EVENTS AND REFLECTIONS
Captain Pierre d'Antons' injury kept him indoors for ten days. During
that time he saw nobody but Maggie Stone, Bernard Kingswell, and Ouenwa.
Kingswell could not help feeling sorry for him, in spite of the enmity
and distrust in his heart. D'Antons made no mention of how he came by
his cut head to the young Englishman. He knew that the other knew--and
sometimes he wondered how much. He accepted such attentions at
Kingswell's hand as any fair-hearted man will make to any invalid, with
what seemed gratitude and humility. But under the mask his blood was
raging. If his hand trembled while receiving a glass of water from the
Englishman, it was as much from the effort of restraining an outburst of
hate as from weakness. Kingswell, clear-sighted by now, suspected the
real state of the other's feelings.
During the days of D'Antons' inactivity, the Beothics made three night
attacks on the fort. Two were repetitions of the one-man demonstrations
of cunning, in which Clotworthy had met his death and young Trigget had
received the cut on his arm. Happily both had failed. The third was an
attack in force, made in that darkest hour just before the first
stirrings of dawn. By good fortune, both William Trigget and Kingswell
were dressed and about at the time of the first alarm. They both ran to
the gun-platform, and there found Tom Bent desperately engaged with two
savages, who had scaled the stockade over the massed shoulders of their
fellows. The intruders were speedily hurled backward, they and a portion
of the breastworks falling on the devoted heads below. At the moment,
Dame Trigget puffed valiantly up the ladder and handed a torch to her
husband. In a second the coverings were pulled from the guns. The
muzzles of the little weapons were declined as far as they would go, and
the fuses were ignited. Comprehending the trend of affairs, some of the
enemy let fly their arrows at the little group in the torch's
illumination. Both William Trigget and Tom Bent were hit, and fell to
their knees. In the same instant of time the guns belched their flame
and screaming missiles into the wavering mass of savages. A yell of
terror and pain, made up of many individual cries, followed the reports
of the guns like an echo.
But along the opposite stockade, things were not going so well for the
settlers. About a dozen of the enemy had gained foothold on the roof of
the storehouse, and from there had jumped into the yard, driving Peter
Harding before them. They were immediately engaged by the Donnellys.
Torches and lanterns glowed and swung about the edges of the conflict.
Matters were looking serious for the defenders (who by that time were
joined by Sir Ralph, Ouenwa, and the redoubtable Maggie Stone) when the
discharge of artillery across the square turned the courage of the
attackers to water, and their victory to defeat. Six of them were cut
down while endeavouring to escape by way of the ladder against the wall
of the storehouse. The rest got away, but none of them unscathed. With
that the fight ended, though the defenders kept to their posts until
broad daylight.
In the morning it was discovered that one of the six warriors who
remained within the fort was still alive. Sir Ralph had him carried to
D'Antons' cabin, and his wounds attended to. They were not of a serious
nature. Black Feather, who was a convalescent by now, recognized a
bitter enemy in the disabled captive. He was for despatching him
straightway, recalling the bitter days of his slavery and the loss of
wife and children. He was dragged away by Kingswell, and Ouenwa
remonstrated with him at some length.
The little garrison had suffered in the brief engagement. William
Trigget had halted three arrows with his big body. Only one had reached
the flesh, thanks to his thick garments of wool and hide; but that one
had cut deep into the muscles of his chest, and the others had bruised
his ribs. Tom Bent was more seriously injured, with a gaping slash in
the side of his neck. Young Peter Harding was laid on his back with a
cracked rib, dealt him by a stone-headed axe, and seemed in a fair way
to remain on the sick-list for some time to come.
The dead Beothics were carried out and buried in a shallow grave near
the honest Clotworthy's desolate resting-place.
It was evident, from the smoke above the woods, that the enemy were
still maintaining the siege, and at even closer range than before. The
continual sight of that evidence of their presence, and the idleness due
to confinement within a few hundred yards of the stockade, began to tell
on the spirits of the settlers. It became a matter of difficulty to
forget the wounded men in such restricted quarters. Bandages and
salves, gruels and plasters, seemed to pervade every corner. Every one
who was not an invalid was a nurse. In addition, the lack of fresh meat
was beginning to be felt. Sir Ralph, who had seemed more cheerful just
after his affair with D'Antons, was fallen back on his black moods.
Mistress Beatrix's cheeks and eyes were losing something of their
radiance, though she carried herself bravely and cheerfully.
Master Kingswell, who had a knack with bandages and such, found his time
fully occupied. He inspected all the wounded twice a day, and he and
Ouenwa took entire charge of D'Antons and the captured Beothic. His only
recreation was a few hours of each afternoon or evening spent with the
Westleighs. He and the baronet fenced, if the visit happened to be paid
during the day; if in the evening, they sometimes played chess, or,
better still, the baronet paced the room in uneasy meditation, and the
youth and the maiden bent their young heads above the pieces of carved
ivory.
Behind the girl's laughter and hospitality, Kingswell detected an
aloofness toward him that had not been noticeable during the first days
of their acquaintance. The thing was very fine--so fine that it was
scarcely a matter of attitude or manner. One of duller perception would
have missed it altogether. It was in no wise a physical aloofness, save
in a certain reservation in the glance of the eye and the softer notes
of the voice. But it worried the young man. He felt that he had failed
in something--that she had set a standard for him, and that he had not
risen to it. With native shrewdness, he suspected that she considered
him crude and conceited. He knew that she considered him brave, and that
she admired his courage; but he was equally sure that his prowess with
the singlesticks against Trigget, and his increasing dexterity with the
rapier, did not tell in his favour in her eyes. "Women are evidently as
unreasonable as the poets depict them," he decided, and tried to acquire
a modest demeanour. But the ability to do so had not been born in him,
and no matter how low and self-abasing his speech, pride shone in his
clear eyes and self-confidence was in the carriage of head and
shoulders.
The baronet's attitude toward Master Kingswell became more affectionate
every day. He recognized the sterling qualities in the youth,--the
honesty, courage, and loyalty, as well as the physical and mental gifts
of quick eye and wrist and clear brain. He derived no little comfort
from his presence in the fort. He felt that in this golden-haired son of
the Bristol merchant-knight his daughter had a second guardian. He knew
that the Kingswell blood, though not noble by the rating of the College
of Heralds, was to be depended on as surely as any in England. In
happier times he had known and enjoyed a certain amount of familiarity
with the elder Kingswell, and had found the broad-minded merchant's
heart as sound as his self-imported wines. He remembered the wife, too,
as a person of distinction and kindliness.
For his own part, the baronet realized more surely, with the passing of
each narrow day, that life offered no further allurement to him. The
slight exhilaration that had followed the defiance and defeat of
D'Antons was of no more lasting a quality than the flavour of a vintage.
The Frenchman was harmless, poor devil, like the rest of them; and in as
fair a way as himself to leave his bones in the wilderness. Yes, he felt
a twinge of pity for him! He could understand that, to an adventurer
like D'Antons, unrequited love was the very devil,--worse, perhaps, than
the fever of the gaming-table. But of course he felt no regret for
having put an end (as he believed) to the fellow's audacious suit. His
regret--if, indeed, he entertained any concerning so recent an event in
his career--was that he had not pricked the buccaneer's bubble of false
power months before--despite the promise he had made him. But as things
had turned out,--as Time had dealt the cards, to use his own words,--the
other's behaviour had allowed him to strike without too flagrant a
breach of his word of honour. He was thankful for that.