“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 quarterdeck 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.