Brothers of Peril: A Story of old Newfoundland

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

The journey proved a long and trying one, through swamps and barrens, and over rock-tumbled knolls. Streams were forded, lakes circumambulated, and rivers crossed on insecure rafts. Through it all, the native girl, Miwandi, kept a brave heart and bright face. D'Antons, however, was preoccupied in his manner, and even gloomy at times. The hardships of that wild existence had begun to tell on his body, and the loneliness to fret his nerves. His infatuation for Mistress Westleigh had dimmed and faded out altogether, leaving only a mean desire for the salve of revenge with which to soothe his injured pride. He would wound her through Kingswell. Sometimes a fear oppressed him that his men might have forgotten his mastery by this time, and might fail, after the two seasons of silence, to continue their cruising of those northern waters throughout June and July, as he had commanded. But that doubt only troubled him in his darkest moods. The loyalty of his subordinate buccaneers of the Cristobal was not to be questioned seriously, for it had been tested in many tight places. Comradeship often forms as trusty ties between the hearts of pirates as between the hearts of honest gentlemen. Once grown beyond the temptations of greed and treachery, it is a safe thing, this loyalty of desperate men for their messmates.

It was Pierre d'Antons' dream to regain the deck of the Cristobal (with Miwandi, of course), and to appear, some fine day, before the little fort of Gray Goose River; to put the settlers to the sword, the buildings to the torch, and to carry the English beauty away with him. He felt that his passion for the proud lady might be easily and pleasantly refired. But he made no mention of Mistress Westleigh to Miwandi, the Beothic girl.

After more than a week of hard travelling, the two ascended the wooded ridge which runs seaward to the bleak and elevated acres of the grim cape of their desire. In a shaggy grove they set up their lodge. At the extremity of the headland, high above the wheeling, screaming gulls and noddies, D'Antons built a circular fireplace of the stones that lay about. Completed, it looked like an altar reared by some benighted priesthood to the gods of the wind and the sea. But no such thought occurred to its architect. His case was too desperate to allow his mind to indulge in such whimsical fancies.

While the woman went in quest of food—fish, flesh, or fowl, what did it matter which?—the man gathered wood and piled it near the queer hearth. He worked without intermission until Miwandi returned from her foraging with a string of bright trout in her hand. Then he built a modest fire within the rough walls of his furnace, and helped the girl clean and cook the fish. By that time the glow of the afternoon was centred behind the gloomy hills, and a clear twilight was over the sea; but as yet the atmosphere held no suggestion of dusk. No sail broke the wide expanse of dark blue ocean with its flake of gray; but to the nor'east a whale breached and blew its little fountain of spray across the still line of the horizon. D'Antons and Miwandi noted these things as they ate, but made no comment upon them.

For several days after the arrival of the two upon the overseeing headland, D'Antons made no other use of his furnace than for the cooking of meals. For that purpose it served admirably, for the walls protected the flame from the ever-flying winds that prevailed over that exposed spot. The adventurer knew that he was early for the Cristobal. Several sails were detected; but of them the only heed taken was the precaution of blanketing the little fire in the hearth with damp soil. The Frenchman did not desire a visit from fishermen of any nationality whatever. He might find it difficult to explain his presence in so unfavourable a spot for either a fishery or a settlement. No doubt they would persist in rescuing him, and, in that case, what reason could he give for wishing to stay in his cheerless camp? So he lay low and watched the passing of more than one stout craft without a sign.

The time arrived when he must set his signals, despite the risk of attracting unwelcome visitors. So he closed the front of the furnace with a boulder, built a brisk fire within, which he heaped with damp moss and punk, and then laid a large, flat stone over the opening in the top of the unique structure. By removing the flat stone, he allowed a column of dense smoke to issue into the air, stream aloft and scatter in the wind. By replacing the stone, the smoke was cut short off. Finding that the contrivance worked to his satisfaction, he let the smoke stream up, uninterrupted. The signalling would only be resorted to when a vessel, which might possibly be the Cristobal, should be sighted. When darkness fell, the fire was allowed to die down. A night signal was unnecessary, as the Cristobal, should she keep the tryst at all, was sure to make an examination of the cape by daylight. D'Antons' last orders had been strictly and particularly to that effect.

A week passed, during which a sharp lookout was kept by the fugitives on the brow of the cape, and the signal of smoke was operated a dozen times without the desired effect. In fact, a large vessel, attracted by the smoke (which was due to D'Antons' tardy realization that the approaching ship was not the Cristobal) altered her course, sailed close in, and sent a boat ashore to investigate. D'Antons and Miwandi had just enough time, with not a minute to spare, to roll up their wigwam and hide it in the bushes, gather together their most valuable belongings, and flee inland to a shelter of tangled spruces and firs. The boat's crew was composed of peaceful fishermen, who were free from suspicion and malice. They climbed to the brow of the promontory with fine hardihood, but once there did little but examine the marks where the lodge had so lately stood and partially overthrow the queer fireplace. They believed that structure to be an altar, built to the glory of some unorthodox god. Then they retraced their perilous way to the little cove under the cliff, and rowed back to the ship. D'Antons stole from his retreat and crawled to the edge of the cliff. He felt a glow of satisfaction when the big vessel stood away on her northward course.

Another week drifted along, and hope wavered in the buccaneer heart. His gloomy moods began to wear on the young squaw's spirits. She begged him to return to the inland rivers—to make peace with her people—to cease his unprofitable staring at the sea.

"The sorrow of the great salt water has entered your heart," she said, "and the moaning of it has deafened your ears to my voice."