WOLF SLAYER COMES AND GOES; AND TROWLEY RECEIVES A VISITOR
Wolf Slayer, who had brought warning of the menace of the freshet to
Fort Beatrix, soon showed his evil hand. He had arrived at the fort in a
starving condition and still weak from wounds received in the battle in
which his father had been killed. Had he been well and filled with meat,
he would undoubtedly have let the inmates of the fort and the camp lie
in ignorance of the danger. For ten days he was fed and cared for by the
settlers. By the end of that time, he felt himself again. The old
arrogance burned in his eyes; the old sneer returned to his lips. Ouenwa
read the signs and wondered how the deviltry would show itself under
such unpropitious circumstances.
Ouenwa's sleep was light and fitful on the tenth night after the
overflowing of the river. About midnight he awoke, turned over, and
could not get back to his dreams. So he lay wide-awake, thinking of the
future. He could hear Bernard Kingswell's peaceful breathing. He thought
of his friend, and his heart warmed to him with gratitude and
comrade-love. He thought of Beatrix, smiled wistfully in the darkness,
and put the bright vision away from him. What was that? He breathed more
softly and lifted his head. Was it fancy, or--or what? He shifted
noiselessly to the farther edge of the couch. A hand brushed along his
pillow of folded blanket. Next moment he gripped an unseen wrist and
closed with a silent enemy.
Minutes passed before the wrestlers stumbled against a stool, with a
clatter that startled Kingswell to his feet. The Englishman leaped to
the hearth, kicked the fallen coals to life, and threw a roll of birch
bark on top of them. Then he stepped aside until the yellow flame
lighted the room. The illumination was just in time, for Wolf Slayer had
the lighter boy on the floor and the knife raised, when Kingswell saw
his way to the rescue. He recognized the youth, and in a fit of English
indignation at such a return for hospitality caught him by neck and belt
and hurled him bodily from the prostrate Ouenwa. Wolf Slayer alighted on
his feet, snatched open the door (which he had left ajar), and fled into
the darkness.
A morning of late May brought a friendly native to Fort Beatrix, with
word that three English ships were in Wigwam Harbour. Then Ouenwa and
Tom Bent made the journey and returned, in due season, with the welcome
news that one of the vessels was the _Heart of the West_.
Both the new boats and the old _Pelican_ were made ready for the
expedition. Kingswell commanded the _Pelican_, with Ouenwa and six
natives for crew. Tom Bent was put in charge of the second boat, and
Black Feather of the third. William Trigget and Donnelly were left to
see that no harm came to Mistress Westleigh--and, as the boats stole
down-stream, in the gray of the dawn, William Trigget treasured in his
hand a duly witnessed document, in which Bernard Kingswell, gentleman,
of Bristol, bequeathed and willed all his earthly goods to Beatrix
Westleigh, spinster, of Fort Beatrix, in the Newfounde Land, and late of
Beverly and Randon, in Somersetshire, England.
The parting between Beatrix and her lover had been a fond one, but the
man had noticed (and in his heart regretted) the fortitude with which
she bade him farewell and godspeed. He worried about it in his sleep,
and again, as he looked longingly at her cabin in the bleak dawn. He
tried to comfort himself with memories of a hundred incidents that
placed the sincerity of her love beyond a shadow of doubt. But, for all
that, she might have shed a few tears. Surely she realized the chances
of danger?--the risk he was running, for her sake? Love is edged and
barbed by just such little and unreasonable questionings.
A white mist wreathed along the surface of Gray Goose River when the
three boats swung down with the current. The Beothics were armed with
English knives. There were no firearms aboard any of the little vessels.
Kingswell and Ouenwa had swords at their belts, and Spanish daggers for
their left hands. Tom Bent was armed with his oft-proved cutlass.
The sun did not get above the horizon until the little fleet was clear
of the river's mouth. There a breath of wind sighed through the cordage,
and the sails flapped up and rounded softly. Kingswell leaned forward
and looked under the square canvas of the _Pelican's_ big wing.
"An extra man," he remarked to Ouenwa, sharply. "Who has taken it upon
himself to improve on my orders?"
A blanket-swathed figure, forward of the mast, turned and crawled aft.
Then the blanket fell away, and Mistress Westleigh, rigged out in an
amazing mixture of masculine and feminine attire, laughed up at the
commander.
"Promise to shield me from the wrath of Maggie Stone, when we go back,"
she whispered, in mock concern.
For a moment Bernard stared, with wonder and embarrassment in his eyes,
the while Ouenwa hid a smile. Then he doffed his hat and caught the
queer figure to his knee; and in the flush of the morning, under the
grave regard of the Beothic warriors, he kissed her on lips and brow.
"What authority has Maggie Stone?" he cried. "If any one has a right to
control your actions, surely it is I."
She slipped to the seat beside him. "And you told me I could not
accompany you--that it would not be safe," she replied.
"Ay, but it was my duty to bid you remain behind," he said. "God knows
it hurt me to refuse your so--so flattering a wish. But you accepted it
calmly, dear heart."
"I accepted it for what it was worth," she laughed. "I could not shed
tears over a parting which I felt certain was not to take place." Her
face changed quickly from merriment to gravity. "I could not have stayed
in the fort without you," she whispered. "Dear lad, I am afraid to
death whenever you are out of my sight. I do believe this love has made
a coward of me!"
For a little while there was no sound aboard the _Pelican_ save the
tapping of the reef-points on the swelling breast of the sail, and the
slow creak of the tiller. Ouenwa, leaning far to one side, gazed ahead,
while the warriors crouched on the thwarts. Then the man stooped his
head close to the girl's.
"But on this trip," he whispered, "you must obey me--for both our sakes,
dearest. It would be mutiny else."
"I shall always obey you," she replied--"always, always--so long as you
do not again leave me alone in Fort Beatrix."
"William Trigget was there," he ventured. "And Maggie Stone."
She laughed at that. "Poor Maggie!" she sighed. "Poor Maggie! She will
rate me soundly for my boldness. She has ever a thousand discourses on
the proprieties ready on the tip of her tongue."
"Ah, the proprieties," murmured Bernard, as if caught by a new and
somewhat disconcerting idea. "Rip me, but I've never given them a
thought!"
Beatrix laughed delightedly. "You must not let them trouble you now,"
she said. "When we get back to Bristol, I will guard myself with a
dozen staid companions, and--" She paused, and blushed crimson. "I
forget that I am penniless," she added.
Kingswell's left hand closed over hers where it lay in her lap. "How
long, think you, shall you stand in need of chaperons in Bristol?" he
asked.
The three boats sought shelter in a tiny, hidden bay, and Kingswell,
Mistress Westleigh, Ouenwa, and Tom Bent made an overland trip to a
wooded hill overlooking Wigwam Harbour. There lay the _Heart of the
West_, close in at her old anchorage after the day's fishing. Work was
going briskly forward on the stages at the edge of the tide. The other
vessels, which were much smaller than Trowley's command, lay nearer the
mouth of the river harbour. The declining sun stained spars and furled
sails to a rosy tint above the green water.
"Hark!" whispered Kingswell, touching the girl's arm, as she crouched
beside him in the fringe of spruces.
A bellowing voice, loud and harsh in abuse, reached their ears.
"'Tis Trowley," he said, and chuckled. "How will he sound to-night, I
wonder?"
"You will not be rash, Bernard,--for my sake," pleaded the girl.
He assured her that he would be discreet.
It was dark when they got back to the little cove in which the boats
were beached. About midnight, with no light save the vague illumination
of the scattered stars, they rowed out with muffled oars. They moved
with such caution that it took them two hours to reach Wigwam Harbour.
They passed the outer ships unchallenged. Then Beatrix was transferred
from the _Pelican_ to Black Feather's boat, and Tom Bent joined the
commander. A veil of drifting cloud shut out even such feeble light as
had disclosed the course to the voyagers. Before them the _Heart of the
West_ loomed dark, a thing of massed shadows and a few yellow lights.
The new-built boats lay about thirty yards aft and seaward of the ship.
The _Pelican_ stole in under the looming stern, with no more noise than
a fish makes when he breaches in shallow water. The crew steadied her
beside the groaning rudder with their hands. Kingswell stood on a thwart
and peered in at the cabin window, as Ouenwa had peered on a night of
the preceding season. The low, oak-ceiled room was empty. A lantern hung
from the starboard bulkhead, and two candles, in silver sticks that bore
the Kingswell crest, burned, with bending flames, on the table. On the
locker under the lantern lay a cutlass in its sheath, and a boat-cloak
in an untidy heap. The edge of the table was within two feet of the
square stern-window.
For a little while Kingswell listened with guarded breath. Then,
swiftly and lightly, he pulled himself across the ledge of the window,
scrambled through, and crouched behind the table. Very cautiously he
drew his rapier with his right hand and his dagger with his left. For a
minute or two he squatted in the narrow quarters, breathing regularly
and deeply, and harkening to the innumerable creaking voices of the
decks and bulkheads, and the muffled voices and laughter from forward.
For the occasion he had donned the hat, coat, breeches, and boots--all
now stained and faded--in which Master Trowley had last seen him.
Suddenly a heavy, uncertain step sounded on the companion ladder just
forward of the cabin door. A volley of stout Devonshire oaths boomed
above the lesser sounds. The door flew open, smote the bulkhead with a
resounding crack, and swung, trembling. The bulky figure of Trowley
entered, and the heady voice of the old sea-dog cursed the door, and
big, red hands slammed it shut again. Kingswell drew a deep breath, and
composed his dancing nerves and galloping blood as best he could. His
emotions were disconcertingly mixed.
The masterful old pirate (for such he surely was, deny the charge if you
like) seemed to fill the cabin to overflowing with his lurching, great
body. He tossed boat-cloak and cutlass on the deck, and yanked up the
top of the locker. With muttered revilings at the excessive cost of West
Indies rum, he produced a bottle of no mean capacity from its
hiding-place, and a fine glass sparkled in the candle-light like
diamonds. Kingswell recognized the glass as one from which he had often
drunk his grog--a rare piece from his house in Bristol. Those articles
the mariner placed on the table, scarcely a foot from the watcher's
head. Next he loaded himself a china pipe with black tobacco, and lit it
at one of the candles. In doing so, Master Bernard heard the puffings
and gruntings with which the deed was accomplished, like half a gale in
his ear. At last the fellow sat down with a thud, squared his elbows on
the table, gazed for a second at the square window that opened on to the
mysterious gloom of the night, and tipped the bottle. The liquor gulped
and gurgled in its passage to the glass. The reek of it permeated the
air.
"Dang it," grumbled the mariner, "d'ye call this rum! Sink me, but it be
half water!"
However, he swallowed the dose with gusto, and smacked his lips at the
end of it as he never would have after a draught of water.
Very steadily and quietly Bernard Kingswell arose to his feet and
looked down at Master Trowley with inscrutable eyes shadowed by his
wide, stained hat. The silence that followed lasted only a few seconds,
but to the staring mariner it seemed a matter of hours. He sprawled on
his low stool, open-mouthed, red-eyed, with his big hands nerveless on
the table, and the lighted pipe unheeded at his feet.
"Traitor!" said Kingswell, coldly; and leaning across the table he
tweaked the purple tip of Trowley's nose between thumb and finger. To do
so, he laid his dagger on the edge of the mahogany for a second. The
indignity called forth no more than a gurgle of terror from the master
mariner. Kingswell plucked up the thin blade and flashed it within an
inch of the whiskered face. Still the fellow sagged on his stool, unable
to stir a muscle. Kingswell whistled three low notes. Ouenwa crawled
through the port, with a coil of light rope in his hand. Tom Bent
followed. Trowley threw off the spell of the supposed ghostly visitation
and got to his feet with a bellow of rage and fear. In an instant he was
flat on his back, with a gagging hand across his mouth and another at
his throat. He was soon bound hand and foot, and securely gagged with a
strip of his own boat-cloak.
Ouenwa stuck his head through the open port, and whispered a word or
two. One by one, four of his braves entered, with their knives
unsheathed. Kingswell motioned them to follow, and softly opened the
cabin door. On the port side of the alley-way, beside the companion
ladder, Trowley's mate lay asleep in his bunk. Kingswell bent over him
and saw that he was a stranger. He nodded significantly; and in an
amazingly short time the mate of the _Heart of the West_ was as neatly
trussed up as the master.
Fifteen minutes later, Tom Bent hung over the rail, aft, and waved a
lantern in three half-circles. And not long after that, Mistress
Westleigh, Master Kingswell, and Ouenwa filled glasses with Canary wine,
in the cabin of the _Heart of the West_. In the waist of the ship the
stout English sailors and the skin-clad Beothics drained their
pannikins, and eyed each other with good-natured curiosity. Old Tom Bent
was toast-master; and also he told them an amazing story.