Forenoon on New Seas 175 



all manner of boat hooks and any long kitchen irons, and let us be- 

 gone. We waste time talking." 



And so it was that a dozen determined colonists piled into the 

 small gig, armed with a crude assortment of iron spikes, hatchets, 

 axes, and other paraphernalia, while Master Joshua Pomferoy seized 

 the helm, and Ned Masterson and old Etienne Quimpery shoved 

 off from the lee side of the little jetty. The sea, even here at the bot- 

 tom of the inlet, was choppy, and waves splashed over the bulging 

 bow of the gig as the eight oarsmen struggled to fall into the age- 

 old staccato rhythm of the west European seaman's pull. Ned 

 Masterson acted as stroke upon the after thwart, and croaked out 

 a steady pulling rhythm — kerrrr-yuk, kerrrr-yuk . . . 



The next half hour passed uneventfully while the eight sturdy 

 white men jabbed steadily and rhythmically at the bouncing gray 

 waters with their short, heavy sculls, and the little, tubby, deep- 

 draft, clinker-built gig wallowed down the channel, hugging the 

 lee shore. By this time the Indian canoes could be seen clearly, bob- 

 bing about on the much greater waves that drove in from the open 

 Atlantic beyond. They had arranged themselves in two groups, one 

 to the north, the other to the south side of the narrow entrance to 

 the inlet. Other Indians could also be seen on the bluffs above, run- 

 ning about and pointing in sign language to their leader below. By 

 these signs even the white men knew that the objects of all the 

 excitement were not only near at hand, but were also behaving in 

 the manner most desired by the Indians. It was now plain to all that 

 they were heading straight down the center of the channel. 



Old Makatoqua could be seen half standing in his rocking canoe, 

 shielding his eyes with one hand while gesticulating with the other. 

 He was in the lee of the north cape, in company with a dozen other 

 canoes, each manned by two of his brother Indians. The rest of the 

 fleet, some three dozen strong, was floundering about in the rougher 

 water half a mile across the sound on the exposed windward side. 

 In between, there was a considerable foamy disturbance caused by 

 something as yet unseen by those afloat except Joshua Pomferoy, 

 and by the Indians on the cliffs above. A small school of whales 

 was moving leisurely into the sound in pursuit of food, as their 

 ancestors had been wont to do for millions of years during their 

 slow winter migration down the coast. 



