In reply to his question the gentleman told him that the sun was well up, the fog cleared, and that he was having his boat provisioned for the coastwise exploration trip.
"And mind you," he added, grimly, "that the eighty beaver skins which are now being stowed away in my berth are my property."
"Certainly, sir," replied Trowley. "An' may I ask how ye come by such a power o' trade in a night-time?"
"Yes, you may ask," replied Kingswell. He grinned at the wounded skipper for fully a minute, leaning on the edge of the bunk. Then he said: "I'll now bid you farewell until October. Don't sail without me, good Master Trowley, and look not upon the rum of the Indies when that same is red. A knife-thrust given in drunkenness might lead to the gallows."
He turned and nimbly scaled the companion-ladder, leaving the shipmaster speechless with rage.
Half an hour later the staunch little craft Pelican spread her square sail and slid away from the Heart of the West. She was manned by old Tom Bent, young Peter Harding, and Richard Clotworthy. Master Bernard Kingswell sat at the tiller, with Ouenwa beside him. Their provisions, extra clothing, arms, and ammunition were stowed amidships and covered with sail-cloth. The sun was bright, and the sky blue. The wind bowled them along at a clipping pace. From a mound above the harbour Black Feather gazed after them under a level hand. In the little harbour Trowley's ship alone swung in her anchorage. The others had run out to the fishing-grounds,—for in those days the fishing was done over the sides of the ships, and not from small boats. On either side the brown shores fell back, and the dancing waters widened and widened. White gulls screamed above and around them, flashing silvery wings, snowy breasts, and inquisitive eyes.
Ouenwa looked back, and then ahead, and felt a great misgiving. But Kingswell patted him on the shoulder, and the sailors nodded their heads at him and grinned.
Soon they were among the fleet. The ungainly, high-sterned vessels rocked and bobbed under naked spars. The great business that had brought them so far was going forward. Along both sides of every ship were hung barrels, and in each barrel was stationed a man with two or more fishing-lines. Splashing desperately, the great fish were hauled up, unhooked, and tossed to the deck behind. As the little Pelican slid by, the fishers paused in their work to cheer her, and wave their caps. The masters shouted "God speed" from their narrow quarter-decks, and doffed their hats. Kingswell waved them gracious farewells; Ouenwa gazed spellbound toward the widening outlook; and Tom Bent trimmed the sail to a nicety.
They passed headland after headland, rocky island after rocky island, cove after cove. The shores behind them turned from brown to purple, and from purple to azure. The waves ran higher and the wind freshened. Kingswell shaped the boat's course a few points to the northward. The stout little craft skipped like a lamb and plunged like some less playful creature. Spray flew over her blunt bows, and the sailors laughed like children, and called her a brave lass, and many other endearing names, as if she were human.
"A smart wench, sir," said Tom Bent to Master Kingswell. The commander nodded, and shifted the tiller knowingly. His blue eyes were flashing with the excitement of the speed and motion. His bright, pale hair streamed in the wind. He leaned forward, to pick out the course through a group of small islands that cluttered the bay ahead of them. He gave an order, and the seamen hauled on the wet sheet. But Ouenwa did not share the high spirits of his companions. A terrible, unknown feeling got hold of him. His dark cheeks lost their bloom. Kingswell glanced at him.