BROTHERS OF PERIL
A Story of Old Newfoundland
_WORKS OF THEODORE ROBERTS_
_The Red Feathers_ _$1.50_
_Brothers of Peril_ _1.50_
_Hemming the Adventurer_ _1.50_
_L. C. PAGE & COMPANY_ _New England Building, Boston, Mass._
[Illustration: "A VIVID CIRCLE OF RED ON THE SNOW OF THAT NAMELESS
WILDERNESS"]
Brothers of Peril
A Story of Old Newfoundland
By
Theodore Roberts
_Author of_ "Hemming, the Adventurer"
_Illustrated by_ H. C. Edwards
[Illustration: Logo]
_Boston_ L. C. Page & Company _Mdccccv_
_Copyright, 1905_
BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
_All rights reserved_
Published June, 1905
Second Impression, March, 1908
_COLONIAL PRESS
Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.
Boston, Mass., U.S.A._
Preface
During the three centuries directly following John Cabot's discovery of
Newfoundland, that unfortunate island was the sport of careless kings,
selfish adventurers, and diligent pirates. While England, France, Spain,
and Portugal were busy with courts and kings, and with spectacular
battles, their fishermen and adventurers toiled together and fought
together about the misty headlands of that far island. Fish, not glory,
was their quest! Full cargoes, sweetly cured, was their desire--and let
fame go hang!
The merchants of England undertook the guardianship of the "Newfounde
Land." In greed, in valour, and in achievement they won their mastery.
Their greed was a two-edged sword which cut all 'round. It hounded the
aborigines; it bullied the men of France and Spain; it discouraged the
settlement of the land by stout hearts of whatever nationality. It was
the dream of those merchant adventurers of Devon to have the place
remain for ever nothing but a fishing-station. They faced the pirates,
the foreign fishers, the would-be settlers, and the natural hardships
with equal fortitude and insolence. When some philosopher dreamed of
founding plantations in the king's name and to the glory of God,
England, and himself, then would the greedy merchants slay or cripple
the philosopher's dream in the very palace of the king. Ay, they were
powerful enough at court, though so little remarked in the histories of
the times! But, ever and anon, some gentleman adventurer, or humble
fisherman from the ships, would escape their vigilance and strike a blow
at the inscrutable wilderness.
The fishing admirals loom large in the history of the island. They were
the hands and eyes of the wealthy merchants. The master of the first
vessel to enter any harbour at the opening of the season was, for a
greater or lesser period of time, admiral and judge of that harbour. It
was his duty to parcel out anchorage, and land on which to dry fish, to
each ship in the harbour; to see that no sailors from the fleet escaped
into the woods; to discourage any visions of settlement which sight of
the rugged forests might raise in the romantic heads of the gentlemen of
the fleet; to see that all foreigners were hustled on every occasion,
and to take the best of everything for himself. Needless to say, it was
a popular position with the hard-fisted skippers.
In the narratives of the early explorers frequent mention is made of the
peaceful nature of the aborigines. At first they displayed unmistakable
signs of friendly feeling. They were all willingness to trade with the
loud-mouthed strangers from over the eastern horizon. They helped at the
fishing, and at the hunting of seals and caribou. They bartered
priceless pelts for iron hatchets and glass trinkets. Later, however, we
read of treachery and murder on the parts of both the visitors and the
natives. The itch of slave-dealing led some of the more daring
shipmasters and adventurers to capture, and carry back to England,
Beothic braves and maidens. Many of the kidnapped savages were kindly
treated and made companions of by English noblemen and gentlefolk. It is
recorded that more than one Beothic brave sported a sword at his hip in
fashionable places of London Town before Death cut the silken bonds of
his motley captivity.
Master John Guy, an alderman of Bristol, who obtained a Royal Charter in
1610, to settle and develop Newfoundland, wrote of the Beothics as a
kindly and mild-mannered race. Of their physical characteristics he
says: "They are of middle size, broad-chested, and very erect.... Their
hair is diverse, some black, some brown, and some yellow."
As to the ultimate fate of the Beothics there are several suppositions.
An aged Micmac squaw, who lives on Hall's Bay, Notre Dame Bay, says that
her father, in his youth, knew the last of the Beothics. At that
time--something over a hundred years ago--the race numbered between one
and two hundred souls. They made periodical excursions to the salt water
to fish, and to trade with a few friendly whites and Nova Scotian
Micmacs. But, for the most part, they avoided the settlements. They had
reason enough for so doing, for many of the settlers considered a
lurking Beothic as fair a target for his buckshot as a bear or caribou.
One November day a party of Micmac hunters tried to follow the remnant
of the broken race on their return trip to the great wilderness of the
interior. The trail was lost in a fall of snow on the night of the first
day of the journey. And there, with the obliterated trail, ends the
world's knowledge of the original inhabitants of Newfoundland; save of
one woman of the race named Mary March, who died, a self-ordained
fugitive about the outskirts of civilization, some ninety years ago.
To-day there are a few bones in the museum at St. John's. One hears
stories of grassy circles beside the lakes and rivers, where wigwams
once stood. Flint knives and arrow-heads are brought to light with the
turning of the farmer's furrow. But the language of the lost tribe is
forgotten, and the history of it is unrecorded.
In the following tale I have drawn the wilderness of that far time in
the likeness of the wilderness as I knew it, and loved it, a few short
years ago. The seasons bring their oft-repeated changes to brown barren,
shaggy wood, and empurpled hill; but the centuries pass and leave no
mark. I have dared to resurrect an extinct tribe for the purposes of
fiction. I have drawn inspiration from the spirit of history rather than
the letter! But the heart of the wilderness, and the hearts of men and
women, I have pictured, in this romance of olden time, as I know them
to-day.
T. R.
_November, 1904._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A BOY WINS HIS MAN-NAME 1
II. THE OLD CRAFTSMAN BY THE SALT WATER 9
III. THE FIGHT IN THE MEADOW 16
IV. OUENWA SETS OUT ON A VAGUE QUEST 24
V. THE ADMIRAL OF THE HARBOUR 34
VI. THE FANGS OF THE WOLF SLAYER 43
VII. THE SILENT VILLAGE 56
VIII. A LETTER FOR OUENWA 65
IX. AN UNCHARTERED PLANTATION 73
X. GENTRY AT FORT BEATRIX 83
XI. THE SETTING-IN OF WINTER 94
XII. MEDITATION AND ACTION 104
XIII. SIGNS OF A DIVIDED HOUSE 116
XIV. A TRICK OF PLAY-ACTING 126
XV. THE HIDDEN MENACE 133
XVI. THE CLOVEN HOOF 140
XVII. THE CONFIDENCE OF YOUTH 148
XVIII. EVENTS AND REFLECTIONS 156
XIX. TWO OF A KIND 164
XX. BY ADVICE OF BLACK FEATHER 174
XXI. THE SEEKING OF THE TRIBESMEN 183
XXII. BRAVE DAYS FOR YOUNG HEARTS 190
XXIII. BETROTHED 200
XXIV. A FIRE-LIT BATTLE. OUENWA'S RETURN 207
XXV. FATE DEALS CARDS OF BOTH COLOURS IN THE LITTLE FORT 217
XXVI. PIERRE D'ANTONS PARRIES ANOTHER THRUST 227
XXVII. A GRIM TURN OF MARCH MADNESS 233
XXVIII. THE RUNNING OF THE ICE 241
XXIX. WOLF SLAYER COMES AND GOES; AND TROWLEY
RECEIVES A VISITOR 252
XXX. MAGGIE STONE TAKES MUCH UPON HERSELF 264
XXXI. WHILE THE SPARS ARE SCRAPED 273
XXXII. THE FIRST STAGE OF THE HOMEWARD VOYAGE IS
BRAVELY ACCOMPLISHED 279
XXXIII. IN THE MERRY CITY 287
XXXIV. PIERRE D'ANTONS SIGNALS HIS OLD COMRADES,
AND AGAIN PUTS TO SEA 294
XXXV. THE BRIDEGROOM ATTENDS TO OTHER MATTERS THAN LOVE 306
XXXVI. OVER THE SIDE 317
XXXVII. THE MOTHER 323
BROTHERS OF PERIL
A Story of Old Newfoundland
CHAPTER I.
A BOY WINS HIS MAN-NAME
The boy struck again with his flint knife, and again the great wolf tore
at his shoulder. The eyes of the boy were fierce as those of the beast.
Neither wavered. Neither showed any sign of pain. The dark spruces stood
above them, with the first shadows of night in their branches; and the
western sky was stained red where the sun had been. Twice the wolf
dropped his antagonist's shoulder, in a vain attempt to grip the throat.
The boy, pressed to the ground, flung himself about like a dog, and
repeatedly drove his clumsy weapon into the wolf's shaggy side.
At last the fight ended. The great timber-wolf lay stretched dead in
awful passiveness. His fangs gleamed like ivory between the scarlet jaws
and black lips. A shimmer of white menaced the quiet wilderness from the
recesses of the half-shut eyelids.
For a few minutes the boy lay still, with the fingers of his left hand
buried in the wolf's mane, and his right hand a blot of red against the
beast's side. Presently, staggering on bent legs, he went down to the
river and washed his mangled arm and shoulder in the cool water. The
shock of it cleared his brain and steadied his eyes. He waded into the
current to his middle, stooped to the racing surface, and drank
unstintingly. Strength flooded back to blood and muscle, and the slender
limbs regained their lightness.
By this time a few pale stars gleamed on the paler background of the
eastern sky. A long finger-streak of red, low down on the hilltops,
still lightened the west. A purple band hung above it like a belt of
magic wampum--the war-belt of some mighty god. Above that, Night, the
silent hunter, set up the walls of his lodge of darkness.
The boy saw nothing of the changing beauty of the sky. He might read it,
knowingly enough, for the morrow's rain or frost; but beyond that he
gave it no heed. He returned to the dead wolf, and set about the
skinning of it with his rude blade. He worked with skill and speed. Soon
head and pelt were clear of the red carcass. After collecting his arrows
and bow, he flung the prize across his shoulder and started along a
faint trail through the spruces.
The trail which the boy followed seemed to lead away from the river by
hummock and hollow; and yet it cunningly held to the course of the
stream. Now the night was fallen. A soft wind brushed over in the
tree-tops. The voices of the rapids smote across the air with a deeper
note. As the boy moved quietly along, sharp eyes flamed at him, and
sharp ears were pricked to listen. Forms silent as shadows faded away
from his path, and questioning heads were turned back over sinewy
shoulders, sniffing silently. They smelt the wolf and they smelt the
man. They knew that there had been another violent death in the valley
of the River of Three Fires.
After walking swiftly for nearly an hour, following a path which less
primitive eyes could not have found, the boy came out on a small meadow
bright with fires. Nineteen or twenty conical wigwams, made of birch
poles, bark, and caribou hides, stood about the meadow. In front of each
wigwam burned a cooking-fire, for this was a land of much wood. The
meadow was almost an island, having the river on two sides and a shallow
lagoon cutting in behind, leaving only a narrow strip of alder-grown
"bottom" by which one might cross dry-shod. The whole meadow, including
the alders and a clump of spruces, was not more than five acres in
extent.
The boy halted in front of the largest lodge, and threw the wolfskin
down before the fire. There he stood, straight and motionless, with an
air of vast achievement about him. Two women, who were broiling meat at
the fire, looked from the shaggy, blood-stained pelt to the stalwart
stripling. They cried out to him, softly, in tones of love and
admiration. Jaws and fangs and half-shut eyes appeared frightful enough
in the red firelight, even in death.
"Ah! ah!" they cried, "what warrior has done this deed?"
"Now give me my man-name," demanded the boy.
The older of the two women, his mother, tried to tend his wounded arm;
but he shook her roughly away. She seemed accustomed to the treatment.
Still clinging to him, she called him by a score of great names. A
stalwart man, the chief of the village, strode from the dark interior of
the nearest wigwam, and glanced from his son to the untidy mass of hair
and skin. His eyes gleamed at sight of his boy's torn arm and the white
teeth of the wolf.
"Wolf Slayer," he cried. He turned to the women. "Wolf Slayer," he
repeated; "let this be his man-name--Wolf Slayer."
So this boy, son of Panounia the chief, became, at the age of fourteen
years, a warrior among his father's people.
The inhabitants of that great island were all of one race. In history
they are known as Beothics. At the time of this tale they were divided
into two nations or tribes. Hate had set them apart from one another,
breaking the old bond of blood. Each tribe was divided into numerous
villages. The island was shared pretty evenly between the nations. Soft
Hand was king of the Northerners. It was of one of his camps that the
father of Wolf Slayer was chief.
Soft Hand was a great chief, and wise beyond his generation. For more
than fifty years he had held the richest hunting-grounds in the island
against the enemy. His strength had been of both head and hand. Now he
was stiff with great age. Now his hair was gray and scanty, and
unadorned by flaming feathers of hawk and sea-bird. The snows of eighty
winters had drifted against the walls of his perishable but ever defiant
lodges, and the suns of eighty summers had faded the pigments of his
totem of the great Black Bear. Though he was slow of anger, and fair in
judgment, his people feared him as they feared no other. Though he was
gentle with the weak and young, and had honoured his parents in their
old age and loved the wife of his youth, still the strongest warrior
dared not sneer.
The village of this mighty chief was situated at the head of Wind Lake.
On the night of Wolf Slayer's adventure, Soft Hand and his grandson
arrived at the lesser village on the River of Three Fires. They
travelled in bark canoes and were accompanied by a dozen braves. The
grandson of the old chief was a lad of about Wolf Slayer's age. He was
slight of figure and dark of skin. His name was Ouenwa. He was a dreamer
of strange things, and a maker of songs. He and Wolf Slayer sat together
by the fire. Wolf Slayer held his wounded arm ever under the visitor's
eyes, and talked endlessly of his deed. For a long time Ouenwa listened
attentively, smiling and polite, as was his usual way with strangers.
But at last he grew weary of his companion's talk. He wanted to listen,
in peace, to the song of the river. How could he understand what the
rapids were saying with all this babbling of "knife" and "wolf" in his
ears?
"All this wind," he said, "would kill a pack of wolves, or even the
black cave-devil himself."
"There is no wind to-night," replied Wolf Slayer, glancing up at the
trees.
"There is a mighty wind blowing about this fire," said Ouenwa, "and it
whistles altogether of a great warrior who slew a wolf."
"At least that is not work for a dreamer," retorted the other, sullenly.
Ouenwa's answer was a smile as soft and fleeting as the light-shadows of
the fire.
At an early hour of the next morning the great chief's party started
up-stream in their canoes, on the return journey to Wind Lake. For hours
Soft Hand brooded in silence, deaf to his grandson's hundred questions.
He had grown somewhat moody in the last year. He gazed away to the
forest-clad, mist-wreathed capes ahead, and heeded not the high piping
of his dead son's child. His mind was busy with thoughts of the events
of the past night. He recalled the tones of Panounia's voice with a
shake of the head. He recalled the sullen smouldering of that stalwart
chief's eyes. He sighed, and glanced at the lad in the forging craft
beside him.
"I grow old," he murmured. "The voice of my power is breaking to its
last echo. My command over my people slips like a frozen thong of raw
leather. And Panounia! What lurks in the dull brain of him?"
The sun rose above the forest spires, clear and warm. The mists drew
skyward and melted in the gold-tinted azure. Twillegs flew, piping,
across the brown current of the river. Sandpipers, on down-bent wings,
skimmed the pebbly shore. A kingfisher flashed his burnished feathers
and screamed his strident challenge, ever an arrow-flight ahead of the
voyagers. He warned the furtive folk of the great chief's approach.
"Kingfisher would be a fitting name for the boy who killed the wolf,"
said Ouenwa.
The old man glanced at him sharply. His thin face was sombre with more
than the shadow of years.
"Nay," he replied. "His is no empty cry. Beware of him, my son!"