Iberville nodded soberly, his spirit perfectly comprehending that of Crawford.
“How better, indeed? There’s blood of mine in those dark forests ashore. My brother Chateauguay lies under the pickets of that fort, which I have taken once or twice ere this, and shall take again. Well, I fight for my king while you fight for a dream—and devil shrive me if I’d not like to seek the Star Woman with you! Don’t look too long at those lights in the sky—ah, but you should see them in winter, as I have seen them from yonder shores! Some say they foretell storm in summer. The Indians call them the spirits of dancing dead men. Faith, there’ll be dead men dancing ashore once I get a mortar to bear on that accursed fort behind its cloak of trees! Come, Bacqueville, leave our man of destiny to dream——”
The other two departed, and Crawford presently went to the cabin which he shared with Fitzmaurice of Kerry. In ten minutes he was sound asleep to the whine of fiddles and the soft throatings of flutes.
It was broad daylight when he wakened to a great tumult of trampling feet on the decks, mingled with roars of joyous shouts and exultant oaths. The chaplain burst in upon him and in furious delight dragged him bodily from his berth.
“Up and on deck, ye sluggard! Here the fleet’s in sight—Serigny’s come at last, and we’re standing out to meet ’em! Up, ye lazy divil!”
Crawford flung on his clothes hastily enough. When he got on deck, he found the Pelican heading out for the open bay, where three distant sail were leaning down the wind. The air had turned bitter cold overnight and storm was brewing in the grey sky, but who cared for that? Serigny was sighted, the long voyage was ended in triumph, a stroke at Nelson would be made ere set of sun! Out stood the ship to welcome her comrades, gay flags decking her spars, and Grandville’s gunners unstopping cannon for a salute of welcoming.
Gaining the high poop-deck by the helm, where Iberville stood with his brother, Crawford joined the group of officers there. Signals were run up, and Iberville raised a glass to scrutinize the approaching ships. Then Crawford saw his eyes widen, saw him lower the glass, saw a sudden deadly pallor creeping into his cheeks. For one instant Iberville stood thus as though paralyzed, then turned and quietly touched the arm of La Potherie.
“Bacqueville, order food served out at once—swiftly! Then take charge of the forecastle; I’ll send the Canadians to you. Bienville, how many men aboard fit for service?”
“A hundred and twoscore, Pierre,” returned the boy carelessly. “Forty sick below, a score gone with Martigny in the pinnace—”
“Go below. Tell Grandville and La Salle to clear the lower deck for action. You’ll take the upper tier with De Ligondez. Why the devil didn’t Martigny come back last night—we’ve not men enough to man the guns! Here, sergeant!” A Rochefort marine saluted. “Have hand-ropes stretched along the decks—ice is forming already, I see. Order the magazines opened. St. Martin! Get every Canadian to the forecastle instantly, under La Potherie, with fusils and fresh horns of powder, and serve out bullets. Swiftly, swiftly! Roundshot on deck, there!”