistress's cabin because she had not been asked to act as bridesmaid), and old Trowley, with wrists and legs in irons and a dawning repentance in his sullen blood.
An hour later Ouenwa ascended the starboard ladder from the waist, and stood beside Master and Mistress Kingswell. He wore a dashing outfit, which had been made to his shape by the garrison tailor in the days preceding the marriage. A sword was at his belt; lace hung at his wrists; his dark hair, slightly curled, fell to his shoulders. His tanned cheeks were flushed with the excitement passed and the adventures anticipated. Only the dark alertness of his eyes and the litheness of his actions bespoke his primitive upbringing. Though he had been named "dreamer" by his people, he gave promise now of a life of deeds rather than of dreams.
"Do you mourn the little stockade and the great river, lad?" queried Kingswell, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder.
Ouenwa shook his head emphatically and glanced knowingly aloft. "Why should I mourn them?" he asked. "Am I not bound for castles and great houses, for books in number as the leaves of the birch-tree, and for villages filled all day with warriors, and with ladies almost as fair as Mistress Beatrix? Shall I not read in the books, and see horses, greater than caribou, bearing gentlemen upon their backs? Then why would you have me mourn? The land behind us is not a good land. My fathers were brave and wise, and led their warriors to a hundred victories; but they were murdered by their own people. I care not for such a country."
"True, lad," replied Kingswell, "and yet, even in glorious England, you may find ingratitude as black as that of Panounia. Even kings and queens have been guilty of ingratitude."
Beatrix patted the moralist's arm.
"Why think of it now?" she said, gently, "and why fill the dear lad with doubt? Only if he climbs high need he fear disloyalty. As a plain soldier, he shall never lack the protection of such humble friends as ourselves."
Just then a lookout warned them of a sail on the larboard bow. Kingswell and Ouenwa went forward to the forecastle-head. Tom Bent (now of the rank of chief gunner) was already there, peering away under the lift of the jibs. The second mate was with him.
"A large vessel," remarked Kingswell.
"Ay, and we's spoke mun afore now, sir," replied Bent. He was too intent on gazing ahead to see the question in the captain's face. But the mate saw it and answered it.
"She's run up a new spar, sir, an' mended her for'ard riggin'," said he, "an' like enough she thinks she'll take the cost of damages out o' us."
"Ah!" exclaimed Kingswell, with a note of relish. Then he remembered Beatrix, and a shadow darkened his eyes for a moment. "Pipe both watches," he said, quietly. "Arm all hands. Clear decks for action. Master Gunner, you must fight your barkers to-day for more than the glory of England."
He returned to his wife and told her of the menace. She heard the news with an inward sickening, but with no outward tremor. All her fear was for him.
"Promise me that you will go to our cabin when I give the word," he asked.
She nodded and smiled wistfully. "Your obedient, humble wife, my lord," she whispered, with a brave attempt at gaiety.
He caught her hands quickly to his shoulders and kissed her lips. He felt them tremble against his.
"I must help with the preparations, dear heart," he murmured, and hurried away. He consulted the mates and Tom Bent as to the advisability of beating back for St. John's. The mariners shook their heads. They held that the Heart of the West could make a better fight on her present course; and that the battle would be decided, one way or another, before the garrison could send them any help. As if to confirm their views, the wind freshened to such a degree, and held so fair astern, that to beat to windward would require all hands at the sails, and put gunnery out of the question.
"Like enough they be double our strength in men," said Tom Bent, "but we equals 'em in guns and seamanship, sir, an' ye may lay to that."
So the Heart of the West held on her course under a press of canvas.
After Kingswell and Beatrix had talked together for some time, they went forward, hand in hand, to the break of the poop. Tom Bent called the ship's company to attention. The brave fellows, stripped to their breeches and shirts in readiness for the approaching encounter, looked up, and such as wore caps doffed them respectfully.
"My brave lads," cried the lady, in a voice that rang clear above the stir of wind and wave and tugging cordage, "but this morning you made merry for my sake; and now, in so little a while, you will risk your lives in defending your ship and me from that pirate whom we have already encountered. My husband,—your captain,—like a true-bred English sailor, is already sure of victory. A generous mariner, he has promised me the prize; and now I promise it to you. In a few weeks' time, my lads, we shall sell our enemy in Bristol docks. Not a penny of her price shall go to owner or captain; but all into the pockets of this brave company. And should any man fall in the encounter, I pledge my word that those dependent upon him shall lack nothing that money can give them during the remainder of their lives. Now, fight well, for God and for England."
She looked down at them, smiling divinely.
"And for the Lady Beatrix," shouted a youthful seaman.
Cheers rang aloft; bearded lips and shaven lips bawled her name; and great, toil-seared hands were brandished, and stark blades gleamed in the sunlight.
"God bless you, lady," they roared.
She leaned forward and blew a kiss from her lips with both dainty hands.
"God strengthen you, brave hearts," she cried, softly; and the nearer of the loyal mariners saw the tears shimmering beneath her lashes.
The Heart of the West held on her course, breaking the waves in fountains from her forging bow. The Cristobal raced down upon her with the wind square abeam. It was evidently her intention to cross the merchantman's bows and rake her with a broadside.
Aboard the Heart of the West every man was at his post, and the matches were like pale stars in the hands of the gunners. The second mate was on the forecastle-head, beside the bow-chaser. The first mate stood in the waist. Kingswell paced the poop, fore and aft. Each measured and calculated the brisk approach of the Cristobal with unwinking eyes, and considered the straining sails overhead and the speed of the wind.
Still the pirate boiled down upon them, leaning over in the press of the half-gale. It was evident to Kingswell that she would pass across his bows within a distance of a hundred yards, unless something was done to prevent it. He spoke quietly to the men at the tiller, and called an order to the officer amidships. Twenty seconds later he gave the signal. The tiller was pushed over, the yards were hauled around, and the good ship swung to the north and took the wind on her larboard beam. Now the vessels leaned on the same course, and were not two hundred yards apart. Almost at the same moment they exchanged broadsides, and the challenging shouts of men mingled with the roaring of the little cannonades. The smoke from the merchantman's ports blew down, in a stifling cloud, upon the enemy. The Cristobal fell off before the wind in an unaccountable manner. The Heart of the West luffed, in the hope of bringing her heavy after-battery to bear, saw that the manœuvre could not be accomplished, and flew about on her old course.
"Her tiller is shot away," cried Kingswell. A cheer rang along the decks and penetrated the cabins fore and aft. Beatrix heard it, and thanked God. Old Trowley heard it, and, beating his manacled wrists against the bulkhead, roared to be cast loose that he might bear a hand in the fight.
From that first exchange of round-shot, the Heart of the West escaped without hurt, owing to the fact that the enemy's guns, elevated by the pressure of the gale upon her windward side, sent their missiles high between the upper spars of the merchantman. The Cristobal, however, was hulled by two balls, and had her tiller carried away by a third; for, just as her guns were elevated to harmlessness by the list of the deck, so were the merchantman's depressed to a deadly aim by the list of hers.
Taking every advantage which a sound tiller and perfectly trimmed sails gave her over her enemy, the Heart of the West raced after the buccaneer. Passing close astern, she raked her with her three larboard guns. Running on, and slanting across the wind's course more and more, she presently had her two after-guns to bear on the three-quarter target of the Cristobal's starboard side. The range was middling; but, even so, the gunners sent up a prayer to Luck, so violent were the soarings and sinkings of the deck. The shots were followed by a tottering of high sails above the Cristobal, and with a flapping and rending, the mizzenmast fell forward and stripped the main of three of her yards.
Now the disabled, tillerless Cristobal, kept before the wind by a great sweep, fled heavily. Her decks were cluttered with snarled wreckage. Half a dozen of her crew were injured. Her commander and Master Silva were mad with rage at the unexpected turn of events.
Aboard the Heart of the West, Ouenwa had just pointed out to Kingswell the dashing figure of Pierre d'Antons.
"I take it that this is his last play," remarked the young captain, with a grim smile.
For another hour the merchantman sailed about the pirate at her will, pouring broadside after broadside into hull and rigging, and sustaining but little damage herself. Now and then musket-shots were exchanged. Two of Kingswell's men were wounded, and were promptly carried below, where their hurts were tenderly bandaged by Mistress Kingswell and Maggie Stone.
In a lull of the firing, the cook came running to the poop, with word that Trowley was in a fair way to make matchwood of his surroundings.
"What ails him now?" inquired Kingswell.
"He be shoutin' for a chance at the Frenchers," replied the cook. Kingswell considered the matter, with a calculating eye on the enemy. "Cast him loose," said he, "and give him a chance to prove himself an English sailor man."
Trowley appeared on deck just as a shot from the Cristobal struck the teakwood rail of the Heart of the West amidships. A flying splinter whirred past his head. He brandished his cutlass, and bawled a threat across the rocking water. The men at the guns welcomed him with laughter and cheers.
"Ye be in for the kill, master," cried one.
Kingswell beckoned the ex-commander aft, and met him at the top of the ladder. Trowley looked guiltily this way and that.
"I have let you up, my man," said the captain, "that you may bear a hand in the fight. I am willing to forget your knaveries of the past, and remember only your actions of to-day."
Trowley nodded, and for an instant his eyes met Kingswell's.
"You can see what we have done to the enemy," said the other. "But I am in no mind to break her up with this everlasting cannonading. What would you suggest?"
Trowley straightened his great shoulders and lifted his head. "Lay her aboard, sir," said he, "an' make fast."
With a fearful grinding of timbers and rattling of spars, the merchantman's larboard bow scraped along the enemy's side. Boarding-irons were thrown across from the forecastle-deck. With a yell, the men of Devon sprang from rail to rail, and hurled themselves upon the mongrels who clustered to repulse them. Cutlasses skirred in the air; and some struck clanging metal, and some met with a softer resistance. Screams of rage and pain, and shouts of grim exultation, rang above the conflict.
Old Trowley hacked a place for himself in the thickest of the press, and laid about him with such desperate fury and such fearful oaths that the buccaneers hustled each other to get out of his way.
Kingswell, in the waist of the Cristobal, encountered D'Antons, and claimed him for his own. As their blades rasped together, D'Antons began the story of Sir Ralph Westleigh's death in the wilderness. Kingswell heard it without comment. The tumult about them gradually subsided, as man after man of the pirate crew was cut down or bound. Sail was shortened on both vessels, and the victors, sound and wounded alike, gathered about the two swordsmen. A strained silence took possession of the watchers. The rough fellows understood that their captain had an old score to settle with the buccaneer. They were fascinated by the lightning play of the rapiers. They noted every movement of foot and hand, blade and eye. When D'Antons snarled an insulting taunt at his adversary, they cursed softly. When their captain pricked the pirate's shoulder, a husky murmur of admiration went through them. So intent were they on the fight that they failed to notice the approach of Miwandi, the Beothic woman, until she was in their midst. But they became aware of her presence when she screamed with rage and flung herself upon Kingswell.
"Pull the wench off," they cried, and made a futile grab at the mad figure.
Kingswell, quick as a cat for all his Saxon colouring, wrenched himself clear of her, avoided the slash of her knife by a half-inch, and lunged through D'Antons' guard. The buccaneer pitched forward so suddenly and heavily that the rapier was wrenched from the Englishman's hand. The hilt struck the deck. The slim blade darted out between D'Antons' shoulders a full two-thirds of its length. He sprawled on his face, gulping his last breath; and the hilt of Kingswell's weapon knocked spasmodically on the red planking of the deck. The woman, stunned with grief, was led away by two of the seamen.
By the time the duel was over, the long, northern twilight was drawing to a close. The decks of the Cristobal were cleared of the dead bodies and the wreckage of guns and spars. The torn rigging was partially repaired; a few sails were set; and the shattered tiller was replaced. The prisoners (wounded and bound together, they did not number a dozen) were divided between the ships. A prize-crew of seven, under the first mate's command, went aboard the Cristobal. Then the boarding-irons were cast loose, and the vessels fell away from each other to a safe distance.
Miwandi's grief was desperate. Beatrix strove to comfort her, but failed signally. Her position was evident enough to every one who had seen her frantic attempt to assist D'Antons in the encounter with Kingswell. Beatrix guessed the story. Her face burned at remembrance of her one-time companionship with D'Antons—of the days before she fully knew his nature, and often sat at cards and chess with him in the little cabin in the wilderness—and of the days before that, when he was one of her admirers in London. Even now she did not know him for her father's murderer. Kingswell had decided to keep that to himself, until some day in the happy future, when the wilderness should be fainter than the memory of a dream in his wife's mind.
For three days the ships kept within sight of each other. On the fourth, a gale of wind drove them apart; but Kingswell felt no anxiety for the prize, for she had received no serious damage to her hull in the bitter encounter that had befallen on his wedding-day.
Aboard the Heart of the West the wounded improved daily; the prisoners cursed their irons and their luck; the crew never pulled on a rope without a song to lighten the task; old Trowley, promoted from imprisonment to the position of second mate, worked like a Trojan, and Beatrix and Bernard sped the hours in the high and golden atmosphere of love and youth. The Beothic woman, however, felt no response in her heart to the stir and happiness about her. Her world had fallen in a desolation of emptiness, and her very soul was weary of the sequence of day and night, night and day. She would not eat. She sobbed quietly, without rest, in her darkened berth. Her ears were deaf to words of comfort, even when they were spoken in her own language by Ouenwa. She asked no questions. Ever since that first outbreak, at sight of her lover's danger, she accepted the will of her pitiless gods without signs of either anger or wonder.
One still night, when the waves rocked under the faint light of the stars without any breaking of foam, and the wind was just sufficient to swell the sails from the yards, the man at the tiller was startled from his reveries by a splash close alongside. He called to the officer of the watch, who had heard nothing, and told him of the sound. They scanned the sea on all sides and listened intently. They saw only the black, vanishing crests. They heard only the whispering of the ship on her way.
"A fish," said the mate. The other agreed with him.
In the morning Miwandi's berth was discovered to be empty,—no trace of her was found alow or aloft.
The remaining days of the passage slipped by without any especial incident. Winds served. Seas were considerate of the good ship's safety. No fogs endangered the young lovers' homeward voyage. Every night there was fiddling in the forecastle and the chanting of rude ballads. And sometimes in the cabin a violin sang and sang, as if the very heart of happiness were under the sounding-board, and Love himself in the strings.
Dame Kingswell, the widow of that good merchant of Bristol whom Queen Elizabeth had knighted in her latter days, sat in her chamber and looked down upon a pleasant garden beneath the window. She was alone. Her garments, though of rich materials, were sombre in hue. She wore no personal ornaments save two rings on her left hand, and a chain of gold, bearing a small cross of the same metal, at her breast. Her thick hair was snow-white. In her youth it had been as black as her husband's had been flaxen. Her complexion held scarcely more colour than her hair. On her knees a book of devotional poetry, splendidly illuminated about the margins, lay open. But her thin hands were folded over the page, and her gaze was upon the shrubbery of the garden. The time was early evening. The sunlight was mellow gold. The hedges, shrubs, and fountain on the lawns threw eastward shadows.
The chamber in which the widow sat was large and scantily furnished. A few portraits, by masters of the brush, hung along the walls. A prayer-desk, with a red hassock before it, stood in a corner.
A light rapping sounded on the door. The lady turned her eyes from the bright garden below her window. She saw the door open, and a beautiful girl in cloak and hat enter the room. The stranger advanced quickly, in a whispering of silks, and in her glowing hands took the widow's bloodless fingers.
"My dear," said the elder woman, kindly, "I fear my memory is flitting. I do not recall your winsome face. Can it be that you are one of Sir Felix Brown's lasses, grown to such a fine young lady in London?"
The girl sank on her knees and kissed the pale hands lightly and prettily.
"My name is Beatrix Kingswell," she murmured.
The good dame was sorely puzzled. She tried, in vain, to connect this lovely creature with any branches of the late knight's family.
"Then you are a kinswoman of mine?" she queried. "Pray do not kneel there, my dear. Come sit in the window and tell me who you are."
But the stranger did not move.
"I am your daughter," she said. "And—oh, do not swoon, my mother—Bernard is at the door, awaiting your permission to enter."
The widow closed her eyes for a second, leaning back in her chair. She recovered herself swiftly and clutched the skirts of the girl, who was now standing, ready to run to the door and admit her husband.
"What story is this?" she cried, incredulous. "I have no daughter. And Bernard, my son, has lain dead in a far land these weary months."
"Nay, dear madam," replied the girl. "Nay, he is not dead. But let me go to the door, and you will see him with your own eyes. He waits at your threshold, happy and well."
The older woman maintained her hold of her visitor's gown. "And who are you, to bring me word of my son's return?" she asked, with a ring of shrewdness and suspicion in her voice. Dimly, she feared that she was affording sport to some heartless person; for this sudden tale of her son's safety, brought by this gay young lady, had broken upon her pensive reveries like an impossible scene out of a play.
"I am his wife," replied Beatrix. With an effort, she pulled her skirts away from the clutching fingers, and sped to the door. Throwing it open, she admitted Bernard. The youth sprang to where his mother sat, and caught her up from her chair against his breast. With a glad, inarticulate cry, she slipped her arms around his neck and clung hysterically.
Five days after the arrival of the Heart of the West, the Cristobal sailed into port. By that time the story of her capture was well known in the town, and a crowd of citizens gathered on the docks to welcome her. Master Kingswell put her up for sale. In the end, he bought her himself, for something more than she was worth. Every penny of the money Beatrix gave to the brave fellows who had fought and sailed their ship so valorously on her eventful wedding-day. Only that rugged and wayward master mariner, John Trowley, failed to show himself for a share of the gold. He had not the courage to run a chance of another meeting with Lady Kingswell.
Of the future of Bernard, Beatrix, and the lad Ouenwa, something is written in the old records in an exceeding dry vein. Of the fate of the little fort on Gray Goose River, little is known. Some chroniclers maintain that the French overpowered it; others are as certain that the settlers moved to Conception Bay, and there established themselves so securely that, even to-day, descendants of those Triggets and those Donnellys cultivate their little crops, cure their fish, and sail their fore-and-afters around the coast to St. John's.
THE END.