The Star Woman/Book 1/Chapter 2

 

CHAPTER II

HE WHO ACCEPTS AN OMEN, ACCEPTS RESPONSIBILITY

CRAWFORD could make out little of his new environment until morning, which disclosed the ketch L'Irondelle standing east for Cape Sable and leaning over to a whirl of wind and snow from the northwest.

The ketch was a miserable craft. Her foremast was set nearly amidships and was square rigged, with a spritsail forward, while the main carried a fore-and-aft mainsail and a tiny square topsail above. She boasted three twelve-pounders to a side, leaked like a sieve, was alive with rats and vermin and was rotten of rigging, canvas and wood from truck to keelson; her sole virtue was speed in the water. As Vanderberger explained apologetically, he had left Jamaica hoping from day to day to get a better ship and augment his crew at one blow, but luck had been against him. He was complacently hopeful of picking up an English ship near Newfoundland, unless a French frigate ran him down in Cabot Strait.

"Those cursed French and English are always fighting in these parts," he declared mournfully, "and one can never tell when a fleet will show over the horizon."

The men forward, under the hulking ruffian Bose, were a hard lot. Some were escaped negro slaves from Hispaniola, some were French, and the remainder were Dutch and English. All had for the past two years been engaged in the savage fighting and raids centring on Jamaica, which had been an open prey to all men since the great earthquake wiped away its defences and defenders. Most of them were drunk, for during the night Vanderberg had served out rum enough to conceal the fact that he was heading east, and when the accession of Crawford as third in command was proclaimed, it passed the vote almost without comment.

"So long as we have no sun," said Frontin in disgust, "the rascals will hold the course we set and ask no questions. Nine-tenths of them steer by the mark on the card and cannot read the directions. But, my friend, when they discover that we head north—ha! Then you'll see crimson snow. I've told them that we're steering south, and have altered the card in case any of those who can read investigate the matter."

Crawford shrugged.

"Better to meet the thing squarely—but let be. You can navigate?"

"I was once lieutenant de vaisseau in his most Christian Majesty's navy."

This was almost the only time in their long companionship that Frontin ever referred to his mysterious past.

So the Irondelle drove east through long hours of grey day and black night, while ever the bitter gale swept down out of the northwest, and Vanderberg matched the shrieking winds with his deep-chested roar. A rare seaman was the Dutchman, knowing his ship as a book and holding her under a press of sail that sent her scudding like a race-horse.

Bitter cold it was aboard the ketch. The men, inured to privations, made no murmur; since the ballast was all in rum from French Hispaniola, the black cook was kept busy through the long hours dealing out hot grog without cessation, and if the men went about their work half-drunk, they had need to be so. The pumps had to be manned continually, their monotonous clacking never coming to an end. Now and again the rotten rigging would give way, and up must go the men to reeve new lines through frozen sheaves; twice the rotten canvas blew out and had to be taken in, mended and patched under the driving snow, sent up again; and the little main topsail blew away altogether and vanished up the sky. At this, Vanderberg bellowed gusty laughter.

"It's a sign we're not bound for hell this cruise, lads! Spell the pumps, lest they freeze, and the rest of you fall to work with axes."

This, indeed, was the sternest job of all, one that had no ending and was dangerous into the bargain. Gripping the frozen life-lines, the men spread out and chopped away the gathered snow and the ice, forming thicker every moment. In the night this had to be done with lanterns bobbing, black seas rising up out of the darkness and sweeping the decks, new ice forming as fast as the old was cut away, the blunt bows of the ketch smashing over the roaring seas and a hissing rush of water rising and sweeping away as each sea passed on.

Despite all this, despite their maudlin profanity and half-mad frenzy of exertion, the men were cheerful enough, for this was a new sort of privation to them. Hunger and thirst and burning sun they were all too accustomed to meet. Now they had taken aboard no lack of wine, good caribou meat both frozen and smoked, corn and meal and other viands, furs and warm clothing galore, with no little booty in beaver and small loot.

The gale held through the second day, though the snow had ceased and the bitter cold had lessened, so that it seemed to the men they were indeed heading south.

"So long as they do not suspect, gain no sight of sun or stars, and do not try to use their heads in the matter, all well and good," said Frontin. The three officers were gathered in the stern cabin at noon, leaving the deck to Bose. "They bear Crawford good will for the way he halted Saint-Castin's redskins and let us get off without harm."

Crawford grimaced. "The good will of vermin is not valuable——"

"Pardon, but you will find that vermin bite!"

Vanderberg shoved into the talk, glaring at Frontin from bloodshot, sleep-lacking eyes.

"Listen to me! We are heading northeast. The chart shows that we shall run into a cape named Sable. What about it?"

"Rest assured." Frontin's hawk-nosed, bitter features were confident. "I know these waters well and need none of your charts, which are not accurate."

"We are in your hands," said Vanderberg, with a nod. "Now tell me just where we are going, for questions are going to be asked before long. That devil Bose already suspects that we're not driving south."

Frontin spilled a little rum on the table, out of the great golden chalice that had belonged to Saint-Castin. With his finger he drew the outline of a promontory.

"This is a point of land half-way around Newfoundland. Here on one side is Conception Bay, on the other Trinity Bay. Here in the end of the point is what the English call a cove—a small harbour, without much protection, therefore without ice. All along the shore are very high cliffs. At one point along these cliffs, near the cove, there is a ledge of rock that extends back into the cliffs like a shallow cave; it is just above high water, and cannot be reached in Summer because of tremendous tide-currents and whirlpools that lie before it. Upon this ledge is the wreck of the galleon, undoubtedly flung there in some furious storm."

Crawford interposed.

"Saint-Castin was there before with you; why could he not have come again? Why could not the galleon have been plundered by the English?"

Frontin smiled thinly.

"An Indian report of the wreck drew us there—some hunters had seen it from the cliffs, or thought they had. Saint-Castin was taken very ill and had to stay aboard our ship. I climbed down to the place from the cliffs, but would not do it again for a thousand pieces of eight. The poor baron was too ill to understand anything about it, and I most certainly did not tell him the truth, so there you are. As for any one else having found the wreck, that is impossible. No English settlements are close by, the wreck is invisible from the sea, and boats cannot come near the place in Summer because of the whirlpools. In Winter, I believe there is sufficient shore-ice for us to land a mile or so from the spot and make our way to it easily. Many ships come with supplies from England for the various settlements during the Winter, and we shall have no trouble exchanging this craft of ours for a better ship. We shall not be disturbed at the work, as the English settlers stay close at home in the Winter, except the hunters who seek caribou inland."

Vanderberg looked doubtfully at Crawford.

"You are content?"

"Me—content?" Crawford laughed slightly. "My dear cap'n, I have little interest in this wreck, I assure you. If there is any gold, which I strongly doubt, a bit of it may be of assistance to me."

"The devil! If you've so cursed little interest, why are you with us?"

"Because you are heading north. Two points of the compass draw me; one is north, the other is west. If I had a ship of my own, I would head it for Hudson's Bay; if I were ashore with an open trail, I would head into the west. Since I must temporize with destiny, I am here."

"Sink me if I can understand you!" growled Vanderberg, but Frontin uttered a low laugh.

"Perhaps you will understand him too well one of these days, my cap'n!"

"What do you mean by that?" said the badgered Dutchman, glaring.

Frontin shrugged and winked at Crawford.

"I am like the Sybil of Cumæ—my meanings show only in the course of time. But the excellent Irondelle is plunging heavily; shall we go above and clear the forecastle of ice?"

The three of them tramped to the deck, and Frontin's whistle summoned the weary men.

That night the gale moderated, though the stars did not show, and it had sunk by morning to a light breeze off the land which brought down a rolling bank of fog. After daybreak the wind freshened, and beneath its influence and that of the sun the fog slowly began to shred apart and dissipate.

Crawford was standing watch when, without warning, the ketch suddenly slid through thinning fog into the brilliant sunlight of open day. Behind, the grey wall of fog went writhing down upon the horizon, and off the starboard bow was the morning sun, blazing upon a cloudless sky and a glittering blue sea unmarked by any patch of sail or purple loom of land.

Sudden warmth pervaded the ship, and the watch on deck gratefully relaxed to its comfort. Crawford was standing beside the helm when he saw the man all agape, staring from sea to sky; a shout came from forward, and men pointed to the sun, and there arose a roar of discussion.

"Where away be we going, master?" queried the helmsman. "Ha' the sun changed his bed?"

Crawford chuckled.

"We're bound north for Newfoundland, lad. North for gold and Spanish plate, in a place the skipper knows of. It's there for the taking, and no fighting either; in and take it, out and sail south again to New York or where you will, and spend the broad pieces. Yet those fools for'ard don't want to go north!"

The helmsman hesitated, then grinned.

"I'm with 'ee, master. Hast a pistol?"

Crawford shook his head and refused the proffered weapon. Knife and tomahawk were at his belt, and he wanted no more. Also, that large tomahawk of Saint-Castin's was nosed into the rail behind him, and he quietly stepped over and secured it. Trouble was close, for Bose and the other men were now on deck, all clustered in an excited knot.

Now the knot burst, and aft strode the hulking figure of Bose, bearded and uncouth as any bear, with the men trailing to right and left. The ketch had but a slightly raised quarter-deck or poop; Crawford strode forward to the ladder of two steps and waited, secure in the knowledge that the helmsman would not pistol him in the back. The fourteen men came to a halt, sullen and anxious and alarmed, and Bose stepped out a pace, glowering at Crawford.

"Master, we be headed nor'east by the sun!"

"True," said Crawford, his light blue eyes searching into the ring of faces. "We're for Newfoundland, where Spanish gold is waiting for us, and no Frenchmen around to hinder——"

A storm of outcries went up in English, Dutch and French, the protest breaking in an angry wave. Bose flung about, silenced it with a roar, then swung again on Crawford.

"This is a company matter," said he, "and we'll take no orders from you that haven't been voted on. North we'll not go——"

Crawford's eyes and voice bit out at him like cold steel.

"You dog, you! North you'll go, and the rest of you!"

There was a moment of silence, so shocked and taken aback were they by this speech. Then Bose whipped out a pistol and lifted it.

The next instant it was dashed from his hand, as the tomahawk whirled and glittered and knocked the weapon over the rail. Crawford put his hand to the second axe at his belt and laughed.

"That's it, eh? Now, bullies, who wants it fair between the eyes? Fair warning, lads——"

Bose backed hastily into the crowd, but from the other men came a storm of oaths. Then a huge negro at the right of the gang moved suddenly.

"Down with him!" he shouted in French, and from his hand a pistol roared.

The bullet shaved Crawford's neck and left a red weal to mark its passing; then the keen axe that flamed in the sunlight took the giant squarely between the eyes and sank into the skull, and the negro pitched backward against the bulwark, where he kicked convulsively and died.

"Knife to the next," said Crawford, and took the knife ready for the cast. But the men shrank, for this sort of play was new to them. And as they hesitated, Crawford spat forth an order.

"For'ard with you! The cap'n will tell you of our course and where the gold awaits us; so vote all you cursed please, but don't come to me with pistols out. For'ard with you! Hal Crawford goes north, and you with him!"

Then he leaped at them, catching Bose a buffet that knocked the hulking fellow across the deck. Knives flamed, curses filled the air with wild outcry, and as the men still hesitated, the powerful bellow of Vanderberg arose. The cap'n leaped on deck, with Frontin at his heels.

"What's this?" cried Vanderberg, a pistol in each hand.

"Nothing," said Crawford, turning aft. "I was demonstrating to these good fellows of yours that an Indian axe is swifter than a pistol. The demonstration is satisfactory. If you'll break out a little rum, and tell these lads of the wrecked galleon that we go to sack, the company will vote for the north. Two of you lads throw that black fellow overside and give me that tomahawk."

Vanderberg strode forward. Frontin looked at Crawford, and grinned thinly.

"You've cowed them," said he. "Now watch your back o' dark nights."

"Not I," said Crawford, and pointed forward. "They'll fight for me now. You'll see. They'll be all for the north venture."

And a roar of applause to Vanderberg's tale of gold approved his prediction. Thus easily were the wild, childish men swung to any purpose.

So, after troublous days, the Irondelle came to rest in a little cove amid beetling cliffs, fast moored and well-sheltered against anything but a blow direct from the north.

She had not reached her goal without misadventure. Off the Banks she had raised three sail of the line, one foggy morning—French frigates, which only her virtue of speed enabled her to escape. Of the thirteen hands forward, one man had slipped on an icy shroud and fallen to his death, another had been knifed in a quarrel; this reduced the total aboard to fifteen. Wilful waste had reduced Saint-Castin's looted provisions to woeful want, the gear aloft was dropping to shreds, there was not a sound line aboard her save those that held her moored off the black rocks, and the entire stock of powder in the makeshift magazine had been flooded and ruined. Yet, because the ballast of rum was not yet exhausted and the lure of gold was before them, the men were willing enough to face the worst. The one redeeming feature was that in the bleak snow-clad land fronting them there was no enemy.

On the night of their arrival in the cove, Vanderberg summoned all hands aft to a council in the cabin. They listened in silence as he laid the situation bluntly before them—fierce, wolfish faces in the lantern-light, haggard with toil and privation, lustful for unearned gold, branded men and cutthroats and wild beasts in the image of God.

"Without powder," concluded Vanderberg, "we are defenceless. Without food, we are powerless. Without gear and canvas, the ship cannot leave here. Without more men, we could not work her south. Before us there is a waste of snow and icy woods—a white desert. One man among us knows this land; let him speak."

All eyes went to Frontin. He, holding a candle to his pipe, nodded his head coolly.

"Good. From that white desert facing us," he said, "we shall get men, provisions, powder, gear, and a ship. Is that satisfactory?"

Some of the men cursed, others laughed. They liked Frontin for his cool cruelty and his high intelligence.

"If you say so, then it will come to pass," said Bose, growling some blasphemy in his beard. "What about the gold?"

"Unfortunately, I cannot be in two places at once," said Frontin. "I propose that we divide into two parties. I shall remain here with the cap'n and four men, to search out the gold and, if possible, secure it. Seven men and Bose, with Crawford in command, will go into the white desert and bring us men, provisions, munitions, and a ship. Eh?"

There was a roar of laughter at this proposal, which was at once put to the vote and passed, amid a flood of oaths and obscenities. Then Crawford spoke up for the first time.

"The snow is deep. You will provide wings for us to cross?"

Frontin grinned. "I brought Saint-Castin's snowshoes for the purpose. You can use them; the others can learn."

"I can use them," spoke up Bose heavily. "I spent a Winter in Hudson's Bay, with the English company."

"Excellent!" proclaimed Frontin. "Now, Crawford, pay attention and you shall learn how this white desert can be made to furnish all we lack. "That is to say, provided your scruples against seizing English goods can be overcome."

Crawford shrugged and tamped down his pipe.

"Self-preservation is the answer, my dear Frontin. I am at your service to command."

Frontin once more drew upon the table-top a crude outline of the iron promontory at whose tip they were harboured. He put his finger at a spot on the west coast.

"Here, as I remember the map, is the English settlement of Old Perlican, in a very good harbour. It is about two leagues to the south of us. Opposite it, here on Conception Bay, is another settlement called Bay de Verde. How large these places are I do not know, but they are of some size, and are only a few miles apart. I suggest that you march straight down the coast to Old Perlican, which you can reach to-morrow night."

"Ah!" said Crawford ironically. "Then, without powder, and with eight men at my back, I am to attack this town?"

There was a roar of laughter, which Frontin swiftly quelled.

"Not at all. You are to use those brains of yours, my friend! If you have luck, you will find an English ship at either or both of those places. You will find plenty of sheep, cattle, and dried codfish. A prisoner or two, correctly persuaded, will give you full information. At the worst, you will find numerous fishing-sloops, excellent seaworthy craft, into which you may load supplies."

"And bring the whole coast down upon us?"

"Bah! Spread abroad some lies. No one will ever suspect that we are harboured here."

"Very well," said Crawford. "Get out the snowshoes, Bose, and pick your men. If we have no powder, we need not burden ourselves with fusils—so much the better! If we do not return for a week or so, Vanderberg, you have plenty of supplies for six men. If we do not return at all——"

"But you will return," said Frontin with assurance. "You cannot fail."

"Why so?" asked Crawford curiously.

"Because you follow the Star of Dreams."

While the assembled men stared blankly at this, Crawford met the glittering eyes of Frontin, and in that gaze read an almost superstitious conviction. Somehow, he perceived, the Frenchman had been captivated by his words regarding the emerald star; and smiling at the absurdity of it, he rose and left the assemblage to draw lots for places in the expedition. After all, why not? Perhaps this star, which hung on its thong inside his shirt, and which was a good symbol of his rather vague strivings and longings after a freedom that did not exist, had been sent to him as an omen. His half-jesting utterance had become verity.

"At least," he thought as he looked up at the blazing stars above the black cliffs, "it is possible. Frontin is a man who reverences religion, and he believes it. I do not reverence religion, but I reverence God—and I think I believe it also. Well, we shall see! I accept the omen."

Frowning thoughtfully, he sought his narrow berth.

Morning beheld a laughing, cursing, straggling expedition of nine men starting off along the wooded crest of the cliffs. Crawford led the way, a fusil slung over his back and one horn with a few charges of good powder at his belt; behind him followed seven men, with Bose bringing up the rear. As was their custom in all things, the buccaneers donned the snowshoes and set forth to sink or swim; and for a while it was a sinking job. They stumbled, tripped, sprawled in the snow and, like the huge children they were, enjoyed the game. The intense cold was invigorating to them; they had food for two days, their leader had enough powder to shoot any game they met, and ahead was the prospect of loot against heavy odds. From the buccaneer viewpoint the situation was ideal—death at their backs, desperation prodding them forward, all to win and nothing to lose. So the winter-stilled woods echoed back lusty shouts of laughter and wild curses and wilder jests, until Crawford issued an order against too much noise.

The advance was not at all rapid. To most of the men these crusted drifts of snow were entirely novel—a thing to be enjoyed as well as fought. By noon, Crawford calculated that no more than a league had been covered, and he called a halt, the men promptly starting a furious snow-fight, hurling cakes of icy consistency.

Crawford beckoned Bose apart and took out his pipe. It was that same white stone pipe girded with silver, which had rested on Saint-Castin's mantel; Vanderberg had looted it, and Crawford won it from him over the dice on the way north.

"Give them a bite to eat and a rest, Bose. By night they'll all be done up with mal de racquette. I'm going ahead to scout, so follow my trail. Give the men a tale of Indians; whether true or not, it will lend them caution and may keep the rogues quiet."

Bose assented and ducked a cake of frozen snow that came hurtling for him. Crawford, turning to the south, was gone among the trees.

"A mad situation!" he thought, as he broke trail. "But like all mad things, it has a grain of sense. If one could only prevent the grain from being overborne by the mass!"

He plunged ahead through the woods, bearing away from the open shore and cliffs, since he knew well that the sole hope of success lay in absolute surprise, and he dared not risk being seen by settlers or hunters. Bose and the men could follow his trail plainly enough, and might come along whenever they were able. Crawford was for the moment glad to be rid of them and unhampered.

No trace of smoke broke the blue sky. After an hour, Crawford knew that somewhere not far ahead must lie Old Perlican, yet he searched for it in vain. No slightest indication of human habitation was to be seen anywhere in this world of white snow, upon which the sunlight broke with dazzling splendour. The trees were bowed beneath their load of snow, and there was something terrible about the deathly stillness, for the frost was not intense and the trees were not cracking. This absolute silence of the wilderness was hard on the nerves of one unused to it; the only sound among the thickly clustering trees was the faint creak and sluff of Crawford's shoes in the crust. Then, with a sudden savagery that brought him to gaping and incredulous halt, a voice lifted out of the dark trees to his left.

"Sassakouay!" The gleeful, blood-gloating note thrilled Crawford more than the whoop itself—thrilled him with a sense of frightful things afield.

The Mohawk war whoop—here in this place! It was absurdly out of all reason. Despite his surprise, Crawford knew well enough that his own presence was unsuspected, or that whoop would never have been lifted. He went forward cautiously, working his way over a crest of higher ground among thick pines, and so came abruptly upon a road that lay below him. Biding there in cover, he scrutinized it.

It was a road beaten deeply through the snow, marked with the wheels of carts and the runners of sleds; since it ran from east to west, it must be a road from Bay de Verde to Old Perlican. Yet who had uttered that Mohawk whoop, here in this solitude? That was a thing inexplicable.

Only for a moment, however. Off to the left appeared a moving shape—a man, bare-headed, running clumsily, casting frightened glances over his shoulder, tearing off a heavy coat as he ran. A sobbing cry burst from him, directed apparently at high heaven, since it was impossible that he could imagine any one to be near at hand.

"Help! Help! The red devils are on us—help! Ha' mercy——"

Crawford stiffened in a momentary paralysis of utter amazement. From the trees opposite him, and ahead of the English settler, glided a figure which cut off the flight of the settler. The figure was cloaked in long blanket-coat and wide beaver hat, but from beneath the brim of the hat peered out hideously painted features grinning at the wretched fugitive.

Here was the source of that Mohawk whoop! Incredible as it was, the thing was true. Crawford saw the redskin deliberately whip out tomahawk and poise for the throw, while the settler, plunging blindly along the road, was ignorant of his doom. Crawford gripped his own axe and, with a swift motion, hurled it—but too late. The other had flung, and even as one blade hit home, the second followed suit. Each man was destroyed by an unseen enemy. Crawford's axe struck through wide hat to brain, and the woods rover plunged forward into the road, without a cry. The hapless fugitive, struck glancingly, but no less fatally, dropped in his tracks and the tomahawks spun in the icy road beyond him.

For a moment Crawford waited, searching the farther trees with keen scrutiny, appalled by what had just happened; that the Mohawk could be raiding this country was beyond belief. No sign of any one else could be descried and, as he looked back to the two figures, came the explanation. The rover's wide hat had fallen away to disclose reddish hair. He was no redskin, but a white man, a Canadian—one of those voyageurs and coureurs-de-bois who had adopted Indian habits, wives and appearance. This explained the Mohawk cry, for many of that clan had settled above Montreal and took the French part against the English and Iroquois.

The English fugitive lifted his bloody head and came to one knee. Crawford broke from his covert and, discarding the snowshoes, ran to help the man, catching him in his arms. A glance showed that the wound was mortal, but the dying eyes widened on Crawford.

"Who are ye?"

"A friend," said Crawford, unwonted kindness in his cold eyes. "I tried to get the rogue before he let fly, but failed. Who is he? What does it mean?"

"English, be ye? On guard, on guard!" A flicker of energy filled the fading voice. "I run away from 'em—the devils are sweepin' the coast! It's Iberville himself, they say—Canadians, Injuns! St. John's captured, burned; they've burned Heart's Content, Havre de Grace, all the settlements! Carbonear Island holds out—whence come you that you know not these things?"

"I landed yesterday," said Crawford.

"Then flee with your ship!" cried the dying man. "There is no rescue—all is slaughter! Old Perlican is burned—sloops burned—ship captured—ship from England at Bay de Verde was taken last night—full of provisions—the Irish slaves have risen against us—murder——"

The man's head joggled forward in death.

So there was war in the land! Crawford stood for a little in thought, astounded beyond measure by this news. He had heard of Iberville ere this; that name was both famous and infamous in New England, for it was Iberville who had raided Schenectady with his Mohawk brethren—a gentleman, an officer of the French navy, a wild adventurer who halted for no odds, a Mohawk by adoption. Such was Pierre le Moyne, Sieur d'Iberville.

"So Iberville is ahead of us, eh?" thought Crawford, and his lips twitched whimsically at the thought. "And he took a ship of provisions last night, at Bay de Verde! And what was that about Irish slaves? Poor devils of Jacobites sent over here and branded! Sink me if all this hasn't a significant hint for my ears! M. d'Iberville, I salute you! Now, my Star of Dreams—lead on!"

Pausing only to retrieve his tomahawk and take the fusil and munitions carried by the dead Canadian, he turned about and hastened on the back trail to rejoin his men.