The fog closed in. Its chill was no worse than the chill in Crawford’s heart as the swift currents bore his little skiff out into the bay.
Swept away into darkness almost immediately, he devoted all his energies to getting rid of the lashing about his arms. First he had to reach the knife, which was no simple task in itself; then, doubling over, gripping it between his feet, he must hack and saw at the line which bound him. The motion of the boat added to the difficulty, since the skiff was rocking against cakes of ice or rolling in sudden surges sent out from the welter of smashing floes and pans. The vast field of ice was now breaking up for good. The whole night was filled with a mighty diapason of the roaring masses, pierced by shriller notes of splitting floes and the occasional booming of an overturned berg.
During all this straining time, Crawford’s mind did not dwell particularly upon his own fate, which seemed inevitable enough. By the gradual appearance of freer water around, he knew that the currents were rapidly bearing him offshore, out into the vast inland sea, helpless to steer his craft or to hinder his destiny. Yet in this while, his thoughts reverted to two things—first to the Star Woman, second to that blood-stained paper which he had pressed into Frontin’s hand on parting with his lieutenant.
He felt all amazed by Deakin’s words regarding the Star Woman. The man had been indubitably sincere in believing that such a person existed; as he had said, Deakin must have heard of her through the Bay Indians. Iberville had heard of her, also. The very name, taken in conjunction with the emblem which lay on Crawford’s breast, would have been impressive to a superstitious man; Crawford, however, was not superstitious. He was not impressed in the least by Deakin’s ravings, but he was tremendously perplexed by this new recurrence of the Star Woman in his own destiny.
“Why not find her, then—why not?” he muttered. “Still, I have more pressing affairs in hand at the present moment, if I am to find anything except a watery grave. Will Frontin understand that paper, I wonder?”
The paper in question had been taken from the body of Moses Deakin’s lieutenant. Crawford, in his hasty glance, had caught only the first line of writing, yet it now came back into his mind with redoubled emphasis. The words were simple: “Acct. of Goods to Bee broke out for ye trade att ye Daniche River.” Wherever this Danish river might lie—the name was totally unknown to Crawford—there also must be Deakin’s secret trading rendezvous with the redskins. What a chance!
“Ah, free!” he exclaimed, when at last his arms were at liberty and he could chafe his numbed and swollen hands into life. “Now, if I had but a sail and a chart of this bay, I’d still best that hairy devil. Warlock, am I? Ha—a breeze! To work, warlock!”
A faint breath of wind fanned his cheek. There was no lift to the fog, which rolled down more thick and dark than ever, nor was the little breeze likely to rift it. Crawford, facing the situation, found himself in total ignorance of direction. If the breeze came from the east, as Deakin had said, he would be carried off the land. He had no food or water, no blankets or sail; he had only the clothes on his back, the naked knife, and the light line which had captived him.
With these things, he went to work.
Despite the bitter chill of the fog, he was forced to dispense with his outer fur-lined coat. Then he smashed the ’midships thwart of the boat and split the long plank lengthwise until he had sticks to serve his purpose. These he fitted and spliced together with unravelled hemp, until he had a stout six-foot mast. Another stick in the arms of the coat made a very fair dipping-lug rig. To get this rig installed was another matter. Eventually, however, he had the mast stayed in place, got up his makeshift sail, made fast the lines, and chuckled softly as he felt the faint breeze take hold. He lay across the thwarts and heard the water go rippling more swiftly past the counter.