“Let go!” shouted the guide, in a voice that was heard loud and clear above the roar of the elements.
“Ay, ay,” replied the Irishman, untwisting the rope instantly, as with a sharp hiss the squall descended on the boat.
At that moment the rope became entangled round one of the oars, and the gale burst with all its fury on the distended sail, burying the prow in the waves, which rushed inboard in a black volume, and in an instant half filled the boat.
“Let go!” roared the guide again, in a voice of thunder; while Mike struggled with awkward energy to disentangle the rope.
As he spoke, an Indian, who during the storm had been sitting beside the mast, gazing at the boiling water with a grave, contemplative aspect, sprang quickly forward, drew his knife, and with two blows (so rapidly delivered that they seemed but one) cut asunder first the sheet and then the halyards, which let the sail blow out and fall flat upon the boat. He was just in time. Another moment and the gushing water, which curled over the bow, would have filled them to the gunwale. As it was, the little vessel was so full of water that she lay like a log, while every toss of the waves sent an additional torrent into her.
“Bail for your lives, lads!” cried Mr Park, as he sprang forward, and, seizing a tin dish, began energetically to bail out the water. Following his example, the whole crew seized whatever came first to hand in the shape of dish or kettle, and began to bail. Charley and Harry Somerville acted a vigorous part on this occasion—the one with a bark dish (which had been originally made by the natives for the purpose of holding maple-sugar), the other with his cap.
For a time it seemed doubtful whether the curling waves should send most water into the boat, or the crew should bail most out of it. But the latter soon prevailed, and in a few minutes it was so far got under that three of the men were enabled to leave off bailing and reset the sail, while Louis Peltier returned to his post at the helm. At first the boat moved but slowly, owing to the weight of water in her; but as this grew gradually less, she increased her speed and neared the land.
“Well done, Redfeather,” said Mr Park, addressing the Indian as he resumed his seat; “your knife did us good service that time, my fine fellow.”
Redfeather, who was the only pure native in the brigade, acknowledged the compliment with a smile.
“Ah, oui,” said the guide, whose features had now lost their stern expression. “Them Injins are always ready enough with their knives. It’s not the first time my life has been saved by the knife of a redskin.”