"Get iron fire—plenty iron—make heap things—get heap sail—heap things—burn ship so no can find—good—Maquina heap rich—plenty much gun—fight—kill—big chief. Ugh!"
Here he smote his breast, and strutted about in a lordly way until he caught sight of one of his wives taking a drink out of a decanter of rum that had stood on the Captain's table, and which the King had brought on shore as a precious find. Calling her a "peshak," which signifies a very bad woman, Maquina threw his spear at her, with the effect of knocking the bottle from her hand and breaking it on the ground. Forgetting kingly demeanor in his rage, he next hurled his war-club after the screaming woman, narrowly missing her head.
"Squaw bad—much whip," grunted the King, as he surveyed the broken glass and the little pool of liquor fast being absorbed into the earth. For a moment he eyed it wistfully, then got down on his knees and sucked up a mouthful of the spirit, after which he received back his spear and club from an obsequious attendant, rewarding his subject and relieving his own outraged feelings by giving the poor savage a rap across the back that sent him flying from the royal presence.
Upon going on board the Boston the chief entered the cabin to ransack the officers' rooms, and John descended into the hold in order to obtain a number of bars of iron with which to make the spear-heads and the like. While getting them slung for hoisting on deck he heard his name pronounced in a Christian voice, and looking in the direction of the sound, saw the dishevelled sail-maker of the ship. He had been in the 'tweendecks when the massacre occurred, where he had hastened half dressed from his bunk at the time of the attack. In a few words he was made acquainted with the story of the tragedy; then John told him that as everything was to be at once removed from the vessel, his hiding-place would soon be discovered, but that he had a plan by which he hoped to save his life, and for him to conceal himself again while he would go on deck and talk with the King. Entering the officers' quarters, John found the chief had togged himself out in the Captain's clothes and was in excellent humor as he proudly surveyed himself in the looking-glass which encased the mizzenmast where it passed through the cabin. Throwing himself on his knees before the King, John said that he had found his father, the sail-maker, alive, and begged that his life might be spared, claiming that his parent would make a great white house out of the ship's sails, and that this would be so beautiful as to cause all the other chiefs in the land to die of envy. Maquina appeared greatly pleased, and promised that "John's father" should not be harmed. Going on deck he addressed his men, telling them the story, and ordered John to call the sail-maker on deck. The old man made his way up the ladder and kneeled before the Chief, who lifted him up, saying:
"How John's Father? Maquina no kill—make plenty white tepee—make heap canoe sail—heap good. Ugh!"
"THE SAIL-MAKER SMOKED THE PIPE OF PEACE WITH THE KING."
Several days later, when everything of value to the savages had been carried on shore, the vessel was set on fire. That night on shore in Maquina's tent, dressed in the remnants of some hunter's costume, the sail-maker smoked the pipe of peace with the King, and made his position in the camp as secure as John's.
Maquina's riches soon became known to the tribes on the coast, and several raids were made upon his village by the covetous savages, but in every instance they were repulsed with considerable loss, owing to the muskets with which the chief's followers were armed. John and John's Father, as the sail-maker was known and called, were made much of by the King, and granted many indulgences, but were not allowed to lead idle lives, as the duty of the first was to keep all the guns and other arms in repair, while the other, as sail-maker-in-chief of the King's navy, was obliged to manufacture the sails with which the canoes were fitted. Thus nearly three years passed away, and when they had almost given up hope of escape, the trading brig Lydia, of Boston, commanded by Captain Samuel Hill, came to anchor one afternoon in the cove where a few blackened timber-heads sticking out of the sand marked the grave of the stately vessel that had once been moored on its gentle surface. After placing a guard over John and the sail-maker, and forbidding them to move out of their hut, Maquina went off to the brig to trade. Owing to a curiosity that probably cost them their heads before the next sun rose, the two sentinels shortly made their way to the beach in order to look upon the strange ship with whose people their neighbors were carrying on a lively trade, while they were left in the deserted village and deprived of the opportunity of exchanging the skins and furs that they had been saving for so long.
As soon as their guard disappeared the two captives plunged into the woods and made their way around the bend of the cove so as to approach the brig on the opposite side to the village. Waiting under cover until night had fallen, they took to the water and swam off to the ship, where they told their story, and were warmly received by the Captain and crew. A close watch was kept during the night to prevent a possible surprise by the natives, and when morning came the vessel was hauled out of the cove and anchored at some distance from the shore. Shortly after this Maquina's canoe was seen coming out to the ship. When it drew near, the King stood up and eagerly scanned the faces observing him from over the rail. He failed at first to recognize his two former captives, so great a change had been effected in their appearance by the aid of soap, scissors, and civilized dress; but suddenly penetrating this disguise, he burst into tears, stretched his arms out to them, and passionately cried: