“None,” rejoined Crawford. “Where’s the rest of your fleet?”
Iberville shrugged. “How do I know? Ahead of us, we believe. We’ve been fighting the ice for weeks. The last I saw of the others was two days ago. My brother Serigny was far ahead of us in the Palmier. The Profound, under Du Guai, was almost at open water, and the Wasp likewise. We left the Violent at Placentia for repairs. We had news that an English fleet was on the way, but have seen nothing of them.”
The excited Irish chaplain settled down, Crawford swallowed his wine and lighted a pipe, and all four men fell into talk. Iberville, avid for news, was confident that his brother Serigny and the other three ships were already steering across the bay for Fort Nelson, at which post he meant to strike the first blow. When he had heard Crawford’s tale, he nodded.
“Strange words! Did this Bostonnais really see anything in the dish? My faith, I’d like to know! So you’ve given up the south sea passage, Crawford? Art going to find the Star Woman?”
Crawford shook his head. “I know not, Iberville—my first hope shall be to find my friends and ship again. Time enough for that.”
“Ay, we’ll have news of them, never fear!” Iberville rose. “Rest assured, you shall have your ship again and the best charts we can give you. M. l’Abbé, I offered this roving rascal a commission if he would sail with me—and he refused. Yet behold, here he is! Is this the hand of providence or not?”
“I’d call it Hal Crawford’s luck!” said Fitzmaurice, with a chuckle. “But where to, Pierre? Sit down, man, and smoke a pipe——”
“I must lay out the course and watch the charts,” said Iberville. “These pilots are afraid of the ice and shallows. Have out your talk in peace.”
He departed. Bienville, leaning across the table with his eyes ashine, listened eagerly while Crawford and the chaplain conned the days that had elapsed since Limerick and Boynewater. Once Crawford turned to him gaily.
“And suppose we find the English fleet ahead of us, Bienville?”