The Star Woman/Book 1/Chapter 1

 

THE STAR WOMAN

 

CHAPTER I

THE MAN AND THE STAR

CRAWFORD snuffed the candle on the table beside him, turned the page of his book, and went on reading; he felt the loneliness of Pentagoet. In the wide hearth crackled a new-laid fire. Outside, the trees groaned frostily, snapping in the night wind.

The room showed an amazing mixture of civilized culture and savage magnificence. Candle-tray and snuffers were of chased silver, beside the wine bottle on the table was a heavy gold chalice, above the fireplace hung crossed Toledo blades, and books shone brown in a corner case. The light flickered on a careless pile of beaver and elk-skins in one corner. Other skins strewed the walls, mingled with belts and "arms" of wampum or beadwork. A rack on the mantel held several pipes, all of Indian make; one was a large calumet of white stone girded with silver, a pipe heavy with fate not yet fulfilled, and affecting lives of men. A tomahawk on the mantel had a string of black wampum about the handle, several dried scalps woven in among the wampum shells.

So much for the room. The man presented that same singular combination of savagery and refinement. His face was long and thinly chiselled, his eyes wide and heavy-lidded, his mouth large, humorous, dangerous. He was of medium height; in the firelight his hair shone reddish, and lines of hardship touched his face with stern self-mastery. A beaver coat wrapped him to the waist. Against stiff buckskin nether garments stood out a sheathed knife and a slender, deadly tomahawk; beaded ceremonial moccasins, far too large for him, encased his feet. Before the blazing fire were drying his own moccasins, stuffed out with rags, still steaming as if soaked with wet snow or water. His hands, resting on book and table, were large and powerful, the wrists showing half-healed scars of manacles.

Crawford put out a hand to the pipe beside him, filled it with kinnikinnick from the bag, held it above the candle. He relaxed again in his chair, puffing, but his eyes went to the door and then he took the pipe from his mouth, listening. Those eyes of his were startling in their alertness—light-blue eyes that fairly stabbed. His wide lips smiled, as if at his own alarm.

"The shore ice grinding, that's all," he murmured. "Folly to feel nervous here! I wish that Micmac rascal would bring the cold pasty he promised me. Wine on a stomach that has seen no food in two days is a hollow mockery."

Rising, Crawford crossed to the door and swung it open.

He stood for a moment on the threshold, staring out at the night. Stars blazed in the dark sky. A dozen feet outside the house ran the black line of a palisade, broken by an open gate directly in front of the doorway. From where he stood, Crawford could see the abandoned lines of old Fort Pentagoet to one side, and beyond this the long white line of the ice-rimmed shore; Penobscot Bay was not frozen over, and the dark swishing of waves mingled with the creaky whine of trees and the grind of ice.

"A lonely place for a baron of France!" said Crawford, puffing at his pipe. "Yet I wish he were here, with his Indian wives and his henchmen. Fiend take this solitude! I've had enough of it. Why couldn't he leave more than one solitary Micmac on the place?"

He shivered, turned, closed the door, and went back to his chair. He took his book and opened it—then his head lifted and he looked again at the door. He caught a new sound, the scrape of a stiff moccasin, a low groan, the fumble of stiff fingers at the latch. The door swung open.

Into the room came an Indian, wrapped in furs, holding in both hands a great silver dish. He advanced a step into the room, kicked the door shut, stood motionless. While Crawford stared at him, a frightful expression of horror leaped across his brown face—then the dish fell from his hands, he pitched forward, lay outstretched. The long shagreen handle of a knife stood out from between his shoulder-blades. The knife must have caught him an instant before he opened the door.

Crawford sat motionless. For a long instant the thing seemed incredible, uncanny, supernatural. He knew that except for this Micmac and himself, the establishment of Baron de Saint-Castin at the head of Penobscot Bay was temporarily deserted. No war-parties were afoot hereabouts; the year 1697 had opened with peace to Acadia, at least. Crawford had just come overland from Boston and knew that all was quiet.

Then, abruptly, before Crawford could move, the door was again flung open and a man stood framed against the night, pistol in hand. He grinned at Crawford—a great figure whose clothes were white with ice-rime and snow, his bearded face massive, brutal.

"Not a move, Saint-Castin!" rang out his voice.

Crawford smiled.

"Oh! I thought you were Saint-Castin!" he said.

The other started.

"Eh? What's this? No one about——"

"Come in and shut the door!" said Crawford, and laid down his book. "I'm cursed glad of company. The baron is away, with all his people—gone to visit his father-in-law, Madockawando. Up the Penobscot, I supose. Where the devil did you come from?"

"From the devil," said the other, and laughed.

Then he whistled shrilly. Two other men joined him. All three advanced into the room, closed the door, stood staring over pistols at the seated figure of Crawford, whose calm attitude puzzled them.

From outside came a shout, then a burst of voices, the stamp of running feet, a sudden flicker of torches. Surveying his visitors, Crawford perceived that the first was obviously in command—his dominant air was beyond mistake. The second man was a burly ruffian, brutish, reeking of rum. The third man was tall and thin, saturnine, hawk-nosed, with a certain air of down-at-heel gentility; his darting black eyes were very intelligent.

"This is not the baron," said this last rogue, blinking at Crawford. "Not our man at all, cap'n!"

"Correct," said Crawford amiably. "If one of you gentlemen will set that venison pasty on the table, I'd be obliged. I reached here half an hour ago, have not eaten for two days, and am more interested in the venison than in you. If you want the baron, go up the Penobscot and look for him."

"Cool one!" observed the massive leader, and suddenly laughed. "We've lost the quarry, lads! Saint-Castin's away with all his people. Bose, go out and take charge of the looting. Have everything taken to the boats; no eating or drinking until the men are aboard, When you've had your fill, come ashore with one boat and join us here. No one is to loot this part of the establishment until I'm ready. Frontin and I will join our friend here over the pasty—if he hasn't eaten for two days, we've not eaten for three. Go!"

The burly ruffian departed. The saturnine man stooped to the pasty and lifted it to the table, shoving aside the body of the Micmac. The commander, thrusting away his pistol, stepped forward to Crawford and grinned widely.

"Well! Your name?"

"Harry Crawford, at your service."

The two men stopped dead still, staring at him. Crawford, faintly amused, smiled.

"Why, zounds!" broke out the leader. "Hal Crawford, the pirate! Two hundred pound on his head in Boston!"

"This is not Boston," said Crawford, though his eyes narrowed. "Plague take you, stare! I'm for the pasty."

He whipped out his knife and attacked the contents of he battered silver dish. The two men exchanged a glance, then without more ado pulled forward a couple of stools and joined in the assault, knives and fingers ravenously at work.

No word was exchanged, but Crawford was by this time perfectly aware of the profession, if not the identity, of his visitors. During the past forty years the whole American coast, even into Hudson Bay, had been swept by pirates; small fry, most of them, fur pirates, rum pirates, reckless sailormen who would land to sack a town or would lay a ship aboard and count it all in the day's work. Others followed the freebooting trade more seriously and made of it a profession. Of this latter class, thought Crawford, were the visitors. He had somewhere heard the name of Frontin—and presently placed it.

Within five minutes the pasty, among three famished men, had been scraped to the last crumb, and the bottle of wine was empty. Crawford leaned back, refilled his pipe, and surveyed the other two men with a whimsical air.

"Help yourselves to pipes, gentlemen! This house, as the Spanish say, is yours."

Frontin, the thin man, grinned in his saturnine way.

"That is well. May I introduce you to my captain, Vanderberg the valiant?"

"The honor is mine," said Crawford, nodding. "I already recognized Captain Vanderberg. I believe Frontenac has offered five thousand livres for his head? Come, Lieutenant Frontin, you have a chance at fortune! Deliver him to Quebec and me to Boston——"

Vanderberg, who was a jolly rascal of Dutch extraction, bellowed a laugh at this.

"Ho! I like you, Crawford. Finding you here, the baron gone, the house ours for the looting, means our luck has changed. And, damme, we need the change! We were battered by a French corvette, storm-wracked, short of men and shorter of food. We bore up for Boston but were warned off; we had absent-mindedly sacked a Bostonnais off Jamaica, and the good folk had heard of it, so the port was closed to us. We started for New York, but were blown offshore by the gale which has only just abated. So, if Frontin had not known of this place and its chances of loot, food and wine——"

Vanderberg expressively waved one huge paw and went to the fireplace. He took down the white stone calumet. Frontin, his saturnine gaze on Crawford, spoke.

"So you are also on the account?"

"Not at all," said Crawford coolly.

Vanderberg swung around with a heavy stare.

"What? But we heard of you in Boston as a pirate——"

"Exactly, in Boston," said Crawford. "Having once been a Jacobite in opinion, I took refuge in Massachusetts. There, some months ago, I was recognized, apprehended, and sent to the Barbados as a slave. I got away with the help of some buccaneers, but having convictions against the life of a pirate, I made my way to New York. It was my intention to reach the Iroquois country, certain Mohawk chiefs being my friends. I failed to bribe old Fletcher, however, so he sent me in chains to Boston. I escaped, headed for Acadia and New France, and reached this spot half an hour before you."

Vanderberg exploded a volley of admiring oaths at this tale.

"You have money?"

"I need none."

"Well, you shall join us! I need a second lieutenant."

"You honor me," said Crawford drily. "But, as I have said, I cherish certain convictions against piracy."

"Bah! We shall prey only on the French."

"Unfortunately, I have no quarrel with the French."

Vanderberg stared.

"Hein? What has that to do with it?"

"Everything. You will readily perceive that a man who is destitute of everything except principles, would be a fool to abandon his principles."

"The foul fiend fly away with you! Then we shall raid the coast to the south——"

"Unhappily, I have compunctions about letting English blood."

"But you are a pirate, known as such!"

"I have the name, yes, but not the honour of deserving it," said Crawford. "Reputation, my dear captain, is a bubble blown from the pipe of fools; let us disregard it. My quest, or if you so prefer, my urge to freedom, draws me into the north or west; I care not which, so it be into strange lands. Now, if I have need of a ship I am entirely willing to seize any French, English or pirate ship which will further my purpose. I am not willing, however, to seize a ship and kill men merely in order to commit robbery. The distinction may be a trifle subtle to your mind, but there it is."

Vanderberg blinked heavily at this speech. Crawford relaxed in his chair and puffed his pipe alight, quite at his ease. Frontin, grinning delightedly, watched the two men in obvious amusement. Apparently a cynical rogue, this Frontin was not at all the cynic he pretended to be.

"You are mad!" said Vanderberg, beginning to lose his good nature.

"On the contrary," said Frontin, "he is entirely sane. That is a profound truth, my honest captain. Very few men are entirely——"

"Shut up!" snapped the pirate, and turned to Crawford. "Who the devil are you against, then?"

"Nobody," said Crawford calmly, "and everybody."

"But you're a Jacobite."

"I was; I am not. I have perceived the fallacy of giving allegiance to another man and fighting for him. I shall now fight for myself alone."

"Then you are going on the account?" asked Vanderberg, rather helplessly.

"Not at all. I said—fight for myself! Why should I fight for money? Why should I rob and murder in order to take other men's money and goods?"

Vanderberg swallowed hard.

"You are certainly mad!"

"No," said Crawford. "I am free."

Frontin jerked his stool forward and looked hard at Crawford.

"Now let me have my say," he said, and rubbed his long nose. "You are free, and you are also sane. You are something like Saint-Castin was once, before the king's jackal brought him to heel. I suppose you think that it is a lucky chance that you are here?"

"Something of the sort," said Crawford, wondering at the man's manner.

"No; it is a coincidence. You never heard of the Star of Dreams?"

"No."

"Saint-Castin and I got it together, in the old days," said Frontin. "Now, consider! We want you with us, for sensible reasons which will presently appear. We came here for more than one reason—sensible reasons, which lie in the chapel yonder," and he nodded his head toward a closed door. "The cap'n would plunder a chapel, but I won't let him. If you will argue with us sensibly, and listen to reason, we may reach an understanding."

"That is entirely possible," said Crawford, with a slow chuckle at the man's air.

Frontin rose.

"Good! Take up the candle and come with us. We have time to look and talk, while those men of ours fill their bellies and guzzle wine."

Crawford stood up and took the candlestick from the table. He was at once amused, puzzled, and keenly interested by these two men. He saw that Vanderberg was a genial pirate, no more, no less—a brawny ruffian, who was for the moment in good humour, and who could pass swiftly to brute ferocity or brute lust. A man to be met with utmost force, primitive in all instincts, actuated only by an avid greed for gold or gain.

Frontin was different—a Frenchman very likely, a man of high intelligence, capable alike of vicious cruelty and lofty ideals. Vanderberg was the arm that smote, Frontin was the brain that planned the blow. Of the two, the latter was the deadlier.

Frontin crossed to the closed door as though he knew the place well, and, his hand on the latch, turned to look at Crawford.

"You love the English more than the French?"

Crawford shrugged.

"I think not. One buys scalps, the other tortures prisoners. I deny them both."

"In order to deny, one must affirm."

"Precisely. I affirm—freedom, since you must have it so. I seek only the chance to be free, to look beyond the horizon, to leave wars and the quarrels of kings behind me."

"Your aim, then?"

"To be myself," said Crawford, a little wearily.

Frontin flung open the door, a laugh on his lips.

"The private chapel of Jean Vincent de l'Abadie, Baron de Saint-Castin. Your cap, cap'n; respect my religious scruples."

Vanderberg grunted, but took off his fur cap.

Holding up the candle, Crawford gazed upon a small room at the farther end of which was an altar; there was nothing bare here, but all was a glow of colour. Pictures, silver candlesticks, a large crucifix, Portuguese reliquaries of walnut with oddly curved glass front and sides, white cloths broidered in gold. The room was bitter cold.

"Keep those itching fingers quiet," cap'n," said Frontin, and stepped forward. Crawford glanced at Vanderberg, who was staring with eyes that glowed lustfully.

Frontin genuflected, then stepped to one of the reliquaries, and from it took a small object. With a shiver, he motioned back to the main room, and Crawford obeyed. The three men came back to the fireplace, Frontin closing the chapel door behind them. He then extended the object which he had brought from the chapel.

Crawford, taking it, saw a five-pointed star six inches in diameter made of soft virgin gold. In the centre was set a large emerald, and other emeralds ran out to the points. Some were flawed, others were remarkably clear and deep in colour.

"Old?" he asked.

"A hundred years or so," said Frontin. "From Peru."

Vanderberg shoved his bulk between them and clutched the star. He examined it greedily, breathing hoarsely, his piggish eyes glinting in the firelight.

"This is no sacred thing!" he broke out accusingly. "I shall take it. You can have nothing to say about it. I swore to you that I would touch no sacred object——"

"You mistake, my captain," said Frontin, a sudden cold accent in his voice. "Turn it over and you will see the name of the Archangel Michael graven on the back. It was the belief that each archangel had his abode in a certain star, you understand. This was a votive offering. As such, it is sacred. Shall we argue the matter?"

This question came icily. Frontin's hand was at his belt; his eyes met the gaze of Vanderberg in sharply direct challenge. Then the laugh of Crawford cut in between them.

"This theological argument would delight our friend Saint-Castin!"

Vanderberg grunted and shoved the star at Frontin.

"Take it, papist! Now tell him about it."

Frontin bowed, not without a certain courtliness. He turned to Crawford.

"Once upon a time, I went to a certain place with Saint-Castin; on the Newfoundland coast. Indians led us. We found the wreck of an old Spanish ship, well-hidden, or rather, I found it. Saint-Castin was taken ill and could not go to the spot with me. I brought this back to him as a sample of what the wreck contained. Then some Boston fishing-sloops bore down on us, and we had to flee. Later, events drove me on the road of destiny. Saint-Castin was never able to find the spot where the wreck lies, without my help; and he did not have it. Now I am on my way to that place. I shall enrich Cap'n Vanderberg and his men. Come with us and you shall be enriched also. You perceive that our reasons for coming here were sensible. What do you say?"

Crawford stood for a moment in thought.

"Why this offer?" he responded at length. "Why are you so anxious to enrich me? That, as you must agree, is neither sensible nor reasonable."

Frontin laughed gaily.

"No? Then listen. We have seventeen men including ourselves. They are scum of the Indies—negroes, branded men, escaped slaves. They suffer from cold and famine. We officers are two, or if you count Bose, three. We need one other man to keep control in our own hands. They will not go farther north, yet farther north we must go. They fear the French. They shrink from working a ship adrift with ice. But this place supplies us with food, wine, furs. On the Newfoundland coast we shall get cod in plenty; we may pick up an English ship or two, with luck. Is this sensible?"

"Eminently so," said Crawford. "You need me, it seems. Let's smoke over it."

He picked up his pipe, knocked it out, filled it with the tobacco and willow-bark.

"Suppose you let me take another look at that emerald thing—what did you call it? Star of Dreams?"

Frontin, who still held the star, pushed it across the table. He, too, got a pipe from the mantel and filled it. Vanderberg remained silent, puffing lustily.

Crawford looked again at the star and perceived a ring at one of the points, by which it might be fastened on a thong. The thing had no great intrinsic value, since few of the emeralds were fine stones, but it held that peculiar beauty which comes of primitive artistry and crude technique guided by instinctively flawless taste.

"Star of Dreams," said Frontin. "It was Saint-Castin called it that name."

"A good name for it," and Crawford nodded. "I think I shall keep it. I like the thing."

Vanderberg, who at most times was somewhat afraid of his saturnine lieutenant, gaped at this remark. Crawford looked up and met the suddenly piercing gaze of Frontin.

"You jest?" said the latter.

"Not at all." Crawford looked again at the star in his hand. "The name and the object appeal to my sentimental nature, awaken poetic fancies in me, I assure you. This thing might symbolize the star of freedom which I pursue. At all events, it makes a certain appeal to me which I can not resist."

Vanderberg grinned.

"So, Frontin! So! Another theological argument?"

Crawford glanced up and smiled.

"Not at all. I do not propose a theft, but an exchange which will be more than even—which will, in fact, be greatly to the advantage of our host's chapel."

He reached inside his shirt and pulled out a thong on which was strung a blazing jewel, which, after unknotting the thong, he laid upon the table. An exclamation burst from Frontin.

"But—this is the Order of St. Louis!"

"Exactly," said Crawford, with a nod.

"His Most Catholic Majesty once decorated me with it, and from a feeling of sentiment I preserved it through many vicissitudes. Now, having abandoned sentiment, kings and other old-world follies together, I am very glad to leave this jewel here. You shall put it in Saint-Castin's reliquary. In place of it I will take the Star of Dreams, as being worth infinitely less in money, and infinitely more in the greatest things, which are intangible. I trust that you will have no scruples in the matter of such an exchange? The Blessed Virgin, or St. Michael, or whoever is the patron of yonder chapel, will certainly profit by the trade. St. Louis for St. Michael—eh?"

Frontin compressed his lips, gazing at the jewelled star. But Vanderberg was also gazing at the same thing, with lustful and incredulous eyes, for in truth it was a jewel of great worth. Then, abruptly, Vanderberg blurted out his mind.

"Ha! Frontin—will you let him make fools of us? Leave the relic where we found it, kill him, and take these jewels. What's to hinder, eh?"

"What, indeed?" murmured Frontin, raising his eyes and looking hard at Crawford. The latter, who was stringing the Star of Dreams on his leather thong, laughed a little.

"Nonsense!" he responded cheerfully, and apparently without heeding the black regard. "Before you two fools could out pistol, cock flint and draw fire, my tomahawk would split the cap'n's skull and my knife be in Frontin's heart. A pity, that, for Frontin is a man of some sense. Nay, I learned knife and tomahawk play from my Mohawk friends, gentlemen! Now, my dear Frontin, if you wish to dispute my wishes in regard to this star, I am entirely at your service."

He leaned back and met the stare of Frontin with an ingenuous air. Frontin burst into a laugh, rose, and picked up the jewel of St. Louis.

"Bah! I am satisfied. Cap'n, don't be a fool; we need this man, and I like him, and the three of us shall gut the galleon of treasure. What are a few jewels, when gold is waiting to be carried off?"

Vanderberg sat back and puffed at the big calumet. Frontin crossed to the door of the chapel and vanished in the little, cold, dark room. Crawford nodded to the big pirate.

"An odd soul, this Frontin of ours! I am glad that he reverences something, for it raises him in my esteem. By the way, you made a serious error in hurling a knife into that redskin Micmac. He could have given you some highly interesting information."

"What, then?" asked Frontin, returning from the chapel and closing its door.

"That Saint-Castin was expected home some time this evening. If I were you, I'd send a man or two up the river-trail."

Vanderberg, exploding an oath of consternation and startled dismay, leaped to his feet. But Frontin was already darting for the outside door. Jerking it open, he whistled shrilly. A shout responded, and he turned, his dark face alive with excitement.

"Bose is coming now. Crawford, you devil! If you hadn't told us this——"

"Well, haven't I told you?" Crawford rose, laughing. "There are some Winter garments in the bedroom adjoining. Since we're bound for Newfoundland, I think I'll help myself, and advise you to do the same."

Stepping into an adjoining room, Crawford swiftly provided himself with a large furlined wool capote, hat, and a splendid pair of moccasins. He returned to find Bose and half a dozen men around the doorway, Vanderberg bawling orders at them. Two men with fusils were sent to keep watch over the trail that led up-river, the others were set to work looting the interior of the house. They reported that plenty of supplies had been taken aboard the ketch, anchored in the bay.

The men hurled themselves upon the rooms, rushing down to the waiting boat with loads of everything they found—blankets, weapons, trading-goods, silver, snow-shoes, furs. Frontin, meantime, stood on guard at the chapel door, defending it against intrusion, and Crawford watched the man with a trace of admiration. Whatever his real name, despite his dark past history and his present occupation, this Frenchman was adamantine in upholding his principles; and Crawford, whose whimsical talk of principles and convictions was really more true than he cared to admit seriously, found it in his heart to respect and like this Frontin.

In the midst of the ransacking, Crawford heard the plunging bark of a fusil. He whirled upon Vanderberg.

"You're caught. Get your men to the boat, quick! Wait there for me. I'll hold off and gain you plenty of time."

Seizing from the mantel the large tomahawk which he had retained as his own loot, Crawford darted from the room, leaped out into the snow, and heard the shrill whistles calling the men. A shout came from ahead, around the corner of the buildings and up the river-trail; then arose the biting Abnaki war whoop. Crawford understood that the two men so recently set as an outpost had been encountered by some of Saint-Castin's returning party.

Another fusil banged out its message, another Abnaki yell went barking up into the frosty night. Ahead of him Crawford saw the two seamen stumbling back through the trodden snow of the trail.

"To the boat, quickly!" he snapped at them, then threw back his head and sent a long, quavering cry of four syllables sounding up through the forest. It was the most feared and dreaded sound that could be heard in French or Algonquin ears—a sound to stop the very heart-beats of Abnaki or Caniba or Malicete warriors, a sound that, coming from the throat of the unknown raiders, would bring Saint-Castin himself to a cautious halt. It was the war-cry of the Mohawks.

"Sassakouay!"

It rose fierce and sharp with the true intonation that Crawford's red friends had taught him so carefully, ringing up through the frosty trees, a veritable peal of doom to Algonquin ears.

"Kouay! Sassakouay!"

A distant yelp, like the frightened outcry of a street cur pursued by a mastiff, came from the depths of the forest, then silence. Crawford, smiling grimly, turned about and regained the front of the palisade. He found Frontin waiting there, alone.

"They'll scout cautiously," he said, laughing a little. "We've plenty of time. That Mohawk whoop will hold them back more firmly than many muskets."

"You took a chance that we'd wait for you," said Frontin.

"Not a bit of it. I knew you."

Frontin grinned at that, and the two men were friends.