“I knew it was you! Pierre scoffed at me, but I knew it!”
Crawford laughed into the ardent eyes of the handsome youngster, then turned to the strong and masterful brother, who welcomed him with equal warmth.
“My faith, it’s incredible!” said Iberville. “Why are you here alone in an open boat, M. Crawford? Where’s that bark you had from me?”
“Lay the tale on the shoulders of food, drink and tobacco, and it’ll go better,” replied Crawford. Instantly Iberville took his arm and led him aft, with hasty apologies, while the ship’s yards were squared and she fell off on her course. Crawford’s gaze took in the staring Rochefort marines, the clustered seamen, the groups of Canadians; then he was being introduced to the officers—Grandville of the marines, and La Salle, the wild bush-loper Martigny, who had raided Acadia and Newfoundland with Iberville, the royal commissioner La Potherie, and others.
Now, knowing his man, Iberville led Crawford down to the cabin and shut out all save Bienville. Then, with food and wine before him, Crawford began to relate what had happened since his meeting and parting with the Le Moynes in Newfoundland. In the midst, there came a wild hammering at the door. In burst a red-haired, cassocked figure who greeted Crawford with a huge yell of joy and gripped his shoulders affectionately.
“Hal Crawford—by the piper! I was below with a poor dyin’ devil and——”
“Fitzmaurice of Kerry!” exclaimed Crawford. “Why, this is a dream——”
“Lad, lad, it’s like old times to see ye!” burst out Fitzmaurice, chaplain of the fleet. “Dost remember Limerick town, and the hammerer in the breach, and Phelim Burke na Murtha, and how Dutch William’s men poured in on us——”
“Phelim’s here on the bay!” cried Crawford. Then Iberville laughed, slammed the door shut again, and intervened.
“Sit down, Fitzmaurice, or I’ll send you back to shrive more scurvy-sick men! Let the man talk. Crawford, give me the news I crave! Have you met English ships in the straits? Have you seen any but this Bostonnais you were mentioning?”