Brothers of Peril: A Story of old Newfoundland

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

CHAPTER XXIV. A FIRE-LIT BATTLE. OUENWA'S RETURN

The heaps of brush outside the palisades burned with a long-drawn roaring, like the note of a steady wind. It was a terrifying sound. The glare of the conflagration lit the interior of the fort, staining the trampled snow of the yard to an awful hue, staining the faces of the desperate settlers as if with foreshadowing of blood, and painting the walls of the cabins as if for a carnival. The platform upon which the guns stood was a mass of flame before any use could be made of the pieces. The breastwork of faggots burned with leapings and roarings, flinging orange and crimson showers to the black dome above. The savages skirmished behind the girdle of flames, like imps along the blood-coloured snow. The settlers discharged their muskets through the singed loopholes, firing low, and taking the chances with heroic fortitude. Sir Ralph and Bernard Kingswell were here and there, with their swords in their hands and encouragement in speech and bearing. Both knew that this engagement would be a fight to the finish; and both felt reasonably sure that a shrewder and braver commander than Panounia was against them.

The ammunition was carried from the storehouse to the shed over the well, for the fire was already crackling against the log walls of the buildings. Suddenly a sharp report and a high shower of sparks and burning fragments broke from the gun-platform; and, for the moment, the warriors were scattered from that side. One of the cannon had exploded. That corner of the stockade immediately fell and settled to the snow. Next instant the second gun was fired by the flames. It sent its whole charge into the uncertain Beothics, scattering them to cover in yelling disorder. At that the Englishmen cheered, and set about fighting back the encroaching flames.

Inspiration, or a font of courage to be drawn upon at need, must have dwelt behind the shelter of the spruces; for within a very few minutes of the retreat, all the warriors, save the wounded, were about the fort again. Kingswell took note of it, and suspected the inspiration to be nothing else than Pierre d'Antons' insinuating presence and dazzling smile. A spur, too, he suspected—the spur of the mongrel Frenchman's evil sneer and black temper. He knew enough of the aboriginal character to feel that it would prove but a plaything for such a personality as the buccaneer's. He looked across the glowing, smoking breach in the fortifications with hard eyes. He voiced his desire to have the fellow by the throat, or at the point of his sword, in tones that rang like a curse.

Suddenly Kingswell left his post and ran to the well-house.

He knew where the Pelican's powder lay among the stores, done up in five canvas bags of about twelve pounds each. With two of these under his cloak, he returned to his place a few paces from the subsiding red barrier that still held the enemy from the interior of the fort. By this time the back of Trigget's cabin was smouldering. The roofs of the cabins, deep with snow, were safe; but the rear walls were all in a fair way of being ignited by the crackling brushwood, which the warriors of Panounia diligently piled against them.

Kingswell left the protection of the rest of the square to Sir Ralph, William Trigget, and all the men of the garrison save Tom Bent. The old boatswain was, by this time, a very active convalescent. Kingswell whispered a word or two in his ear. They kept a sharp lookout across the wreckage of the fallen corner of the stockade. They saw a party of the enemy gather ominously close to the glowing edge of the breach. Kingswell passed one of the bags of powder to his companion. "When I give the word," he said.

Suddenly the black knot of warriors dashed into the obstruction, brandishing spears and clubs, and screaming like maniacs. Kingswell uttered a low, quick cry, tossed his bag of powder into the glowing coals under the feet of the enemy, and ran for the shelter of the well-house at top speed. Tom Bent followed his movements on the instant. Together they reached the narrow shelter; and, before they could turn about, the air shook and reeled, as if a bolt of wind had broken upon them, a blinding flash seemed to consume the whole night, and a puffing, thumping report stunned their ears. They stumbled against the sides of the shed, clawed desperately, and fell to the ground.

When Bernard Kingswell and the trusty boatswain regained their senses (which had left them for only a few seconds), they crawled from the well-house and stared about them. The square was not so bright as it had been, and, save for a few huddled shapes on the snow, was empty. By the shouting and mixed tumult, they knew that the fighting was now farther away—that the settlers had sallied forth on the offensive. They could not understand such recklessness; but they decided, without hesitation, to take the risk. They ran to the now black gap in the palisades. Fire, coals, wreckage, and even the snow had been hurled and blown broadcast. They crossed the torn ground and headed for the tumult in the fitfully illuminated spaces beyond. Native war-whoops and English shouts mixed and clashed in the frosty air. On the very edge of the shifting conflict, the old sailor clutched his master's arm. "Hark!" he cried. "D'ye hear that now? It be the yell o' that young Ouenwa, sir, or ye can call me a Dutcher!"