The giant laid aside his pipe. He shoved the heavy table so that it came under the arms of Crawford’s chair and under Crawford’s eye. Then, rising, he went to a locker and produced a shallow pewter dish. He set this on the table and reached down a flask, pouring into the dish a dankly glittering fluid which might have been black quicksilver, had there been such a thing. With the dish between himself and Crawford, Deakin now tugged his chair forward and reseated himself.
“First I’ll have a look at what’s in the straits,” he said. “Put your eyes on the witch ink, Crawford, and tell me what ye see.”
The Bostonnais stared down at the dark fluid, intent and absorbed, his huge frame bent over, his pronged beard sweeping the table, his immense hands outstretched and motionless. The monstrous incongruity of such a man engaged in so childish a task smote Crawford with a mad impulse to burst out laughing; but he checked it sternly enough. Whatever the man’s delusion might be, it held a deadly sincerity. Also, Crawford had heard in Boston that this Moses Deakin was famed for seeing visions, and now he perceived the explanation of the rumours.
Crawford, being without any credulity and putting no faith in witchcraft or second sight, waited for what might come. It occurred to him that Deakin, if possessed of any desire to apply his magic, might well summon up a vision of the Northstar at the moment, and save his scouts the work. Those who work wizardry, however, apparently eschew its more practical benefits.
“Look!” Deakin suddenly started, and his big hands gripped. “Blood and wounds—a fifty-gun ship!”
Crawford gazed down at the dark fluid and saw in it only the mirrored reflection of Deakin’s hairy visage. The other man, however, spoke with growing excitement.
“White flag at her poop—a Frenchman! A ship o’ the line, a royal ship! There’s men aboard her; ay, the faces begin to come out now. What the Canadians doing aboard she? And a red Injun, and fine officers in gold lace. I’ll warrant the rogues are cold enough! And yonder’s her cap’n; a fine handsome man he is, and a boy alongside him, likely his brother——”
Crawford sent an astonished glance to the fluid, but saw nothing. Could Deakin really be finding visions there? That man and boy—they must be Iberville and Bienville! He remembered now that Iberville had been awaiting ships from France——
“It’s Iberville!” he exclaimed. “Iberville and his fleet!”
That name, so dreaded on the bay, smote the Bostonnais. Lifting his head, Deakin showed in wild and hairy countenance a sudden amazed awe. He thought Crawford, too, had seen the vision.