Dickon departed, and Frontin sent the other men to sleep and rest. Sir Phelim dully repeated the order to his Irish, and presently Frontin and Burke remained alone.
“What hope?” said Burke, despair in his branded, weary countenance. “Even is Hal not dead, how can we help? I understand your meaning, Frontin. The ice is moving us, and the fog has settled down. We cannot find that accursed ship now.”
“I can find her in hell, when the time comes,” said Frontin. He drained a mug of wine, wiped his lips, and settled back against the rail. When he had a tinder-match alight, he set it to his pipe and puffed comfortably.
“The cap’n is not dead, Sir Phelim, depend upon it! I think that he gave this Deakin too large a tale—frightened him. So Deakin caught him off guard and clamped him in irons. Why? No doubt to serve as hostage. That order to me, bidding me come over and hang Deakin unless the cap’n returned, frightened the man, set him thinking. This Deakin is no fool. He guessed that we could not come over and hang him, or take his ship either.”
“Then what do you propose?”
“To do it, since he thinks we cannot,” said Frontin coolly.
Burke regarded him steadily. “How can you find that ship again?”
Frontin smiled his thin, sardonic smile. “We’ve calculated the drift each day. The Bostonnais is inside the drift by the shore ice, and will not move until the outer ice has broken up or gone. There is no hurry. Perhaps this Deakin will set out to scout our ship and discover her position and strength. Sir Phelim, do you believe in omens?”
Burke now regarded him with some uneasiness. There was about this Frenchman, whose affection for Crawford was beyond words, something deep and terrible; his manner held a gloomy exultation. Burke, being in despondent mood, was ready to see misfortune in this or anything else.
“Omens? Well—at times. But you spoke of Deakin coming to scout our ship?”