The Sun Of Quebec Part 11

"So, Peter Smith," he said, "you've decided to come back a second time.

I knew that you couldn't stay away always from such a good, kind captain as I am. I saw the light of welcome in your eyes when we met so unexpectedly at the George Inn, and I decided that it was only a question of time until you came into my service again."

Robert stared at him. His mind, which would not work hitherto, recovered its power with great suddenness. All his faculties were keen and alert, and they coordinated smoothly and perfectly. He had been trapped. He had been struck from behind, while he pursued Garay with such eagerness. He had been careless, and once more he was in the power of the slaver. And there was the spy, too, in the prow of the boat, with his back to him, but that very back seemed to express insolent triumph. He felt a great sinking of the heart, but in a few moments recalled his courage. His was a spirit that could not be crushed. His head still ached and he was a prisoner, but his courage was invincible, and he put on a light manner.

"Yes, I've come back," he said. "You see, Captain, there are some things concerning you of which I'm not sure, and I couldn't part from you permanently until I learned them."

"I'm glad of it, Peter. You've an inquiring mind, I know, and you'll have plenty of opportunity to learn everything about me. We're likely to be together for quite a while."

Robert looked around. He was in a long boat, and there were four oarsmen, stout fellows, rough of looks and with hangers and pistols in their belts. Garay and the captain completed the party, and both the slaver and the spy were armed heavily. He saw that he had no earthly chance of escape at present, and he resigned himself for the moment. The slaver read his look.

"I'm glad, Peter," he said, "that you've given up the thought of leaving us that was flitting around in your head a minute or two ago. You're in a better state of mind now, and it was not possible anyway. Nor will there be any storm to send you away from me again. A chance like that wouldn't happen once in a hundred times. I suppose you understand where you are."

"I'm in a boat a few miles above Albany, and I think that before long you'll turn and go back down the stream."

"Why, Peter?"

"Because there's nothing for you to go to up the stream. If you kept on you'd arrive in the Indian country, and I doubt whether that's any part of your plan."

"Clever, Peter, clever! and well reasoned. I see that your intellect's as good as ever. You must rise above the place of a common seaman. When you're a little older there's a mate's berth for you."

Garay turned for the first time, and his malignant look of triumph was not veiled at all.

"You and Willet and the Indian thought you were very clever there in the forest when you compelled me to tell where the paper was hid," he said, "but you forgot that I might make repayment. We've taken you out of Albany from the very center of your friends, and you'll never see them again."

"Theatricals! theatricals!" said Robert, preserving his gay manner, though his heart was low within him. "A cat has nine lives, but I have ten. I've been twice a prisoner of the French, and my presence here is proof that I escaped both times. When I tire of your society and that of the captain I'll leave you."

"No quarreling! no quarreling!" said the slaver. "I never allow it among my men. And now, Peter, I must insure your silence for a little while."

Two of the men who were rowing dropped their oars, seized him, bound and gagged him. He struggled at first against the indignity, but, soon realizing its futility, lay inert on the bottom of the boat.

"Good judgment, Peter," said the slaver, looking down at him. "It's never wise to struggle against a certainty. You've the makings of a fine officer in you."

The two resumed their oars, and the boat, turning abruptly, as Robert had surmised it would, went down the stream. The men ceased to talk and the lad on his back looked up at the sky in which but few stars twinkled. Heavy clouds floated past the moon, and the night was darkening rapidly. Once more his heart sank to the uttermost depths, and it had full cause to do so. For some reason he had been pursued with singular malice and cunning, and now it seemed that his enemies were triumphant. Tayoga could trail him anywhere on land, but water left no trail. He was sure that his captors would keep to the river.

The speed of the boat increased with the efforts of the rowers and the favor of the current. Soon it was opposite Albany and then the men rowed directly to a small schooner that lay at anchor, having come up the stream the day before. Robert was lifted on board and carried into the depths of the vessel, where they took out the gag and put him on the floor. The captain held a lantern over him and said:

"Garay is telling you good-bye, Peter. He's sorry he can't go with us, but he'll be having business on the Canadian frontier. He feels that the score is about even with you for that business of the letter in the forest, and that later on he'll attend also to the hunter and the Onondaga."

"And I wish you a pleasant life on the West Indian plantations," said Garay. "They still buy white labor there in both the French and British islands. It does not matter to me to which the captain sells you, for in either case it means a life of hard labor in the sugar cane. Few ever escape, and you never will."

Robert turned quite sick. So this was the plan. To sell him into slavery in the West Indies. Kidnapping was not at all uncommon then in both the Old World and the New, and they seemed to have laid their plans well. As the slaver had said, there was not one chance in a hundred of another storm. Again the captain read his mind.

"You don't like the prospect," he said, "and I'll admit myself that it's not a cheerful one. I've changed my opinion of you, Peter. I thought you'd make a fine sailor and that you might become a mate some day, but I've seen a light. You're not a good sailor at all. The stuff's not in you. But you're strong and hearty and you'll do well in the sugar cane.

If the sun's too hot and your back bends too much just reflect that for a white man it's not a long life and your troubles will be over, some day."

Robert's old indomitable spirit flamed up.

"I never expect to see a West Indian plantation, not on this journey, at least," he said. "You and that miserable spy boast that you took me out of the very center of my friends, and I tell you in reply that if I have enemies who follow me I also have friends who are truer in their friendship than you are in your hate, and they'll come for me."

"That's the spirit. I never heard another lad sling words in the n.o.ble fashion you do. You'll live a deal longer on the plantations than most of 'em. Now, Garay, I think you can go. It will be the last farewell for you two."

The exulting spy left the close little place, and Robert felt that a breath of hate went with him. His feet disappeared up a narrow little stair, and the slaver cut the cords that bound Robert.

"You'll be locked in here," he said, "and it's not worth while to damage good property by keeping it tied up too long."

"That's so," said Robert, trying to preserve a light manner. "You want to keep me strong and active for the work on the plantations. A white slave like a black one ought to be in good health."

The captain laughed. He was in high humor. Robert knew that he felt intense satisfaction because he was taking revenge for his mortification when he was defeated in the duel with swords before his own men by a mere boy. Evidently that would rankle long with one of the slaver's type.

"I'm glad to see you recognize facts so well, Peter," he said. "I see that you've an ambition to excel on the plantations, perhaps to be the best worker. Now, Garay, telling me of that little adventure of his in the forest with the hunter, the Indian and you, wanted me to be very careful about your rations, to put you on a sparing diet, so to speak.

He thought it would be best not to let you have anything to eat for two or three days. His idea rather appealed to me, too, but, on the other hand, I couldn't impair your value, and so I decided against him."

"I'm not hungry," said Robert.

"No, but you will be. You're young and strong, and that wound on your head where I had to hit you with the b.u.t.t of my pistol doesn't amount to much."

Robert put up his hands, felt of the back of his head, where the ache was, and found that the hair was matted together by congealed blood. But he could tell that the hurt was not deep.

"I'll leave you now," said the slaver in the same satisfied tone, "and I hope you'll enjoy the voyage down the river. There's a good wind blowing and we start in a half hour."

He went out, taking the lantern with him, and bolted the door heavily behind him. Then Robert felt despair for a while. It was much worse to be a prisoner on the ship than in the French camp or in the village of the partisan, Langlade. There he had been treated with consideration and the fresh winds of heaven blew about him, but here he was shut up in a close little hole, and his captors rejoiced in his misery.

It was quite dark in the tiny galley, and the only air that entered came from a small porthole high over a bunk. He stood upon the bank and brought his face level with the opening. It was not more than four inches across, but he was able to inhale a pure and invigorating breeze that blew from the north, and he felt better. The pain in his head was dying down also, and his courage, according to its habit, rose fast. In a character that nature had compounded of optimistic materials hope was always a predominant factor.

He could see nothing through the porthole save a dark blur, but he heard the creaking of cordage and the slatting of sails. He did not doubt that the slaver had told the truth when he said the schooner would soon start, and there was no possibility of escaping before then.

Nevertheless, he tried the door, but could not shake it. Then he went back to the porthole for the sake of the air, and, because, if he could not have freedom for himself, he could at least see a little way into the open world.

The creaking of cordage and slatting of sails increased, he felt the schooner heave and roll beneath him, and then he knew that they were leaving Albany. It was the bitterest moment of his life. To be carried away in that ignominious manner, from the very center of his friends, from a town in which he had lived, and that he knew so well was a terrible blow to his pride. For the moment apprehension about the future was drowned in mortification.

He heard heavy footsteps overhead, and the sound of commands, and the schooner began to move. He continued to stand on the bunk, with his eyes at the porthole. He was able to see a dark sh.o.r.e, moving past, slowly at first and then faster. The dim outlines of houses showed and he would have shouted for help, but he knew that it was impossible to make any one hear, and pride restrained.

The blurred outlines of the houses ceased and Albany was gone. Doubtless the schooner had appeared as an innocent trader with the proper licenses, and the slaver, having awaited its arrival, had come on ahead to the town. He was compelled to admit the thoroughness of the plan, and the skill with which it had been carried out, but he wondered anew why so much trouble had been taken in regard to him, a mere lad.

He stood at the porthole a long time, and the wind out of the north rose steadily. He heard its whistle and he also heard the singing of men above him. He knew that the schooner was making great speed down the stream and that Albany and his friends were now far behind. As the wise generally do, he resigned himself to inevitable fate, wasting no strength in impossible struggles, but waiting patiently for a better time. There was a single blanket on the hard bunk, and, lying down on it, he fell asleep.

When he awoke, day shining through the porthole threw a slender bar of light across the floor, which heaved and slanted, telling that the wind out of the north still blew strong and true. An hour later the door was opened and a sailor brought a rude breakfast on a tin plate. While he was eating it, and hunger made everything good, the slaver came in.

"You'll see, Peter, that I did not put you on the diet suggested by Garay," he said. "I'm at least a kind man and you ought to thank me for all I'm doing for you."

"For any kindness of yours to me I'm grateful," said Robert. "We're apt to do unto people as they do unto us."

"Quite a young philosopher, I see. You'll find such a spirit useful on the West India plantations. My heart really warms to you, Peter. I'd let you go on deck as we're running through good scenery now, but it's scarcely prudent. We'll have to wait for that until we pa.s.s New York and put out to sea. I hope you don't expect it of me, Peter?"

"No, I don't look for it. But if you don't mind I'd like to have a little more breakfast."

"A fine, healthy young animal, so you are! And you shall have it, too."

He called the sailor who brought a second helping and Robert fell to. He was really very hungry and he was resolved also to put the best possible face on the matter. He knew he would need every ounce of his strength, and he meant to nurse it sedulously.