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.
CHAPTER XXX. MAGGIE STONE TAKES MUCH UPON HERSELF
Shortly before midnight, Tom Bent went quietly about the task of waking both watches and the Beothics. The three boats from Fort Beatrix were manned, with the muffling oars. The two small anchors by which the Heart of the West swung in the tide were fished into two of the boats by hand. It was a tough job; but, when it was accomplished, the ship was free without so much as a clank of cable or a turn of the noisy capstan. Hawsers were passed from the small craft over the bows of the ship, and at a signal from a lantern in Kingswell's hand, the men bent their backs to the oars. Then all lights aboard the Heart of the West were covered, and in the darkness, beside the great tiller, Kingswell caught his inspiration and his reward to his heart again.
The girl did not leave the commander's side, but kept watch on the high poop-deck throughout the journey. Until dawn the rowers held to their toil, and after them, drawn by lines that were sometimes taut and sometimes under water, but always invisible in the darkness, the ship stole like a shape of cloud and dream. It was hard work, and slow. With the breaking of dawn, the leviathan took on signs of life. By that time she was hidden from Wigwam Harbour by more than one bluff headland. The pulling boats drifted to her bows, the capstan was manned, and the anchors were lifted to their places on the forecast rail. Headsails were set, and the square mizzen was run up. The boats dropped astern and were made fast, and the weary men climbed aboard the ship.
All day the Heart of the West threaded the green waterways of the great Bay of Exploits. A light and favourable breeze lent itself to the venture. After the midday meal, Beatrix, wrapped in a blanket, lay down by the mizzen and fell asleep. She was tired. The easy motion of the ship, and the song of the wind in ropes and canvas, sank her fathoms deep in slumber, with the magic of a fairy lullaby. Kingswell rigged a piece of sail-cloth from the bulwarks to the mast to shade her face from the sun.