Kitabı oku: «Billy Topsail & Company: A Story for Boys», sayfa 5

CHAPTER XIII

In Which There Are Too Many Knocks At the Gate, a Stratagem Is Successful, Red Feather Draws a Tomahawk, and an Indian Girl Appears On the Scene

“McLeod turned on his heel and went to the shop,” David continued; “and when he had ordered a watch to be kept on the clearing on all sides, we devoted ourselves to the matter in hand–the preparation of the regular quarterly statement for the officials at headquarters. But as we laboured, hatchets, knives and the cruel, evil faces of the savages, by whom, as I chose to think, we were threatened, mixed themselves with the figures, to my bewilderment.

“Soon the dusk came, and while I trimmed and lighted the candles in the shadowy outer room there seemed to be shapes in the corners which I had never seen there in quieter times. McLeod, however, was unperturbed. He had forgotten all about the numerous band which he stood ready to defy.

“‘Do you think there is danger?’ said I.

“‘Danger?’ said he. ‘From what?’

“‘Buffalo Horn’s band,’ said I.

“‘Nonsense!’ said he. ‘What is that last total? There seems to be a shilling and sixpence missing here.’

“At that moment one of the helpers came in. He was visibly excited–like a man who bears tidings.

“‘Red Feather is at the gate,’ he said.

“‘Is he alone?’ said McLeod.

“‘Yes, sir. We made sure of that.’

“‘Fetch him here,’ said the factor, calmly. ‘Take Tom and Tobias to the gate, and don’t let Red Feather hold it open.’

“Red Feather was soon brought in. He was the chief of the band, an old, crafty Indian, chief in name, but inferior in authority to Buffalo Horn, who was chief in fact. McLeod continued his work.

“‘Let us talk,’ said Red Feather, at last.

“He spoke in his own tongue, which I shall interpret freely for you. McLeod put his pen aside and faced about.

“‘What have we to talk about?’ he asked. ‘The trading is done. You have your supplies. There is no business between us.’

“‘We have the white man to talk about,’ said Red Feather. ‘He has killed a child of our tribe, and you have given him refuge here. He has killed the son of Buffalo Horn with the evil eye. He must be put to death.’

“‘I know this man,’ said McLeod. ‘He has not the evil eye. He has killed no man, and he shall not be given up.’

“‘His life is forfeit to the tribe.’

“‘His life is in my keeping. I have said that he shall not lose it. Am I the man to break my word?’

“‘You have kept your word between us,’ said Red Feather. ‘You are not the man to break your word.’

“‘What business, then, lies between us? Our talk is done.’

“The guard at the gate interrupted. ‘There is a man knocking at the gate,’ he said.

“‘It is my brother,’ said Red Feather. ‘He comes to join the talk. Let him in.’

“‘Open the gate,’ said McLeod.

“It was growing dark. I went with the guard to admit the brother of Red Feather. Dusk had fallen over the clearing. The sky was overcast; in half an hour it would be deep night, the clearing one with the forest. But we opened the gate. A tall Indian stalked in. He was alone, and I knew him for the brother of Red Feather. I followed him to the shop, making sure first that the bar was in place.

“‘Let us have the white man,’ he said to McLeod. ‘Let the peace between us continue.’

“McLeod perceived the threat. He was not a rash man. He had no wish to provoke a conflict, but he had no thought of surrendering the refugee. As for me, my trust was in the stockade.

“‘I will talk with the white man,’ he said.

“The factor was gone for half an hour. He secreted Landley, inspected the defenses, gathered the women and children in the blockhouse, and returned to the council.

“‘The white man is not blood-guilty,’ he said, proudly. ‘I have promised him protection and he shall have it.’

“Again the helper came. ‘There is another knock at the gate,’ said he.

“‘Who is there?’ said McLeod.

“‘It’s so dark I can’t see,’ said the helper.

“‘The man is my cousin,’ said Red Feather. ‘He has come to talk with us. Let him in, for he is a wise man and may help us.’

“‘Open the gate,’ said McLeod.

“We sat silent, waiting for the cousin of Red Feather, the wise man who might help us. I heard the rattle of the bar as the helper lifted it, then the creak of the gate. Then a furious outcry, a confusion of howls and screams, a war-whoop and a rush of feet. The Indians were within the stockade. A moment later they burst into the shop and advanced upon us, uttering blood-curdling whoops and brandishing their hatchets and knives. McLeod reached for the musket above the desk, but before his fingers touched it Red Feather caught him by the arms, and with the help of the brother made him prisoner. At the same instant I was secured.

“‘Let us strike! Let us strike!’ the Indians kept shouting, all the while dancing about us, flourishing their weapons.

“The danger was real and terrible. We were at the mercy of the band, and at that moment I did not doubt that they were bent on murder and pillage. There had been a cruel massacre at Fort Pine but a few months before. The story was fresh in my mind. That crime had gone unpunished; nor was it likely that a sufficient force would be sent west to give the band their due. There was nothing now to deter Red Feather’s men from committing a similar outrage. We were remote from our kind, on the edge of a wilderness into which escape was a simple matter. Our guns, as I have said, had been our law and defense, and we were now utterly in the power of our enemies.

“‘Let us strike! Let us strike!’ was the cry.

“Buffalo Horn had come in with the band. It was soon evident that to the restraining influence of his presence was due our respite. He waved his braves back. They withdrew and became quiet.

“‘Will you give the murderer of my child to our tribe?’ the chief said to McLeod.

“‘He is no longer mine to give,’ said the factor.

“‘Will you give him to us in peace and forget that he has gone with us?’

“McLeod was still in the grasp of Red Feather and his brother. Buffalo Horn was facing him. Behind the chief, awaiting his signal, was the band, with knives and hatchets in hand.

“‘No,’ said McLeod.

“The tumult was renewed. The Indians advanced, threatening the factor with their weapons and crying out for his death. But McLeod was not to be terrified.

“‘Let us take the white man,’ said Buffalo Horn, lifting his hand for silence. ‘We have no quarrel with you. Let all be as it was.’

“‘No,’ said McLeod. ‘I will never consent to his murder.’

“‘Let us take him.’

“‘I said I wouldn’t,’ said McLeod, ‘and I won’t.’

“It seemed to me that the end had come. Buffalo Horn looked steadily into McLeod’s eyes. McLeod gave him glance for glance. He was ready to die for the word he had passed. The Indian hesitated. It may be that he did not want to precipitate the slaughter. Then he turned, as if to give the signal. Before his hand was raised, however, the daughter of the Indian interpreter of the post pushed her way through the band of braves and stood before their chief.

“‘Listen,’ said she. ‘Have you come to rob the great company of its goods?’

“‘No,’ said Buffalo Horn. ‘We have no quarrel with the great company.’

“She was a slip of a girl, to whom, in sickness and in health, McLeod had been unfailingly kind. She knew no fear, and in intelligence she was superior to all the other women of her race I have known.

“‘Have you come to take the life of this man?’ she went on, moving closer to Buffalo Horn, and looking deep into his eyes.

“‘No,’ said the chief, ‘we have no quarrel with this man. He is a good man, but he will not deliver the murderer of my child.’

“‘Will you take his life because of that?’

“‘No; we will take his life because he will betray our part in the death of the white man whom he has tried to shelter.’

“‘There are others who might betray you.’

“‘And their lives, also,’ said Buffalo Horn, composedly.

“All that had been implied was now expressed. He was to massacre us all to shield his tribe from the punishment that might follow the discovery of his revenge.

“‘You will lay waste the fort,’ said the interpreter’s daughter, ‘but will the ruins not accuse you to the great company which this man serves?’

“‘We will be far away.’

“‘And will you never care to return to the grounds you have hunted from childhood?’

“To this Buffalo Horn made no reply. He looked at the floor, his arms folded, and he was silent for a long time.

“‘This man,’ said the girl, touching McLeod on the shoulder, ‘has dealt fairly by you. He has kept his faith with you. He said that he would provide you with food through the hard seasons. Has he not done so?’

“‘He has kept faith with us,’ said the chief. ‘Therefore he is a good man.’

“‘He is a good man because he has kept faith with you,’ the girl said, eagerly. ‘Would you, then, have him break faith with some other? He has said to the white man, “I will not give you up.” Would you have him break the word he has passed? For if he breaks it once, will he not break it again? If he should yield up the white man, what security would you have that he would provide for you through the next hard season?’

“‘He keeps his word,’ said Buffalo Horn. ‘He is a good man.’

“He made a sign to Red Feather to release McLeod. Then he gathered his braves about him, and stalking solemnly at their head, led them out of the shop, over the courtyard and through the gate. We were left alone.

“‘Leave the gate open, Tobias,’ said McLeod. ‘Come, boy,’ to me, ‘let us get to work on the quarterly statement again. This interruption came at an awkward time. We’ll have to make up for it.’”

That was the end of David’s story.

CHAPTER XIV

In Which Jimmie Grimm and Master Bagg Are Overtaken by the Black Fog in the Open Sea and Lose the Way Home While a Gale is Brewing

Jimmie Grimm and Bagg, returning from Birds’ Nest Islands, were caught by the black fog in the open sea. It had been lowering all day. Dull clouds had hung in the sky since early morning and had kept the waters of the sea sombre. There was no wind–not the faintest breath or sigh. The harbour water was still; and the open–beyond the tickle rocks–was without a ripple or hint of ground swell. A thick, gray mist crept out from the hills, late in the afternoon, and presently obscured the shore. Jimmie and Bagg were then off Mad Mull. Two miles of flat sea and windless space lay between the punt and the harbour.

“Goin’ t’ be thick as mud,” Jimmie grumbled.

“Wisht we was more inshore,” said Bagg, anxiously.

At dusk the fog was so thick that every landmark had been blotted from sight.

“Is you able t’ see Mad Mull?” Jimmie demanded.

“I is not,” said Bagg.

Mad Mull was lost in the fog. It was the last landmark. The tickle rocks, through which a passage leads to the harbour, had long ago vanished.

“Wisht we was home,” said Bagg.

“Don’t you go an’ get scared, Bagg,” Jimmie laughed. “Never you fear. I’ll take you home.”

It was hot, dark and damp–a breathless evening. There was a menace in the still air and heat. A roll of thunder sounded from the northeast.

“I ’low ’twill blow afore long,” said Jimmie.

“’Urry up,” said Bagg.

Jimmie put a little more strength into the rowing. The punt moved faster, but not fast enough to please Bagg, who was terrified by the fog, the thunder and the still, black water.

“Never you fear,” Jimmie grumbled; “you’ll get home afore the wind comes.”

Bagg wasn’t so sure of that.

“An’ it will come,” Jimmie reflected. “I can fair feel it on the way.”

Jimmie pulled doggedly. Occasionally a rumble of thunder came out of the northeast to enliven his strokes. There was no wind, however, as yet, except, perhaps, an adverse stirring of the air–the first hint of a gale. On and on crept the punt. There was no lessening of the heat. Jimmie and Bagg fairly gasped. They fancied it had never been so hot before. But Jimmie did not weaken at the oars; he was stout-hearted and used to labour, and the punt did not lag. On they went through the mist without a mark to guide them. Roundabout was a wall of darkening fog. It hid the whole world.

“Must be gettin’ close inshore,” said Jimmie, at last, while he rested on his oars, quite bewildered.

“What you stoppin’ for?” Bagg demanded.

“Seems t’ me,” said Jimmie, scratching his head in a puzzled way, “that we ought t’ be in the tickle by this time.”

It was evident, however, that they were not in the tickle.⁴ There was no sign of the rocks on either hand. Jimmie gazed about him in every direction for a moment. He saw nothing except a circle of black water about the boat. Beyond was the black wall of fog.

“Wonderful queer,” thought he, as he dipped his oars in the water again; “but I ’low we ought t’ be in the harbour.”

There was a louder clap of thunder.

“We’ll have that wind afore long,” mused Jimmie.

“You ’aven’t gone an’ lost your way, ’ave you?” Bagg inquired in a frightened voice.

“Wonderful queer,” Jimmie replied. “We ought t’ be in the harbour by this time. I ’low maybe I been pullin’ too far t’ the nor’east.”

“No, you ’aven’t,” said Bagg; “you been pullin’ too far t’ the sou’east.”

“I ’low not,” mused Jimmie.

“’Ave, too,” Bagg sniffed.

Jimmie was not quite sure, after all. He wavered. Something seemed to be wrong. It didn’t feel right. Some homing instinct told him that the tickle rocks did not lie in the direction in which the bow of the punt pointed. In fact, the whole thing was queer–very queer! But he had not pulled too far to the southeast; he was sure of that. Perhaps, too far to the northeast. He determined to change his course.

“Now, Bagg,” said he, confidently, “I’ll take you into harbour.”

A clap of thunder–sounding near at hand–urged the boy on.

“Wisht you would,” Bagg whimpered.

Jimmie turned the boat’s head. He wondered if he had turned far enough. Then he fancied he had turned too far. Why, of course, thought he, he had turned too far! He swerved again towards the original direction. This, however, did not feel just right. Again he changed the course of the boat. He wondered if the harbour lay ahead. Or was it the open sea? Was he pulling straight out from shore? Would the big wind catch the little punt out of harbour?

“How’s she headin’ now?” he asked Bagg.

“You turned too far,” said Bagg.

“Not far enough,” said Jimmie.

Jimmie rowed doggedly on the course of his choosing for half an hour or more without developing anything to give him a clue to their whereabouts. Night added to the obscurity. They might have been on a shoreless waste of water for all that they were able to see. The mist made the night impenetrable. Jimmie could but dimly distinguish Bagg’s form, although he sat not more than five feet from him; soon he could not see him at all. At last he lifted his oars and looked over the bow.

“I don’t know where we is,” he said.

“No more do I,” Bagg sobbed.

“I ’low we’re lost,” Jimmie admitted.

Just then the first gust of wind rippled the water around the boat and went whistling into the mist.

CHAPTER XV

In Which it Appears to Jimmie Grimm and Master Bagg That Sixty Seconds Sometimes Make More Than a Minute

Ruddy Cove is deep–vastly deep–except in one part. That is in Burnt Cove within the harbour. There at low tide it is shallow. Rocks protrude from the water–dripping and covered with a slimy seaweed. And Burnt Cove lies near the tickle to the sea. You pass between the tickle rocks, bear sharply to the right and are presently in the cove. It is a big expanse, snugly sheltered; and it shallows so slowly that there are many acres of quiet water in which the little fellows of Ruddy Cove learn to swim.

Ezekiel Rideout’s cottage was by Burnt Cove; and Bagg wished most heartily that he were there.

But Bagg was at sea. And the punt was a small one. It was not Jimmie Grimm’s fishing punt; it was a shallow little rodney, which Jimmie’s father used for going about in when the ice and seals were off the coast. It was so small and light that it could be carried over the pans of ice from one lane of open water to another. And being small and light it was cranky. It was no rough weather boat; nor was it a boat to move very much about in, as both boys were quite well aware.

Bagg heard Jimmie’s oars rattle in the row-locks and the blades strike the water. The boat moved forward. Jimmie began to row with all his strength–almost angrily. It was plain that he was losing his temper. And not only did he lose his temper; he had grown tired before he regained it.

“Here, Bagg,” said he; “you have a go at it.”

“I’ll ’ave a try,” Bagg agreed.

Jimmie let the oars swing to the side and Bagg made ready to steady the little boat. Bagg heard him rise. The boat rocked a little.

“Steady!” Bagg gasped.

“Steady, yourself!” Jimmie retorted. “Think I don’t know how t’ get around in a rodney?”

It was now so dark, what with night and fog, that Bagg could not see Jimmie. But presently he understood that Jimmie was on his feet waiting for him to rise in his turn. They were to exchange places. Bagg got to his feet, and, with all the caution he could command, advanced a step, stretching out his hands as he did so. But Bagg had not been born on the coast and was not yet master of himself in a boat. He swayed to the left–fairly lurched.

“Have a care!” Jimmie scolded.

Have you never, in deep darkness, suddenly felt a loss of power to keep your equilibrium? You open your eyes to their widest. Nothing is to be seen. You have no longer a sense of perpendicularity. You sway this way and that, groping for something to keep you from falling. And that is just what happened to Bagg. He was at best shaky on his legs in a boat; and now, in darkness and fear, his whole mind was fixed on finding something to grasp with his hands.

“Is you ready?” asked Jimmie.

“Uh-huh!” Bagg gasped.

“Come on,” said Jimmie; “but mind what you’re about.”

Bagg made a step forward. Again the boat rocked; again the darkness confused him, and he had to stop to regain his balance. In the pause it struck him with unpleasant force that he could not swim. He was sure, moreover, that the boat would sink if she filled. He wished he had not thought of that. A third half-crawling advance brought him within reach of Jimmie. He caught Jimmie’s outstretched hand and drew himself forward until they were very close.

“Look out!” he cried.

He had crept too far to the right. The boat listed alarmingly. They caught each other about the middle, and crouched down, waiting, rigid, until she had come to an even keel.

Presently they were ready to pass each other.

“Now,” said Jimmie.

Bagg made the attempt to pass him. The foothold was uncertain; the darkness was confusing. He moved to the side, but so great was his agitation that he miscalculated, and the boat tipped suddenly under his weight. The water swept over the gunwale. Bagg would have fallen bodily from the punt had it not been for Jimmie’s clutch on his arm. In the light they might have steadied themselves; in the dark they could not.

Jimmie drew Bagg back–but too hurriedly, too strongly, too far. The side of the boat over which he had almost fallen leaped high in the air and the opposite gunwale was submerged. Jimmie released him, and Bagg collapsed into a sitting posture in the bottom. Instinctively he grasped the gunwales and frantically tried to right the boat. He felt the water slowly curling over.

“She’s goin’ down,” said Jimmie.

“Sinkin’!” Bagg sobbed.

The boat sank very slowly, gently swaying from side to side. Bagg and Jimmie could see nothing, and all they could hear was the gurgle and hissing of the water as it curled over the gunwales and eddied in the bottom of the boat. Bagg felt the water rise over his legs–creep to his waist–rise to his chest–and still ascend. Through those seconds he was incapable of action. He did not think; he just waited.

Jimmie wondered where the shore was. A yard or a mile away? In which direction would it be best to strike out? How could he help Bagg? He must not leave Bagg to drown. But how could he help him? What was the use of trying, anyhow? If he could not row ashore, how could he manage to swim ashore? And if he could not get ashore himself, how could he help Bagg ashore?

Nothing was said. Neither boy breathed. Both waited. And it seemed to both that the water was slow in coming aboard. But the water came. It came slowly, perhaps–but surely. It rose to Bagg’s shoulders–to his chin–it seemed to be about to cover his mouth and nostrils. Bagg already had a stifled sensation–a frantic fear of smothering; a wish to breathe deep. But he did not stir; he could not rise.

The boys felt a slight shock. The water rose no more. There was a moment of deep silence.

“I–I–I ’low we’ve grounded!” Jimmie Grimm stuttered.

The silence continued.

“We sure is!” Jimmie cried.

“Wh-wh-where ’ave we got to?” Bagg gasped, his teeth chattering with the fright that was not yet passed.

Silence again.

“Ahoy, there!” came a voice from near at hand in the foggy night. “What you boys doin’ out there?”

“We’re in Burnt Cove,” said Jimmie, in amazement, to Bagg. “’Tis Uncle Zeke’s voice–an’, ay, look!–there’s the cottage light on the hill.”

“We’re comin’ ashore, Uncle Zeke,” Bagg shouted.

The boat had grounded in less than three feet of water. Jimmie had brought her through the tickle without knowing it. The boys emptied her and dragged her ashore just as the rain and wind came rushing from the open sea.

That’s why Jimmie used to say with a laugh:

“Sixty seconds sometimes makes more than a minute.”

“Bet yer life!” Bagg would add.