Page:Golden Fleece v1n2 (1938-11).djvu/45

 dully through the fog.

"Guns!" said somebody.

Guns, indeed. A distant thunder of gunfire rolling along the towering iron cliffs. What it meant, they could only conjecture. Later, they learned that the Profound had been carried by the ice-drift slap into the midst of the English squadron; she fought them until the drift carried her away again into the fog.

The Pelican remained alone, under curtains of mist, but drifted at last into the mouth of the straits. There, ahead of them, was the bay, dotted with floe ice; and as near as could be told, Serigny and the other ships must be ahead of them. The fog lifted, showing not another sail in sight. A breeze stirred. Came wind, and the thunderous break-up of the floes. A channel opened ahead, and Iberville cracked on all sail.

 "Strip, lad!" he commanded. Out of those wet things."

REE! Free of the ice and fog, with destiny ahead!

The Pelican went scudding across the wide bay for Nelson. There was a wild and uproarious celebration aboard her. Bess Adams carried wine to the officers' mess; gay French nobles, the red-headed Fitzmaurice, lean Canadians, the Indian chief, young Bienville, dark eager Iberville, a wild company of clamorous tongues.

And suddenly Iberville caught at the cabin-boy and shoved a winecup into his hand.

"A toast to the lad!" rang out his voice. "A health to him, who gave us what we most needed! Drink it yourself with us, brave eyes; we're all comrades here, and if success comes, then we owe it to you and your charts! Drink!"

"Then I'll drink to you, M. d'Iberville, and those who love you!"