“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?”