There in the landlocked harbour under Point Eskimo, stout Jens Munck had watched his Danish colonists die, had gone four days without food, knew himself dying of scurvy, and so sat down to pen the last line in his log-book. And what a trumpet call of the spirit he wrote there! “Herewith, good night to all the world; and my soul to God.” Yet he lived, and lived to work one ship back to Norway, two staggering men helping him. The Danish river had known heroes in those days, ay, and was to know heroes often enough in days to come!
So Crawford and the four with him started down the river bank toward the harbour, following the course of the wide stream. As they went, Moses Deakin fired the fusil and pistols again and again in the air, and sent his stentorian voice ringing up among the trees, lifting brazen curses because neither his agent, who was a Creek chief, nor any other redskin appeared. If they had any message from the Star Woman, they would not dare go away until it was delivered; and while they would not camp at the feared bay itself, they would remain near by and keep out scouts to watch for Deakin.
Crawford, who was by this time well again save for his half-healed scalp, said naught of his own hopes but smiled to himself. He was looking forward eagerly to seeing the bark lie anchored in the harbour, and to meeting Frontin. Surely Frontin must hear those shots, and the ringing bellow of Deakin, and the wild yells in which the other men joined! As the five wended downstream, the huge Bostonnais glared at the thick forest which closed in everything, and cursed the Indians who did not appear.
“Why aren’t the red devils on hand to meet us?” he roared forth at length, as they came to a bit of more open shore, girded by trees and brush. “They’ve never failed afore this! They bring down the furs, camp in a village somewhere near at hand, across the bay, and keep scouts posted for first sight o’ me. Blood and wounds, where are the red dogs? Ahoy, ye rogues! Wake up!”
From the green trees that closed down like a wall, came a low and mocking burst of laughter. The five men halted and stared about in startled astonishment. Swift upon the heels of that laugh rose a voice in English.
“Thanks for warning us, Moses Deakin! At him, lads——”
The trees vomited powder-smoke, the roar of fusils echoed out, then a riot of figures came bursting forth from ambush. The man in front of Crawford fell, riddled by balls. The huge figure of Deakin swayed and tottered and crashed to earth; the man at Deakin’s heels screamed out as a cutlass split his skull. Then Crawford and the other remaining man were down beneath a mass of assailants, and eager hands bound them fast. So swift and deadly was this assault that not a blow was struck in return.
Deakin, unconscious from a bullet that had raked across his brow, was bound and carried off; after him, Crawford and the other man were dragged. Crawford stared at his captors in stupefied bewilderment. Frontin, indeed! These were utter strangers, English by their talk, and in command of them one Captain Moon. The name struck Crawford with enlightenment. Aboard the prize, he had heard Smithsend mention the little brig Perry, under this same Captain Moon—an unit of the company’s fleet which had presumably foundered in the straits.
When the party emerged from the trees and came out upon the shores of the landlocked harbour, Crawford stared yet harder. There, inside the north point, lay the broken wreck of a small ship, beyond doubt the Perry; she had split her keel on the outer rocks and had been swept inside, a total loss. Waiting beside the huge piles of salvaged barrels and goods were Indians—lordly Crees and men of the bay-shore tribes, a good fifty of them at least.
These were sitting about in a half-circle facing the shore and the wreck, and it became evident that Moon had interrupted a council to go and lay his ambush. Perhaps the redskins here assembled had been friends to Moses Deakin in other days, but now their prodigality of gewgaws and blankets showed that Moon had spent much of his precious salvage to win them over, and none of them moved from their serried rank to greet the Bostonnais.