O N this early night of September there was gaiety aboard the Pelican. She lay anchored ten miles southwest of Fort Nelson, in the open bay.
Upon reaching the river the previous day, she found all buoys destroyed and the channel-marks removed, so that Iberville dared not attempt the precarious river entrance, across the wide mud flats, until he had taken soundings.
The bay charts and pilots were all with Serigny, as were the supplies and siege guns, and he was bitterly disappointed not to find his other three ships here ahead of him. At least he had beaten the English squadron, however. So Martigny and a score of Canadians departed in the pinnace to take soundings, scout the fort, and roam the woods in search of friendly Indians, and that evening high celebration was held aboard ship.
The guns were shifted, battle lanterns hung about, all hands made merry. There were fiddles, with a flute or two to help, and no lack of good wine all around. French and Canadians sang chansons and Mohawk chants and gay sentimental court ballads, officers and men intermingling in Latin good-fellowship, voyageur and chevalier dancing and drinking together, Iberville joining hands with his powder boys.
Crawford, who took small part in all this gaiety, tired of looking on and presently went up into the bows. He stood there smoking, his eyes watching the play of lights in the northern sky that fought the dim, sunny twilight in the south. There Iberville found him presently, when he strolled up with La Potherie, and clapped him heartily on the shoulder. Come and try our excellent Canary. To-morrow Martigny will return with the pinnace, we'll land guns and men, and crack this nut of Nelson.
