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Title: The Road to Frontenac
Author: Samuel Merwin
Release Date: May 24, 2009 [eBook #28958]
Language: English
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THE ROAD TO FRONTENAC
[Illustration: "Half way down the steps was a double file of Indians
chained two and two."]
THE ROAD TO FRONTENAC
by
SAMUEL MERWIN
New York
Doubleday, Page & Co.
1901
Copyright, 1901, by Frank Leslie Publishing House.
Copyright, 1901, by Doubleday, Page & Company.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Captain Menard Has a Lazy Day. 1
II. The Maid. 19
III. Mademoiselle Eats Her Breakfast. 38
IV. The Long Arrow. 61
V. Danton Breaks Out. 83
VI. The Fight at La Gallette. 103
VII. A Compliment for Menard. 127
VIII. The Maid Makes New Friends. 147
IX. The Word of an Onondaga. 169
X. A Night Council. 191
XI. The Big Throat Speaks. 212
XII. The Long House. 235
XIII. The Voice of the Great Mountain. 254
XIV. Where the Dead Sit. 272
XV. The Bad Doctor. 293
XVI. At the Long Lake. 314
XVII. Northward. 337
XVIII. The Only Way. 359
XIX. Frontenac. 383
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"Half way down the steps was a double file of Indians
chained two and two." _Frontispiece_
"Sitting on a bundle was, a girl, perhaps eighteen or
nineteen years old." 36
"The Indians walked silently to the fire." 64
"Menard stood ... smiling with the same look of scorn
he had worn ... when they led him to the torture." 256
THE ROAD TO FRONTENAC.
CHAPTER I
CAPTAIN MENARD HAS A LAZY DAY.
Captain Daniel Menard leaned against the parapet at the outer edge of
the citadel balcony. The sun was high, the air clear and still.
Beneath him, at the foot of the cliff, nestled the Lower Town, a strip
of shops and houses, hemmed in by the palisades and the lower battery.
The St. Lawrence flowed by, hardly stirred by the light breeze. Out in
the channel, beyond the merchantmen, lay three ships of war, _Le
Fourgon_, _Le Profond_, and _La Perle_, each with a cluster of supply
boats at her side; and the stir and rattle of tackle and chain coming
faintly over the water from _Le Fourgon_ told that she would sail for
France on the morrow, if God should choose to send the wind.
Looking almost straight down, Menard could see the long flight of
steps that climbed from the settlement on the water front to the
nobler city on the heights. Halfway down the steps was a double file
of Indians, chained two and two, and guarded by a dozen regulars from
his own company. He watched them until they reached the bottom and
disappeared behind the row of buildings that ended on the wharf in
Patron's trading store. In a moment they reappeared, and marched
across the wharf, toward the two boats from _Le Fourgon_ that awaited
them. Even from the height, Menard could see that the soldiers had a
stiff task to control their prisoners. After one of the boats, laden
deep, had shoved off, there was a struggle, and the crowd of idlers
that had gathered scattered suddenly. Two Indians had broken away, and
were running across the wharf, with a little knot of soldiers close on
their heels. One of the soldiers, leaping forward, brought the stock
of his musket down on the head of the nearer Indian. The fugitive went
down, dragging with him his companion, who tugged desperately at the
chain. A soldier drew his knife, and cut off the dead Indian's arm
close to the iron wristlet, breaking the bone with his foot. Then they
led back the captive and tumbled him into the boat, with the hand of
his comrade dangling at the end of the chain. The incident had excited
the soldiers, and they kicked and pounded the prisoners. A crowd
gathered about the body on the wharf, the bolder ones snatching at his
beads and wampum belt.
Menard raised his eyes to the lands across the river and to the white
cloud-puffs above. After months of camp and canoe, sleeping in snow
and rain, and by day paddling, poling, and wading,--never a new face
among the grumbling soldiers or the stolid prisoners,--after this,
Quebec stood for luxury and the pleasant demoralization of good
living. He liked the noise of passing feet, the hail of goodwill from
door to door, the plodding shopkeepers and artisans, the comfortable
priests in brown and gray.
The sound of oars brought his eyes again to the river. The two boats
with their loads of redskins were passing the merchantmen that lay
between the men-of-war and the city. On the wharf, awaiting a second
trip, was a huddled group of prisoners. Menard's face clouded as he
watched them. Men of his experience were wondering what effect this
new plan of the Governor's would have upon the Iroquois. Capturing a
hunting party by treachery and shipping them off to the King's galleys
was a bold stroke,--too bold, perhaps. Governor Frontenac would never
have done this; he knew the Iroquois temper too well. Governor la
Barre, for all his bluster, would not have dared. It was certain that
this new governor, Denonville, was not a coward; but as Menard
reflected, going back over his own fifteen years of frontier life, he
knew that this policy of brute force would be sorely tested by the
tact and intrigue of the Five Nations. His own part in the capture
little disturbed him. He had obeyed orders. He had brought the band to
the citadel at Quebec without losing a man (saving the poor devil who
had strangled himself with his own thongs at La Gallette).
To such men as Menard, whose lives were woven closely into the fabric
of New France, the present condition was clear. Many an evening he had
spent with Major d'Orvilliers, at Fort Frontenac, in talking over the
recent years of history into which their two names and their two lives
had gone so deeply. Until his recall to France in 1682, Governor
Frontenac had been for ten years building up in the Iroquois heart a
fear and awe of Onontio, the Great Father, at Quebec. D'Orvilliers
knew that period the better, for Menard had not come over (from the
little town of his birth, in Picardy) until Frontenac's policy was
well established. But Menard had lived hard and rapidly during his
first years in the province, and he was a stern-faced young soldier
when he stood on the wharf, hat in hand and sword to chin, watching
New France's greatest governor sitting erect in the boat that bore him
away from his own. Menard had been initiated by a long captivity among
the Onondagas, and had won his first commission by gallant action
under the Governor's eye.
In those days no insult went unpunished; no tribe failed twice in its
obligations. The circle of French influence was firmly extended around
the haunts of the Iroquois in New York and along the Ohio. From
Frontenac, on Lake Ontario, north to Hudson's Bay, was French land. To
the westward, along the Ottawa River, and skirting the north shore of
Lake Huron to Michillimackinac and Green Bay, were the strong French
allies, the Hurons, Ottawas, Nipissings, Kiskagons, Sacs, Foxes, and
Mascoutins. Down at the lower end of Lake Michigan, at the Chicagou
and St. Joseph portages, were the Miamis; and farther still, the
Illinois, whom the Sieur de la Salle and Henri de Tonty had drawn
close under the arm of New France.
This chain of allies, with Du Luth's fort at Detroit and a partial
control over Niagara, had given New France nearly all the fur trade of
the Great Lakes. The English Governor Dongan, of New York, dared not
to fight openly for it, but he armed the Iroquois and set them against
the French. Menard had laughed when the word came, in 1684, from
Father de Lamberville, whose influence worked so far toward keeping
the Iroquois quiet, that Dongan had pompously set up the arms of his
king in each Iroquois village, even dating them back a year to make
his claim the more secure. Every old soldier knew that more than
decrees and coats of arms were needed to win the Five Nations.
When La Barre succeeded Frontenac, lacking the tact and firmness which
had established Frontenac's name among foes and allies alike, he fell
back upon bluster (to say nothing of the common talk in Quebec that he
had set out to build up his private fortune by the fur trade).
Learning that, by his grant of Fort Frontenac, La Salle was entitled
to a third of the trade that passed through it, he seized the fort. He
weakened La Salle's communications so greatly that La Salle and Tonty
could not make good their promises of French protection to the
Illinois. This made it possible for the Iroquois, unhindered, to lay
waste the Illinois country. By equally shortsighted methods, La Barre
so weakened the ties that bound the northern allies, and so increased
the arrogance of the Iroquois, that when Governor Denonville took up
the task, most of the allies, always looking to the stronger party,
were on the point of going over to the Iroquois. This would give the
fur trade to the English, and ruin New France. Governor Dongan seized
the moment to promise better bargains for the peltry than the French
could offer. It remained for the new governor to make a demonstration
which would establish firmly the drooping prestige of New France.
Now the spring of 1687 was just ending. Since February it had been
spread abroad, from the gulf seignories to Fort Frontenac, that
preparations were making for a great campaign against the Iroquois.
Champigny, the new Intendant, had scoured the country for supplies,
and now was building bateaux and buying canoes. Regulars and militia
were drilling into the semblance of an army, and palisades and
defences were everywhere built or strengthened, that the home guard
might keep the province secure during the long absence of the troops.
Menard wondered, as he snapped bits of stone off the parapet, and
watched the last boatload of galley slaves embarking at the wharf,
whether the Governor's plans would carry. He would undoubtedly act
with precision, he would follow every detail of campaigning to the
delight of the tacticians, he would make a great splash,--and then?
How about the wily chiefs of the Senecas and Onondagas and Mohawks?
They had hoodwinked La Barre into signing the meanest treaty that ever
disgraced New France. Would Denonville, too, blind himself to the
truth that shrewd minds may work behind painted faces?
But above all else, Menard was a soldier. He snapped another bit of
stone, and gave up the problem. He would fight at the Governor's
orders, retreat at the Governor's command,--to the Governor would
belong the credit or the blame. Of only one thing was he sure,--his
own half hundred men should fight as they had always fought, and
should hold their posts to the end. There ended his responsibility.
And did not the good Fathers say that God was watching over New
France?
Meantime the breath of summer was in the air. The spring campaign was
over for Menard. So he rested both elbows on the parapet, and wondered
how long the leaves had been out in Picardy. Over beyond the ships and
the river were waves of the newest green, instead of the deep, rich
colour and the bloom of full life he had left behind at Fort Frontenac
but two weeks back. The long journey down the St. Lawrence had seemed
almost a descent into winter. On the way to Quebec every day and every
league had brought fewer blossoms. Even Montreal, sixty leagues to the
south, had her summer before Quebec.
On the wharf below him the crowd were still plucking the dead Indian.
Menard could hear their laughter and shouts. Their figures were small
in the distance, their actions grotesque. One man was dancing,
brandishing some part of the Indian's costume. Menard could not
distinguish the object in his hand. A priest crossed the wharf and
elbowed into the crowd. For the moment he was lost in the rabble, but
shortly the shouting quieted and the lightheaded fellows crowded into
a close group. Probably the priest was addressing them. Soon the
fringe of the crowd thinned, then the others walked quietly away. When
at last the priest was left alone by the mutilated Indian, he knelt,
and for a space was motionless.
The idleness of reaction was on Menard. He leaned on the parapet,
hardly stirring, while the priest went on his way across the square
and began toiling up the steps. When he was halfway up, Menard
recognized him for Claude de Casson, an old Jesuit of the Iroquois
mission at Sault St. Francis Xavier, near Montreal. Menard strolled
through the citadel to the square, and, meeting the Father, walked
with him.
"Well, Father Claude, you are a long way from your flock."
"Yes, Captain Menard, I came with the relations. I have been"--Father
Claude was blown from his climb, and he paused, wiping the sweat from
his lean face--"I have been grieved by a spectacle in the Lower Town.
Some wretches had killed an Onondaga with the brutality of his own
tribe, and were robbing him. Are such acts permitted to-day in Quebec,
M'sieu?"
"He was a prisoner escaping from the soldiers. It must be a full year
since I last saw you, Father. I hope you bring a good record to the
College."
"The best since our founding, M'sieu."
"Is there no word in the relations from the New York missions?"
"Yes, M'sieu. Brother de Lamberville brings glorious word from the
Mohawks. Twenty-three complete conversions."
"You say he brings this word?" Menard's brows came together. "Then he
has come up to Montreal?"
"Yes."
"It is true, then, that the Iroquois have word of our plans?"
"It would seem so. He said that a war party which started weeks ago
for the Illinois country had been recalled. A messenger was sent out
but a few days before he came away."
Menard slowly shook his head.
"This word should go to the Commandant," he said. "How about your
Indians at the Mission, Father Claude? They have not French hearts."
"Ah, but I am certain, M'sieu, they would not break faith with us."
"You can trust them?"
"They are Christians, M'sieu."
"Yes, but they are Iroquois. Have none of them gone away since this
news reached Quebec?"
"None, save one poor wretch whose drunkenness long ago caused us to
give up hope, though I--"
"What became of him? Where did he go?"
"He wandered away in a drunken fit."
"And you have not heard from him since?"
"No, M'sieu. He was Teganouan, an Onondaga."
"You would do well, Father, if I may suggest, to take what news you
may have to the Commandant. You and I know the importance of trifles
at such a time as this. How long do you remain in Quebec?"
"A few days only, unless there should be work for me here."
"Do you return then to Montreal?"
"I cannot say until I have made my report and delivered the relations.
Brother de Lamberville thinks it important that word should go to all
those who are now labouring in the Iroquois villages. If they remain
after the campaign is fairly started, their lives may be in danger."
"You think it necessary to go yourself?"
"What else, M'sieu? This is not the time to trust too freely an Indian
runner. And a layman might never get through alive. My habit would be
the best safeguard."
"I suppose you are right. If I should not see you again, I must ask
you to convey my respect to your colleagues at the Mission. I shall
probably be here until the campaign is fairly started; perhaps longer.
Already I am tasting the luxury of idleness."
"A dangerous luxury, M'sieu. If I might be permitted to advise--"
"Yes, yes, Father,--I know, I know. But what is the use? You are a
priest, I am a soldier. Yours is penance, mine is fighting; yours is
praying, mine is singing,--every man to his own. And when you priests
have got your pagans converted, we soldiers will clean up the mess
with our muskets. And now, Father, good day, and may God be with
you."
The priest's face was unmoved as he looked after the retreating
figure. He had watched Menard grow from a roistering lieutenant into a
rigid captain, and he knew his temper too well to mind the flicks of
banter. But before the soldier had passed from earshot, he called
after him.
Menard turned back. "What now, good Father? A mass for my soul, or a
last absolution before I plunge into my term of dissolute idleness?"
"Neither, my son," replied the priest, smiling. "Is any of your
idleness to be shared with another?"
"Certainly, Father."
"I am bringing a picture to the College."
"I have no money, Father. I should be a sorry patron."
"No, no, M'sieu; it is not a patron I seek. It is the advice of one
who has seen and judged the master work of Paris. The painting has
been shown to none as yet."
"But you have seen it?"
"Yes, yes, I have seen it. Come with me, M'sieu; it is at my room."
They walked together to the cell, six feet long by five wide, where
Father Claude slept when in Quebec. It was bare of all save a hard
cot. A bale, packed in rough cloth and tied with rope, lay on the bed.
Father Claude opened the bundle, while Menard leaned against the wall,
and drew out his few personal belongings and his portable altar before
he reached the flat, square package at the bottom. There was a touch
of colour in his cheeks and a nervousness in the movement of his hands
as he untied the flaxen strings, stripped off the cloth, and held the
picture up to Menard's view.
It was a full-length portrait in oil of a young Indian woman, holding
a small cross in her right hand, and gazing at it with bent head. Her
left hand was spread upon her breast. She wore a calico chemise
reaching below her knees, and leggings, and moccasins. A heavy robe
was thrown over the top of her head, falling on the sides and back to
within a foot of the ground. In the middle background was a stream,
with four Indians in a canoe. A tiny stone chapel stood on the bank at
the extreme right.
Father Claude's hand trembled as he supported the canvas upon the cot,
and his eyes wavered from Menard to the picture, and back again.
"It is not altogether completed," he said, nervously. "Of course the
detail will be worked out more fully, and the cross should be given a
warmer radiance. Perhaps a light showing through the windows of the
chapel--"
"Who is it?" asked Menard.
"It is Catherine Outasoren, the Lily of the Onondagas," replied the
priest; "the noblest woman that ever rose from the depths of Indian
superstition."
Menard's eyes rested on an obscure signature in a lower corner, "C. de
C."
"You certainly have reason to be proud of the work. But may I ask
about the perspective? Should the maiden appear larger than the
chapel?"
The priest gazed at the painting with an unsettled expression.
"Yes," he said, "perhaps you are right, M'sieu. At any rate I will
give the matter thought and prayer."
"And the Indians," Menard questioned, "in the canoe; are they coming
toward the chapel or going away from it? It seems to me that any doubt
on that point should be removed."
"Ah," said the priest; "that very doubt is allegorical. It typifies
the workings of the human mind when first confronted by the truth.
When the seeker first beholds the light, as shown through the devotion
of such a woman as Catherine Outasoren, there arises in his mind--"
"Very true, very true! But I never yet have seen a canoe-load of
Indians in doubt whether they were moving forward or backward."
Father Claude held the canvas at arm's length and gazed long at it.
"Tell me, M'sieu," he said at last, "do you think it deserving of a
place in the College?"
"I do not see why not."
"And you think I would be justified in laying a request before the
Superior?"
Menard shrugged his shoulders.
"That is your decision, Father."
"I never can fully thank you, my son, for your kindness in looking on
my humble work. I will not decide to-day. First I must add foliage in
the foreground. And I will give it my earnest prayer."
Menard said farewell and went out, leaving the priest gazing at the
picture. He strolled back toward the citadel, stopping now and then to
greet an old friend or a chance acquaintance. When he arrived at the
headquarters in the citadel he found Danton, a brown-haired young
lieutenant of engineers, gazing at a heap of plans and other papers on
the table.
"Well, Captain Menard," was his greeting, "I'd give half of last
year's pay, if I ever get it, to feel as lazy as you look."
"You are lazy enough," growled Menard.
"That begs the question. It is not how lazy a man is, but how lazy he
gets a chance to be."
"If you'd been through what I have this spring, you'd deserve a
rest."
"You must have had a stirring time," said the Lieutenant. "Major
Provost has promised to let me go out with the line when the campaign
starts. I've not had a brush since I came over."
Menard gave him a quizzical smile before he replied, "You'll get
brushes enough."
"By the way, the Major wants to see you."
"Does he?" said Menard.
He lighted his short pipe with a coal from the fire and walked out.
CHAPTER II.
THE MAID.
Menard did not go at once to see Major Provost, the Commandant. He had
already handed in his report at the citadel. It was probable that this
was some new work for him. He had just settled his mind to the
prospect of a rest, the first since that mad holiday, seven years
before, when word had come that his lieutenant's commission was on the
way. That was at Three Rivers. He wanted to idle, to waste a few weeks
for the sheer delight of extravagance, but his blood did not flow more
quickly at the wish. He was an older man by a score of years--or was
it only seven?
He lingered on the square. The black-eyed children, mostly dirty and
ragged (for the maids whom the King had sent over by shiploads to his
colonists had not developed into the most diligent and neat
housewives) tumbled about his feet. He allowed himself to be drawn
into their play. They had no awe of his uniform, for it was worn and
frayed. He had not yet taken the trouble to get out his fresher coat
and breeches and boots. He thought of this, and was again amused. It
was another sign of age. The time had been when his first care after
arriving in Quebec was to don his rich house uniform and polished
scabbard, and step gaily to the Major's house to sun himself in the
welcome of the Major's pretty wife, who had known his uncle, the Sieur
de Vauban, at La Rochelle. Now he was back in Quebec from months on
the frontier, he was summoned to the Major's house, and yet he stayed
and laughed at the children. For the Major's wife was older, too, and
the vivacity of her youth was thinning out and uncovering the
needle-like tongue beneath. A slim little urchin was squirming between
his boots, with a pursuing rabble close behind, and the Captain had to
take hold of a young tree to keep his feet. He turned and started in
pursuit of the children, but caught sight of two Ursuline sisters
entering the square, and straightened himself. After all, a captain is
a captain, even though the intoxication of spring be in him, and his
heart struggling to clamber back into the land of youth. He walked on
across the square and down the street to the Major's house.
Major Provost welcomed Menard heartily, and led him to his office.
"We'll have our business first," he said, "and get it done with."
Menard settled back in the carved oak chair which had for generations
been a member of the Major's family. The light mood had left him. Now
he was the soldier, brusque in manner, with lines about his mouth
which, to certain men, gave his face a hard expression.
"First let me ask you, Menard, what are your plans?"
"For the present?"
"Yes."
"I have none."
"Your personal affairs, I mean. Have you any matters to hold your
attention here for the next few weeks?"
"None."
Major Provost fingered his quill.
"I don't know, of course, how your own feelings stand, Menard. You've
been worked hard for three years, and I suppose you want rest. But
somebody must go to Fort Frontenac, and the Governor thinks you are
the man."
Menard made a gesture of impatience.
"There are a dozen men here with little to do."
"I know it. But this matter is of some importance, and it may call for
delicate work before you are through with it. It isn't much in
itself,--merely to bear orders to d'Orvilliers,--but the Governor
thinks that the right man may be able to do strong work before the
campaign opens. You probably know that we are to move against the
Senecas alone, and that we must treat with the other nations to keep
them from aiding the Senecas. No one can say just how this can be
done. Even Father de Lamberville has come back, you know, from the
Mohawks; but the Governor thinks that if we send a good man, he may be
able to see a way, once he gets on the ground, and can advise with
d'Orvilliers. Now, you are a good man, Menard; and you can influence
the Indians if anyone can."
"You are a little vague, Major."
"You will go to Frontenac in advance of the army to prepare the way.
La Durantaye and Du Luth are already at Detroit, awaiting orders, with
close to two hundred Frenchmen and four hundred Indians. And Tonty
should have joined them before now with several hundred Illinois."
"I don't believe he'll bring many Illinois. They must have known of
the Iroquois war party that started toward their villages. They will
stay to defend their own country. They may not know that the Iroquois
party was recalled."
"Recalled?" said the Major.
"Yes. Father de Casson has the news from Father de Lamberville. You
see what that means. The Iroquois have been warned."
"I was afraid of it. These new governors, Menard--each has to learn
his lesson from the beginning of the book. Why will they not take
counsel from the men who know the Indians? This campaign has been
heralded as broadly as a trading fair."
"When should I start?" asked Menard, abruptly.
"At once--within a few days." Major Provost looked at the other's set
face. "I am sorry about this, Menard. But you understand, I am sure.
Perhaps I had better give you an idea of our plans. You know, of
course, that we have three ships fitting out at Frontenac. Already our
force is being got together at St. Helen's Island, by Montreal.
Champigny is engaging canoemen and working out a transport and supply
system between Montreal and Frontenac. The force will proceed to
Frontenac, and embark from there in the ships, bateaux, and canoes."
"Is the rendezvous at Niagara?"
"No, at La Famine, on the southern shore of Lake Ontario."
Menard nodded. He knew the place; for by nearly starving there, years
before, with the others of Governor la Barre's ill-starred expedition,
he had contributed to giving the spot a name.
"La Durantaye and Du Luth, with Tonty, are to meet us there. You will
instruct them to move on to Niagara, and there await further orders.
We shall sail around the east end of the lake and along the south
shore."
"The Iroquois will follow your movements."
"We intend that they shall. They will not know where our final landing
place will be, and will have to keep their forces well in hand. And it
will prevent them from uniting to attack Niagara."
"What then?"
"We will leave a strong guard at La Famine with the stores, and strike
inland for the Seneca villages."
"And now what part am I to play in this?"
Major Provost leaned back in his chair.
"You, Menard, are to represent the Governor. You will move in advance
of the troops. At Frontenac it will be your duty to see first that the
way is clear to getting the two divisions to the meeting place at La
Famine, and to see that d'Orvilliers has the fort ready for the
troops, with extra cabins and stockades. Then the Governor wishes you
and d'Orvilliers to go over all the information the scouts bring in.
If you can decide upon any course which will hold back the other
tribes from aiding the Senecas, act upon it at once, without orders.
In other words, you have full liberty to follow your judgment. That
ought to be responsibility enough."
Menard stretched his arms. "All right, Major. But when my day comes to
taste the delights of Quebec, I hope I may not be too old to enjoy
it."
"The Governor honours you, Menard, with this undertaking."
"He honoured De Sévigné with a majority and turned him loose in
Quebec."
"Too bad, Menard, too bad," the Major laughed. "Now I, who ask nothing
better than a brisk campaign, must rot here in Quebec until I die."
"Are you not to go?"
"No. I am to stay behind and brighten my lonely moments drilling the
rabble of a home guard. Do you think you will need an escort?"
"No; the river from here to Frontenac is in use every day. I shall
want canoemen. Two will be enough."
"Very well. Let me know what supplies you need. You mistake, man, in
grumbling at the work. You are building up a reputation that never
could live at short range. Stay away long enough and you will be a
more popular man than the Governor. I envy you, on my honour, I do."
"One thing more, Major. This galley affair; what do you think of it?"
"You mean the capture at Frontenac? You should know better than I,
Menard. You brought the prisoners down."
"There is no doubt in my mind, Major, nor in d'Orvilliers's! We obeyed
orders." Menard looked up expressively. "You know the Iroquois. You
know how they will take it. The worst fault was La Grange's. He
captured the party--and it was not a war party--by deliberate
treachery. D'Orvilliers had intrusted to him the Governor's orders
that Indians must be got for the King's galleys. As you know,
d'Orvilliers and I both protested. I did not bring them here until the
Governor commanded it."
"Well, we can't help that now, Menard."
"That is not the question. You ask me to keep the Onondagas out of
this fight, after we have taken a hundred of their warriors in this
way."
"I know it, Menard; I know it. But the Governor's orders--Well, I have
nothing to say. You can only do your best."
They went to the reception room, where Madame de Provost awaited them.
Menard was made to stay and dine, in order that Madame could draw from
him a long account of his latest adventures on the frontier. Madame de
Provost, though she had lived a dozen years in the province, had never
been farther from Quebec than the Seignory of the Marquis de St.
Denis, half a dozen leagues below the city. The stories that came to
her ears of massacres and battles, of settlers butchered in the
fields, and of the dashing adventures of La Salle and Du Luth, were to
her no more than wild tales from a far-away land. So she chattered
through the long dinner; and for the first time since he had reached
the city, Menard wished himself back on Lake Ontario, where there were
no women.
Menard returned to the citadel early in the evening. Lieutenant Danton
was drawing plans for a redoubt, but he leaned back as Menard
entered.
"I began to think you were not coming back, Captain," he said. "I'm
told the Major says that you are the only man in New France who could
have got that trading agreement from the Onondagas last year. How did
you do it?"
"How does a man usually do what he is told to do?" Menard sat on a
corner of the long table and looked lazily at the boy.
"That wasn't the kind of treaty our Governors make; you know it
wasn't."
"You were not here under Frontenac."
"No. I wish I had been. He must have been a great orator. My father
has told me about the long council at Montreal. He said that Frontenac
out-talked the greatest of the Mohawk orators. Did you learn it from
him?"
"My boy, when you are through with your pretty pictures," Menard
motioned toward the plans, "and have got out into the real work; when
you've spent months in Iroquois lodges; when you've been burned and
shot and starved,--then it will be a pity if you haven't learned to be
a soldier. What is this little thing you are drawing?"
Danton flushed. "You may laugh at the engineers," he said, "but where
would King Louis be now if--"
"Tut, my boy, tut!"
"That is very well--"
Menard laughed. "How old are you, Danton?" he asked.
"Twenty-two."
"Very good. You have got on well. I dare say you've learned a deal out
of your books. Now we have you out here in the provinces, where the
hard work is done. Well send you back in a few years a real man. And
then you'll step smartly among the pretty officers of the King, and
when one speaks of New France you'll lift your brows and say: 'New
France? Ah, yes. That is in America. I was there once. Rather a
primitive life--no court, no army.' Ah, ha, my boy--no, never mind.
Come up to my quarters and have a sip of real old Burgundy."
"Are you ever serious, Menard?" asked Danton, sitting on the Captain's
cot and smacking his lips over the liquor.
Menard smiled. "I'm afraid I shall have to play at composure for an
hour," he said. "I must see Father Claude. Settle yourself here, if
you like."
Menard hurried away, for it was growing late. He found the Jesuit
meditating in his cell.
"Ah, Captain Menard, I am glad to see you so soon again."
Menard sat on the narrow bed and stretched out his legs as far as he
could in the cramped space.
"How soon will your duties be over here, Father?"
"There seems to be no reason for me to stay. I have delivered the
relations, and no further work has come to hand."
"Then it may be that you can help me, Father."
"You know, my son, that I will."
"Very well. I have been ordered to Fort Frontenac in advance of the
troops. I am to bear orders to d'Orvilliers and to Du Luth and La
Durantaye. It is possible that there may be some delicate work to be
done among the Indians. You know the Iroquois, Father, and our two
heads together should be stronger than mine alone. I want you to go
with me."
The priest's eyes lighted.
"It may be that I can get permission at Montreal."
"You will go, then?"
"Gladly. It is to be no one else--we two--"
"We shall have canoemen. To my mind, the fewer the better."
"Still, Captain, you cannot depend on the canoemen. Would it not be
well to have one other man? You might need a messenger."
Menard thought for a moment.
"True, Father. And if I am to have a man, he had best be an officer;
yes, a man who could execute orders. I'll take Danton. You will be
ready for a start, Father, probably to-morrow?"
"At any time, my son."
"Good night."
There was little work to be done in preparing for the journey (Major
Provost would attend to the supplies and to engaging the canoemen),
and Menard still was in the lazy mood. He stood for a while at the
edge of the cliff and looked down at the wharf. It was dark, and he
could not see whether the body of the Indian had been removed. The
incident of the afternoon had been gathering importance to his mind
the longer he thought of it. Five years earlier Menard had been
captured by the Onondagas during a fight near Fort Frontenac. They had
taken him to one of their villages, south of Lake Ontario, and for
days had tortured him and starved him. They had drawn out cords from
his arms and legs and thrust sticks between them and the flesh. His
back was still covered with scars from the burning slivers which they
had stuck through the skin. They had torn the nails from his left hand
with their teeth. Then Otreouati, the Big Throat, the chief who had
led his followers to believe in Frontenac, came back from a parley
with another tribe, and taking a liking to the tall young soldier who
bore the torture without flinching, he adopted him into his own
family. Menard had lived with the Indians, a captive only in name, and
had earned the name of the Big Buffalo by his skill in the hunt. At
last, when they had released him, it was under a compact of
friendship, that had never since been broken. It had stood many tests.
Even during open campaigns they had singled him out from the other
Frenchmen as their brother. He wondered whether they knew of his part
in stocking the King's galleys. Probably they did.
It was late when Menard took a last sweeping look at the river and
walked up to the citadel. His day of idleness was over. After all, it
had not been altogether a wasted day. But it was the longest holiday
he was likely to have for months to come. Having made up his mind to
accept the facts, he stretched out on his bed and went to sleep.
Danton took the news that he was to be a member of the party with
enthusiasm. Menard had hardly finished telling him when he swept the
tiresome plans and specifications into a heap at the end of the table,
and rushed out to get a musket (for a sword would have no place in the
work before them). The start was to be made at noon, but Danton was on
the ground so early as almost to lower his dignity in the eyes of the
bronzed canoemen. He wore his bravest uniform, with polished belt and
buttons and new lace at the neck. His broad hat had a long curling
feather. He wore the new musket slung rakishly over his shoulder.
About the middle of the forenoon, as Menard was looking over his
orders, memorizing them in case of accident to the papers, he was
found by Major Provost's orderly, who said that the Commandant wished
to see him at once.
The Major was busy with the engineers in another room, but he left
them.
"Menard," he said abruptly, "I've got to ask you to do me a favour. If
I could see any way out of it--"
"I will do anything I can."
"Thank you. I suppose you know the Marquis de St. Denis?"
"Slightly."
"Well, I shan't take time to give you the whole story. St. Denis has
the seignory six leagues to the east. You may know that he went into
debt to invest in La Salle's colonizing scheme in Louisiana. St. Denis
was in France at the time, and had great faith in La Salle. Of course,
now that La Salle has not been heard from, and the debts are all past
due without even a rumour of success to make them good--you can
imagine the rest. The seignory has been seized. St. Denis has
nothing."
"Has he a family?" asked Menard.
"A daughter. His wife is dead. He came here after you left last night,
and again this morning. We are old friends, and I have been trying to
help him. He is going to sail to-day on _Le Fourgon_ for Paris to see
what he can save from the wreck. My house is crowded with the officers
who are here planning the campaign; but St. Denis has a cousin living
at Frontenac, Captain la Grange, and we've got to get Valerie there
somehow. Do you think it will be safe?"
"It's a hard trip, you know; but it's safe enough."
"I shan't forget your kindness, Menard. The girl is a spirited little
thing, and she takes it hard. Madame has set her heart on getting her
to La Grange. I don't know all the details myself."
"I think we can arrange it, Major. We start in an hour."
"She will be there. You are a splendid fellow, Menard. Good-bye."
Menard's face was less amiable once he was away from the house. He
knew from experience the disagreeable task that lay before him. But
there was nothing to be said, so he went to his quarters and took a
last look at the orders. Then taking off his coat and his rough shirt,
he placed the papers carefully in a buckskin bag, which he hung about
his neck.
Everything was ready at the wharf. The long canoe lay waiting, a
_voyageur_ at each end. The bales were stowed carefully in the centre.
Father de Casson met Menard at the upper end of the dock. He had come
down by way of the winding road, for his bundle was heavy, and he knew
no way but to carry it himself. Menard good-naturedly gave him a hand
as they crossed the dock. When they had set it down, and Menard
straightened up, his eyes twinkled, for young Danton, in his finery,
was nervously walking back and forth at the edge of the dock, looking
fixedly into the canoe, apparently inspecting the bales. His shoulders
were unused to the musket, and by a quick turn he had brought the
muzzle under the rim of his hat, setting it on the side of his head.
His face was red.
Sitting on a bundle, a rod away, was a girl, perhaps eighteen or
nineteen years old, wearing a simple travelling dress. Her hands were
clasped tightly in her lap, and she gazed steadily out over the water
with an air that would have been haughty save for the slight upward
tip of her nose.
[Illustration: "Sitting on a bundle was, a girl, perhaps eighteen or
nineteen years old."]
Menard's eyes sobered, and he handed his musket to one of the
canoemen. Then he crossed over to where the maiden was sitting.
"Mademoiselle St. Denis?"
The girl looked up at him. Her eyes seemed to take in the dinginess of
his uniform. She inclined her head.
"I am Captain Menard. Major Provost tells me that I am to have the
honour of escorting you to Fort Frontenac. With your permission we
will start. Father Claude de Casson is to go with us, and Lieutenant
Danton."
The bundle was placed in the canoe. Menard helped the girl to a seat
near the middle: from the way she stepped in and took her seat he saw
that she had been on the river before. Danton, with his Parisian airs,
had to be helped in carefully. Then they were off, each of the four
men swinging a paddle, though Danton managed his awkwardly at first.
CHAPTER III.
MADEMOISELLE EATS HER BREAKFAST.
The sun hung low over the western woods when Menard, at the close of
the second day, headed the canoe shoreward. The great river swept by
with hardly a surface motion, dimpling and rippling under the last
touch of the day breeze. Menard's eyes rested on Father Claude, as the
canoe drew into the shadow of the trees. The priest, stiff from the
hours of sitting and kneeling, had taken up a paddle and was handling
it deftly. He had rolled his sleeves up to the elbow, showing a thin
forearm with wire-like muscles. The two _voyageurs_, at bow and stern,
were proving to be quiet enough fellows. Guerin, the younger, wore a
boyish, half-confiding look. His fellow, Perrot, was an older man.
Menard felt, when he thought of Danton, a sense of pride in his own
right judgment. The boy was taking hold with a strong, if unguided,
hand. Already the feather was gone from his hat, the lace from his
throat. Two days in the canoe and a night on the ground had stained
and wrinkled his uniform,--a condition of which, with his quick
adaptability, he was already beginning to feel proud. He had flushed
often, during the first day, under the shrewd glances of the
_voyageurs_, who read the inexperience in his bright clothes and white
hands. Menard knew, from the way his shoulders followed the swing of
his arms, that the steady paddling was laming him sadly. He would
allow Danton five days more; at the week's end he must be a man, else
the experiment had failed.
The canoe scraped bottom under a wild growth of brush and outreaching
trees. The forest was stirring with the rustle and call of birds, with
the breath of the leaves and the far-away crackle and plunge of larger
animals through the undergrowth. A chipmunk, with inquisitive eyes,
sat on the root of a knotted oak, but he whisked away when Menard and
the canoemen stepped into the shallow water. Overhead, showing little
fear of the canoe and of the strangely clad animals within it,
scampered a family of red squirrels, now nibbling a nut from the
winter's store, now running and jumping from tree to tree, until only
by the shaking of the twigs and the leaf-clusters could one follow
their movements.
The maid leaned an elbow on the bale which Danton had placed at her
back, and rested her cheek on her hand. They were under the drooping
branches of an elm that stood holding to the edge of the bank. Well
out over the water sat one of the squirrels, his tail sweeping above
his head, nibbling an acorn, and looking with hasty little glances at
the canoe. She watched him, and memories came into her eyes. There had
been squirrels on her father's seignory who would take nuts from her
hand, burying them slyly under the bushes, and hurrying back for
more.
Danton came wading to the side of the canoe to help her to the bank,
but she took his hand only to steady herself while rising. Stepping
over the bracing-strips between the gunwales, she caught a swaying
branch, and swung herself lightly ashore. Back from the water the
ground rose into a low hill, covered with oak and elm and ragged
hickory trees. Here, for a space, there was little undergrowth, and
save under the heaviest of the trees the ground was green with short,
coarse grass. Danton took a hatchet from the canoe, and trimmed a fir
tree, heaping armfuls of green boughs at the foot of an oak near the
top of the slope. Over these he threw a blanket. The maid came slowly
up the hill, in response to his call, and with a weary little smile of
thanks she sank upon the fragrant couch. She rested against the tree
trunk, gazing through the nearer foliage at the rushing river.
For the two days she had been like this,--silent, shy, with sad eyes.
And Danton,--who could no more have avoided the company of such a maid
than he could have left off eating or breathing or laughing,--Danton,
for all his short Paris life (which should, Heaven knows, have given
him a front with the maids), could do nothing but hang about, eager
for a smile or a word, yet too young to know that he could better
serve his case by leaving her with her thoughts, and with the
boundless woods and the great lonely spaces of the river. Menard saw
the comedy--as indeed, who of the party did not--and was amused. A few
moments later he glanced again toward the oak. He was sharpening a
knife, and could seem not to be observing. Danton was sitting a few
yards from the maid, with the awkward air of a youth who doubts his
welcome. She still looked out over the water. Menard saw that her face
was white and drooping. He knew that she had not slept; for twice
during the preceding night, as he lay in his blanket, he had heard
from under the overturned canoe, where she lay, the low sound of her
sobbing.
Menard walked slowly down the slope, testing the knife-edge with his
thumb, his short pipe between his teeth. He sheathed his knife,
lowered his pipe, and called:--
"Guerin." The two men, who were bringing wood to the fire, looked up.
"Where has the Father gone?"
Guerin pointed around the base of the hill. "He went to the woods,
M'sieu."
"With a bundle," added Perrot.
Menard walked around the hill, and after a little searching found the
priest, kneeling, in a clearing, before the portrait of Catharine
Outasoren, which he had set against a tree. His brushes and paints
were spread on the ground before him. He did not hear Menard
approach.
"Oh," said the captain, "you brought the picture!"
The priest looked up over his shoulder, with a startled manner.
"I myself have stripped down to the lightest necessaries," said
Menard, with a significant glance at the portrait.
The priest lowered his brush, and sat looking at the picture
with troubled eyes. "I had no place for it," he said at last,
hesitatingly.
"They didn't take it at the College, eh?"
Father Claude flushed.
"They were very kind. They felt that perhaps it was not entirely
completed, and that--"
"You will leave it at Montreal, then, at the Mission?"
"Yes,--I suppose so. Yes, I shall plan to leave it there."
Menard leaned against a tree, and pressed the tobacco down in his
pipe.
"I have been doing some thinking in the last few minutes, Father. I've
decided to make my first call on you for assistance."
"Very well, Captain."
"It is about the maid. Have you noticed?"
"She seems of a sober mind."
"Don't you see why? It is her father's losses, and this journey. She
is taking it very hard. She is afraid, Father, all the time; and she
neither sleeps nor eats."
"It is naturally hard for such a child as she is to take this journey.
She has had no experience,--she does not comprehend the easy customs
and the hard travelling of the frontier. I think that in time--"
Menard was puffing impatiently.
"Father," he said, "do you remember when Major Gordeau was killed, and
I was detailed to bring his wife and daughter down to Three Rivers? It
was much like this. They fretted and could not sleep, and the coarse
fare of the road was beneath their appetites. Do you remember? And
when it came to taking the rapids, with the same days of hard work
that lie before us now, they were too weak, and they sickened, the
mother first, then the daughter. When I think of that, Father, of the
last week of that journey, and of how I swore never again to take a
woman in my care on the river, I--well, there is no use in going over
it. If this goes on, we shall not get to Frontenac in time, that is
all. And I cannot afford to take such a chance."
The priest looked grave. The long struggle against the rapids from
Montreal to La Gallette had tried the hardihood of more than one
strong man.
"It is probable, my son, that the sense of your responsibility makes
you a little over-cautious. She is a strong enough child, I should
say. Still, perhaps the food is not what she has been accustomed to. I
have noticed that she eats little."
"Perrot is too fond of grease," Menard said. "I must tell him to use
less grease."
"If she should be taken sick, we could leave her with someone at
Montreal."
"Leave her at Montreal!" exclaimed Menard. "When she breaks down, it
will be in the rapids. And then I must either go on alone, or wait
with you until she is strong enough to be carried. In any case it
means confusion and delay. And I must not be delayed."
"What have you in mind to do?"
"We must find a way to brighten her spirits. It is homesickness that
worries her, and sorrow for her father, and dread of what is before
and around her. I'll warrant she has never been away from her home
before. We must get her confidence,--devise ways to cheer her,
brighten her."
"I can reason with her, and--"
"This is not the time for reasoning, Father. What we must do is to
make her stop thinking, stop looking backward and forward. And there
is Danton; he can help. He is of an age with her, and should succeed
where you and I might fail."
"He has not awaited the suggestion, Captain."
"Yes, I know. But he must,--well, Father, it has all been said. The
maid is on our hands, and must be got to Frontenac. That is all. And
there is nothing for it but to rely on Danton to help."
The priest looked at his brushes, and hesitated. "I am not certain,"
he said, "she is very young. And Lieutenant Danton,--I have heard,
while at Quebec,--"
Menard laughed.
"He is a boy, Father. These tales may be true enough. Why not? They
would fit as well any idle lieutenant in Quebec, who is lucky
enough to have an eye, and a pair of shoulders, and a bit of the
King's gold in his purse. This maid is the daughter of a gentleman,
Father; she is none of your Lower Town jades. And Danton may be young
and foolish,--as may we all have been,--but he is a gentleman born."
"Very well," replied the priest, looking with regret at the failing
light, and beginning to gather his brushes. "I will counsel her, but I
fear it will do little good. If the maid is sick at heart, and we
attempt to guide her thoughts, we may but drive the trouble deeper in.
It is the same with some of the Indian maidens, when they have left
the tribe for the Mission. Now and again there comes a time, even with
piety to strengthen them,--and this maid has little,--when the
yearning seems to grow too strong to be cured. Sometimes they go back.
One died. It was at Sault St. Francis in the year of the--"
"Yes, yes," Menard broke in. "We have only one fact to remember; there
must be no delay in carrying out the Governor's orders. We cannot
change our plans because of this maid."
"We must not let her understand, M'sieu."
Menard had been standing, with a shoulder against the tree,
alternately puffing at his pipe and lowering it, scowling meanwhile at
the ground. Now he suddenly raised his head and chuckled.
"It will be many a year since I have played the beau, Father. It may
be that I have forgotten the rôle." He spread out his hands and looked
at the twisted fingers. "But I can try, like a soldier. And there are
three of us, Father Claude, there are three of us."
He turned to go back to the camp, but the priest touched him.
"My son,--perhaps, before you return, you would look again at my
unworthy portrait. I--about the matter of the canoe--"
"Oh," said Menard, "you've taken it out."
"Yes; it seemed best, considering the danger that others might feel
the same doubts which troubled you."
"I wouldn't do that. The canoe was all right, once the direction were
decided on."
"Above all else, the true portrait should convey to the mind of the
observer the impression that a single, an unmistakable purpose
underlies the work. When one considers--"
"Very true, Father, very true," said Menard abruptly, looking about at
the beginning of the twilight. "And now we had better get back. The
supper will be ready."
Menard strode away toward the camp. Father Claude watched him for a
time through the trees, then turned again to the picture. Finally he
got together his materials, and carrying them in a fold of his gown,
with the picture in his left hand, he followed Menard.
The maid was leaning back against the tree, looking up at the sky,
where the first red of the afterglow was spreading. She did not hear
Menard; and he paused, a few yards away, to look at the clear
whiteness of her skin and the full curve of her throat. Her figure and
air, her habits of gesture and step, and carriage of the head, were
those of the free-hearted maid of the seignory. They told of an
outdoor life, of a good horse, and a light canoe, and the inbred love
of trees and sky and running water. Here was none of the stiffness,
the more than Parisian manner, of the maidens of Quebec. To stand
there and look at her, unconscious as she was, pleased Menard.
"Mademoiselle," he said, coming nearer, "will you join us at supper?"
The maid looked at him with a slow blush (she was not yet accustomed
to the right of these men to enter into the routine of her life).
Menard reached to help her, but she rose easily.
"Lieutenant Danton is not here?"
"No, M'sieu, he walked away."
They sat about a log. Danton had not strayed far, for he joined them
shortly, wearing a sulky expression. Menard looked about the group.
The maid was silent. Father Claude was beginning at once on the food
before him. The twilight was growing deeper, and Guerin dragged a log
to the fire, throwing it on the pile with a shower of sparks, and half
a hundred shooting tongues of flame. The Captain looked again at
Danton, and saw that the boy's glance shifted uneasily about the
group. Altogether it was an unfortunate start for his plan. But it was
clear that no other would break the ice, so he drew a long breath, and
plunged doggedly into the story of his first fight on the St.
Lawrence.
It was a brave story of ambuscade and battle; and it was full of the
dark of night and the red flash of muskets and the stealth and
treachery of the Iroquois soul. When he reached the tale of the
captured Mohawk, who sat against a tree with a ball in his lungs, to
the last refusing the sacrament, and dying like a chief with the death
song on his lips, Danton was leaning forward, breathless and eager,
hanging on his words. The maid's eyes, too, were moist. Then they
talked on, Danton asking boyish questions, and Father Claude starting
over and again on a narrative of the wonderful conversion of the Huron
drunkard, Heroukiki, who, in his zeal,--and here Menard always swept
in with a new story, which left the priest adrift in the eddies of the
conversation. At last, when they rose, and the dusk was settling over
the trees, the maid was laughing with gentle good fellowship.
While they were eating, the _voyageurs_ had brought the canoe a short
way up the bank, resting it, bottom up, on large stones brought from
the shore. Underneath was a soft cot of balsam; over the canoe were
blankets, hanging on both sides to the ground. Then Mademoiselle said
good-night, with a moment's lingering on the word, and a wistful note
in her voice that brought perhaps more sympathy than had the sad eyes
of the morning. For after all she was only a girl, and hers was a
brave little heart.
The three men lay on the slope with hardly a word, looking at the
river, now shining like silver through the trees. This new turn in the
life of the party was not as yet to be taken familiarly. Father Claude
withdrew early to his meditations. Menard stretched out on his back,
his hands behind his head, gazing lazily at the leaves overhead, now
hanging motionless from the twigs.
Danton was sitting up, looking about, and running the young reeds
through his fingers.
"Danton," Menard said, after a long silence, "I suppose you know that
we have something of a problem on our hands."
Danton looked over the river.
"What have you thought about Mademoiselle?"
"I don't understand."
"Father Claude and I have been talking this evening about her. I have
thought that she does not look any too strong for a hard journey of a
hundred and more leagues."
"She has little colour," said Danton, cautiously.
"It seems to me, Danton, that you can help us."
"How?"
"What seems to you the cause of the trouble?"
"With Mademoiselle? She takes little impression from the kindness of
those about her."
"Oh, come, Danton. You know better. Even a boy of your age should see
deeper than that. You think she slights you; very likely she does.
What of that? You are not here to be drawn into a boy-and-girl quarrel
with a maid who chances to share our canoe. You are here as my aid, to
make the shortest time possible between Quebec and Frontenac. If she
were to fall sick, we should be delayed. Therefore she must not fall
sick."
Danton had plucked a weed, and now was pulling it to pieces, bit by
bit.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Stop this moping, this hanging about. Take hold of the matter. Devise
talks, diversions; fill her idle moments; I care not what you
do,--within limits, my boy, within limits."
"Oh," said Danton, "then you really want me to?"
"Certainly. I am too old myself."
Danton rose, and walked a few steps away and back.
"But she will have none of me, Menard. It is, 'No, with thanks,' or,
worse, a shake of the head. If I offer to help, if I try to talk, if
I--oh, it is always the same. I am tired of it."
Menard smiled in the dark.
"Is that your reply to an order from your superior officer, Danton?"
The boy stood silent for a moment, then he said, "I beg your pardon,
Captain." And with a curious effort at stiffness he wandered off among
the trees, and was soon out of Menard's sight.
Menard walked slowly down to the fire, opened his pack, and spreading
out his blanket, rolled himself in it with his feet close to the red
embers. For a long time he lay awake. This episode took him back
nearly a decade, to a time when he, like Danton, would have lost his
poise at a glance from the nearest pair of eyes. That the maid should
so interest him was in itself amusing. Had she been older or younger,
had she been any but the timid, honest little woman that she was, he
would have left her, without a second thought, in the care of the
Commandant at Montreal, to be escorted through the rapids by some
later party. But he had fixed his mind on getting her to Frontenac,
and the question was settled. His last thought that night was of her
quiet laughter and her friendly, hesitating "good-night."
He was awakened in the half light before the sunrise by a step on the
twigs. At a little distance through the trees was the maid, walking
down toward the water. She slipped easily between the briers, holding
her skirt close. From a spring, not a hundred yards up the hillside, a
brook came tumbling to the river, picking its way under and over the
stones and the fallen trees, and trickling over the bank with a low
murmur. The maid stopped by a pool, and kneeling on a flat rock,
dipped her hands.
The others were asleep. A rod away lay Danton, a sprawling heap in his
blanket. Menard rose, tossed his blanket upon his bundle, and walked
slowly down toward the maid.
"Mademoiselle, you rise with the birds."
She looked around, and laughed gently. He saw that she had frankly
accepted the first little change in their relations.
"I like to be with the birds, M'sieu."
Menard had no small talk. He was thinking of her evident lack of
sleep.
"It is the best hour for the river, Mademoiselle." The colours of the
dawn were beginning to creep up beyond the eastern bank, sending a
lance of red and gold into a low cloud bank, and a spread of soft
crimson close after. "Perhaps you are fond of the fish?"
The maid was kneeling to pick a cluster of yellow flower cups. She
looked up and nodded, with a smile.
"We fished at home, M'sieu."
"We will go," said Menard, abruptly. "I will bring down the canoe."
He threw the blankets to one side, and stooping under the long canoe,
carried it on his shoulders to the water. A line and hook were in his
bundle; the bait was ready at a turn of the grass and weeds.
"We are two adventurers," he said lightly, as he tossed the line into
the canoe, and held out one of the paddles. "You should do your share
of the morning's work, Mademoiselle."
She laughed again, and took the paddle. They pushed off; the maid
kneeling at the bow, Menard in the stern. He guided the canoe against
the current. The water lay flat under the still air, reflecting the
gloomy trees on the banks, and the deepening colours of the sky. He
fell into a lazy, swinging stroke, watching the maid. Her arms and
shoulders moved easily, with the grace of one who had tumbled about a
canoe from early childhood.
"Ready, Mademoiselle?" He was heading for a deep pool near a line of
rushes. The maid, laying down her paddle, reached back for the line,
and put on the bait with her own fingers.
Menard held the canoe steady against the current, which was there but
a slow movement, while she lowered the hook over the bow. They sat
without a word for some minutes. Once he spoke, in a bantering voice,
and she motioned to him to be quiet. Her brows were drawn down close
together.
It was but a short time before she felt a jerk at the line. Her arms
straightened out, and she pressed her lips tightly together. "Quick!"
she said. "Go ahead!"
"Can you hold it?" he asked, as he dipped his paddle.
She nodded. "I wish the line were longer. It will be hard to give him
any room." She wound the cord around her wrist. "Will the line hold,
M'sieu?"
"I think so. See if you can pull in."
She leaned back, and pulled steadily, then shook her head. "Not very
much. Perhaps, if you can get into the shallow water--"
Menard slowly worked the canoe through an opening in the rushes. There
was a thrashing about and plunging not two rods away. Once the fish
leaped clear of the water in a curve of clashing silver.
"It's a salmon," he said. "A small one."
The maid held hard, but the colour had gone from her face. The canoe
drew nearer to the shore.
"Hold fast," said Menard. He gave a last sweep of the paddle, and
crept forward to the bow. Kneeling behind the maid, he reached over
her shoulder, and took the line below her hand.
"Careful, M'sieu; it may break."
"We must risk it." He pulled slowly in until the fish was close under
the gunwale. "Now can you hold?"
"Yes." She shook a straying lock of hair from her eyes, and took
another turn of the cord around her wrist.
"Steady," he said. He drew his knife, leaned over the gunwale, and
stabbed at the fighting fish until his blade sank in just below the
gills, and he could lift it aboard.
The maid laughed nervously, and rested her hands upon the two
gunwales. Her breath was gone, and there was a red mark around her
wrist where the cord had been. The canoe had drifted into the rushes,
and Menard went back to his paddle, and worked out again into the
channel.
"And now, Mademoiselle," he said, "we shall have a breakfast of our
own. You need not paddle. I will take her down."
Her breath was coming back. She laughed, and sat comfortably in the
bow, facing Menard, and letting her eyes follow the steady swing and
catch of his paddle. When they reached the camp, the _voyageurs_ were
astir, but Danton and the priest still slept. The first red glare of
the sun was levelled at them over the eastern trees.
Menard made a fire under an arch of flat stones, and trimming a strip
of oak wood with his hatchet, he laid the cleaned fish upon it and
kept it on the fire until it was brown and crisp. The maid sat by, her
eyes alert and her cheeks flushed.
Danton was awake before the fish was cooked, and he stood about with a
pretence of not observing them. The maid was fairly aroused. She drew
him into the talk, and laughed and bantered with the two men as
prettily as they could have wished from a Quebec belle.
All during the morning Danton was silent. At noon, when the halt was
made for the midday lunch, he was still puzzling over the apparent
understanding between Mademoiselle and the Captain. Before the journey
was taken up, he stood for a moment near Menard, on the river bank.
"Captain," he said, "you asked me last night to--"
"Well?"
"It may be that I have misunderstood you. Of course, if Mademoiselle--if
you--" He caught himself.
Menard smiled; then he read the earnestness beneath the boy's
confusion, and sobered.
"Mademoiselle and I went fishing, Danton. Result,--Mademoiselle eats
her first meal. If you can do as much you shall have my thanks. And
now remember that you are a lieutenant in the King's service."
CHAPTER IV.
THE LONG ARROW.
Menard allowed a halt of but a few hours at Three Rivers. The
settlement held little of interest, for all the resident troops and
most of the farmers and _engagés_ had gone up the river to join the
army which was assembling at Montreal. The close of the first week out
of Quebec saw the party well on the second half of the journey to
Montreal. As they went on, Menard's thoughts were drawn more deeply
into the work that lay ahead, and in spite of his efforts at
lightness, the work of keeping up the maid's spirits fell mostly to
Danton (though Father Claude did what he could). As matters gradually
became adjusted, Danton's cheery, hearty manner began to tell; and now
that there was little choice of company, the maid turned to him for
her diversion.
On the morning of the second day after leaving Three Rivers, the two
_voyageurs_ were carrying the canoe to the water when Guerin slipped
on a wet log, throwing the canoe to the ground, and tearing a wide
rent in the bark. Menard was impatient at this carelessness. The
knowledge that the Three Rivers detachment had already gone on to
Montreal had decided him to move more rapidly, and he had given orders
that they should start each day in the first light of the dawn. This
was a chill morning. A low, heavy fog lay on the river, thinning, at a
yard above the water, into a light mist which veiled what colour may
have been in the east.
While Guerin and Perrot were patching the canoe under Menard's eye,
Danton found some dry logs under the brush, and built up the dying
fire, which was in a rocky hollow, not visible from the river. Then he
and the maid sat on the rocks above it, where they could get the
warmth, and yet could see the river. Menard and his men, though only a
few rods away, were but blurred forms as they moved about the canoe,
gumming the new seams.
The maid, save for an occasional heavy hour in the late evenings, had
settled into a cheerful frame of mind. The novelty, and the many
exciting moments of the journey, as well as the kindness of the three
men, kept her thoughts occupied. Danton, once he had shaken off his
sulky fits, was good company. They sat side by side on the rock,
looking down at the struggling fire, or at the figures moving about
the canoe, or out into the white mystery of the river, talking easily
in low tones of themselves and their lives and hopes.
The mist, instead of rising, seemed to settle closer to the water, as
the broad daylight came across the upper air. The maid and Danton fell
into silence as the picture brightened. Danton was less sensitive than
she to the whims of nature, and tiring of the scene, he was gazing
down into the fire when the maid, without a word, touched his arm. He
looked up at her; then, seeing that her eyes were fixed on the river,
followed her gaze. Not more than a score of yards from the shore,
moving silently through the mist, were the heads of three Indians.
Their profiles stood out clearly against the white background; their
shoulders seemed to dissolve into the fog. They passed slowly on up
the stream, looking straight ahead, without a twitch of the eyelids,
like a vision from the happy hunting-ground.
Danton slipped down from the rock, and stepped lightly to Menard,
pointing out the three heads just as they were fading into the
whiteness about them. Menard motioned to Guerin and Perrot to get the
newly patched canoe into the water, took three muskets, and in a
moment pushed off, leaving Danton with the maid and the priest, who
had retired a short distance for his morning prayers. For a minute the
heads of the three white men were in sight above the fog, then they
too were swallowed up.
"I wonder what Menard thinks about them?" said Danton, going back
toward the maid.
She was still looking at the mist, and did not hear him, so he took a
seat at the foot of the rock and rubbed the hammer of his musket,
which had been rusted by the damp. After a time the maid looked toward
him.
"What does it mean?" she asked.
"I don't know," Danton replied. "They were going up-stream in a canoe,
I suppose. Probably he thinks they can give us some information."
In a few minutes, during which the mist was clearing under the rays of
the sun, the two canoes together came around a wooded point and
beached. The Indians walked silently to the fire. They appeared not to
see Danton and the maid. Menard paused to look over his canoe. It was
leaking badly, and before joining the group at the fire, he set the
canoemen at work making a new patch.
[Illustration: "The Indians walked silently to the fire."]
"Danton," he said, in a low tone, when he reached the fire, "find the
Father."
Danton hurried away, and Menard turned to the largest of the three
Indians, who wore the brightest blanket, and had a peculiar wampum
collar, decorated in mosaic-like beadwork.
"You are travellers, like ourselves," he said, in the Iroquois tongue.
"We cannot let you pass without a word of greeting. I see that you are
of the Onondagas, my brothers. It may be that you are from the Mission
at the Sault St. Francis Xavier?"
The Indian bowed. "We go from Three Rivers to Montreal."
"I, too, am taking my party to Montreal." Menard thought it wise to
withhold the further facts of his journey. "Have you brothers at Three
Rivers?"
"No," replied the Indian. "We have been sent with a paper from the
Superior at Sault St. Francis Xavier to the good fathers at Three
Rivers. Now we are on our return to the Mission."
"Have my brothers eaten?" Menard motioned toward the fire. "It is
still early in the day."
The three bowed. "We are travelling fast," said the spokesman, "for
the Superior awaits our return. We ate before the light. It will soon
be time for us to go on our journey."
Menard saw Father Claude and Danton approaching, and waited for them.
The face of the large Indian seemed like some other face that had had
a place in his memory. It was not unlikely that he had known this
warrior during his captivity, when half a thousand braves had been to
him as brothers. The Indian was apparently of middle age, and had
lines of dignity and authority in his face that made it hard to accept
him as a subdued resident at the Mission. But Menard knew that no sign
of doubt or suspicion must appear in his face, so he waited for the
priest. The Indians sat with their knees drawn up and their blankets
wrapped about them, looking stolidly at the fire.
Father Claude came quietly into the group, and with a smile extended
his hand to the smallest of the three, an older man, with a wrinkled
face. "I did not look for you here, Teganouan. Have you gone back to
the Mission?"
Teganouan returned the smile, and bowed.
"My brother has told the white man of our errand?"
"Yes," said Menard, "they have been sent to Three Rivers by the
Superior, and are now returning. I have told them that we, too, are
going to Montreal."
The priest took the hint. "We shall meet you and your brothers again,
Teganouan. They are newcomers at the Mission, I believe. They had not
come when I left."
"No, Father. They have but last week become Christians. The Long
Arrow" (inclining his head toward the large Indian) "has lost a son,
and through his suffering was led to take the faith."
The Long Arrow, who had seemed to lose interest in the conversation as
soon as he had finished speaking, here rose.
"My brothers and the good Father will give us their blessing? The end
of the journey is yet three days away. I had hoped that we might be
permitted to accept the protection of the son of Onontio,"--he looked
at Menard,--"but I see that his canoe will not be ready for the
journey before the sun is high." He looked gravely from Menard to the
priest, then walked to the shore, followed by the others. They pushed
off, and shortly disappeared around the point of land.
Menard gave them no attention, but as soon as they were gone from
sight, he turned to the priest.
"Well, Father, what do you make of that?"
Father Claude shook his head.
"Nothing, as yet, M'sieu. Do you know who the large man is?"
"No; but I seem to remember him. And what is more to the point, he
certainly remembers me."
"Are you sure?"
"He recognized me on the river. He came back with me so willingly
because he wanted to know more about us. That was plain. It would be
well, Father, to enquire at the Mission. We should know more of them
and their errand at Three Rivers."
Menard called Danton, and walked with him a little way into the wood.
"Danton," he said, "you are going through this journey with us, and I
intend that you shall know about such matters as this meeting with the
Onondagas."
"Oh, they were Onondagas?"
"Yes. They claim to be Mission Indians, but neither the Father nor I
altogether believe them." In a few sentences Menard outlined the
conversation. "Now, Danton, this may or may not be an important
incident. I want you to know the necessity for keeping our own counsel
in all such matters, dropping no careless words, and letting no
emotions show. I wish you would make a point of learning the Iroquois
language. Father Claude will help you. You are to act as my right-hand
man, and you may as well begin now to learn to draw your own
conclusions from an Indian's words."
Danton took eagerly to the lessons with Father Claude, for they seemed
another definite step toward the excitement that surely, to his mind,
lay in wait ahead. The studying began on that afternoon, while they
were toiling up against the stream.
In the evening, when the dusk was coming down, and the little camp was
ready for the night, Menard came up from the heap of stores, where the
_voyageurs_ had already stretched out, and found the maid sitting
alone by the fire. Danton, in his rush of interest in the new study,
had drawn Father Claude aside for another lesson.
"Mademoiselle is lonely?" asked Menard, sitting beside her.
"No, no, M'sieu. I have too many thoughts for that."
"What interesting thoughts they must be."
"They are, M'sieu. They are all about the Indians this morning. Tell
me, M'sieu,--they called you Onontio. What does it mean?"
"They called me the son of Onontio, because of my uniform. Onontio,
the Great Mountain, is their name for the Governor; and the Governor's
soldiers are to them his sons."
"They speak a strange language. It is not the same as that of the
Ottawas, who once worked for my father."
"Did you know their tongue?"
"A few words, and some of the signs. This,"--raising her hand, with
the first finger extended, and slowly moving her arm in a half circle
from horizon to horizon,--"this meant a sun,--one day."
Menard looked at her for a moment in silence. He enjoyed her
enthusiasm.
"Why don't you learn Iroquois? You would enjoy it. It is a beautiful
tongue,--the language of metaphor and poetry."
"I should like to," she replied, looking with a faint smile at Danton
and the priest, who were sitting under a beech tree, mumbling in low
tones.
"You shall join the class, Mademoiselle. You shall begin to-morrow. It
was thoughtless of Danton to take the Father's instruction to himself
alone."
"And then, M'sieu, I will know what the Indians say when they sit up
stiffly in their blankets, and talk down in their throats. They have
such dignity. It is hard not to believe them when they look straight
at one."
"Don't you believe them?"
"The three this morning,--they did not tell the truth."
"Didn't they?"
"Why, I understood that you did not believe them."
"And where did Mademoiselle learn that? Did she follow the conversation?"
"No; but Lieutenant Danton--"
"He told you?"
She nodded. Menard frowned.
"He shouldn't have done that."
The maid looked surprised at his remark, and the smile left her face.
"Of course, M'sieu," she said, a little stiffly, "whatever is not
meant for my ears--"
Menard was still frowning, and he failed to notice her change in
manner. He abruptly gave the conversation a new turn, but seeing after
a short time that the maid had lost interest in his sallies, he rose,
and called to the priest.
"Father, you are to have a new pupil. Mademoiselle also will study the
language of the Iroquois. If you are quick enough with your pupils, we
shall soon be able to hold a conversation each night about the fire.
Perhaps, if you would forego your exclusive air, Mademoiselle would
begin at once."
Danton, without waiting for the priest to start, came hurriedly over
and sat by the maid.
"You must pardon me," he said, "I did not think,--I did not know that
you would be interested. It is so dry."
The maid smiled at the fire.
"You did not ask," she replied, "and I could not offer myself to the
class."
"It will be splendid," said Danton. "We shall learn the language of
the trees and the grass and the rivers and the birds. And the message
of the wampum belt, too, we shall know. You see,"--looking up at
Menard,--"already I am catching the meanings."
Menard smiled, and then went down the bank, leaving the three to bend
their heads together over the mysteries of the Iroquois rules of
gender, written out by Father Claude on a strip of bark. It was nearly
an hour later, after the maid had crept to her couch beneath the
canoe, and Perrot and Guerin had sprawled upon the bales and were
snoring in rival keys, that Danton came lightly down the slope humming
a drinking song. He saw Menard, and dropped to the ground beside him,
with a low laugh.
"Mademoiselle will lead my wits a chase, Menard. Already she is deep
in the spirit of the new work."
"Be careful, my boy, that she leads no more than your wits a chase."
Danton laughed again.
"I don't believe there is great danger. What a voice she has! I did
not know it at first, when she was frightened and spoke only in the
lower tones. Now when she speaks or laughs it is like--"
"Like what?"
"There is no fit simile in our tongue, light as it is. It may be that
in the Iroquois I shall find the words. It should be something about
the singing brooks or the voice of the leaves at night."
The lad was in such buoyant spirits that Menard had to harden himself
for the rebuke which he must give. With the Indian tribes Menard had
the tact, the control of a situation, that would have graced a council
of great chiefs; but in matters of discipline, the blunter faculties
and language of the white men seemed to give his wit no play. Now, as
nearly always, he spoke abruptly.
"Have you forgotten our talk of this morning, Danton?"
"No," replied the boy, looking up in surprise.
The night had none of the dampness that had left a white veil over the
morning just gone. The moon was half hidden behind the western trees.
The sky, for all the dark, was blue and deep, set with thousands of
stars, each looking down at its mate in the shining water.
"I spoke of the importance of keeping our own counsel."
Danton began to feel what was coming. He looked down at the ground
without replying.
"To-night Mademoiselle has repeated a part of our conversation."
"Mademoiselle,--why, she is one of our party. She knows about us,--who
we are, what we are going for--"
"Then you have told her, Danton?"
"How could she help knowing? We are taking her to Frontenac."
"Father Claude has not told her why we go to Frontenac--nor have I."
"But Major Provost is her friend--"
"He would never have told her."
"But she seemed to know about it."
"Then you have talked it over with her?"
"Why, no,--that is, in speaking of our journey we said something of
the meaning of the expedition. It could hardly be expected that we,--I
fail to see, Captain, what it is you are accusing me of."
"You have not been accused yet, Danton. Let me ask you a question. Why
did you enter the King's army?"
Danton hesitated, and started once or twice to frame answer, but made
no reply.
"Did you wish a gay uniform, to please the maids, to--"
"You are unfair, M'sieu."
"No, I wish to know. We will say, if you like, that you have hoped to
be a soldier,--a soldier of whom the King may one day have cause to be
proud."
Danton flushed, and bowed his head.
"I offered you the chance to go on this mission, Danton, because I
believed in you. I believed that you had the making of a soldier. This
is not a child's errand, this of ours. It is the work of strong men.
This morning I told you of my talk with the three Onondagas because I
have planned to take you into my confidence, and to give you the
chance to make a name for yourself. I made a point of the importance
of keeping such things to yourself."
"But Mademoiselle, M'sieu, she is different--"
"Look at the facts, Danton. I told you this morning: within twelve
hours you have passed on your information. How do I know that you
would not have let it slip to others if you had had the chance? You
forget that Mademoiselle is a woman, and the first and last duty of a
soldier is to tell no secrets to a woman."
"You speak wrongly of Mademoiselle. It is cowardly to talk thus."
Menard paused to get control of his temper.
"Cowardly, Danton? Is that the word you apply to your commander?"
"Your pardon, M'sieu! A thousand pardons! It escaped me--"
"We will pass it by. I want you to understand this matter. Mademoiselle
will spend a night in Montreal. We shall leave her with other women. A
stray word, which to her might mean nothing, might be enough to give
the wrong persons a hint of the meaning of our journey. A moment's
nervousness might slip the bridle from her tongue. All New France is
not so loyal that we can afford to drop a chance secret here and
there. As to this maid, she is only a child, and by giving her our
secrets, you are forcing her to bear a burden which we should bear
alone. These Indians this morning were spies, I am inclined to
believe, scouting along the river for information of the coming
campaign. The only way that we can feel secure is by letting no word
escape our lips, no matter how trivial. I tell you this, not so much
for this occasion as for a suggestion for the future."
"Very well, M'sieu. You will please accept my complete apologies."
"I shall have to add, Danton, that if any further mistake of this kind
occurs I shall be forced to dismiss you from my service. Now that I
have said this, I want you to understand that I don't expect it to
happen. I have believed in you, Danton, and I stand ready to be a
friend to you."
Menard held out his hand. Danton clasped it nervously, mumbling a
second apology. For a few moments longer they sat there, Menard trying
to set Danton at ease, but the boy was flushed, and he spoke only half
coherently. He soon excused himself and wandered off among the trees
and the thick bushes.
During the next day Danton was in one of his sullen moods. He worked
feverishly, and, with the maid, kept Father Claude occupied for the
greater part of the time, as they paddled on, with conversation, and
with discussion of the Iroquois words. The maid felt the change from
the easy relations in the party, and seemed a little depressed, but
she threw herself into the studying. Often during the day she would
take up a paddle, and join in the stroke. At first Menard protested,
but she laughed, and said that it was a "rest" after sitting so long.
They were delayed on the following day by a second accident to the
canoe, so that they were a full day late in reaching Montreal. They
moved slowly up the channel, past the islands and the green banks with
their little log-houses or, occasionally, larger dwellings built after
the French manner. St. Helen's Island, nearly opposite the city, had a
straggling cluster of hastily built bark houses, and a larger group of
tents where the regulars were encamped, awaiting the arrival of
Governor Denonville with the troops from Quebec.
Menard stopped at the island, guiding the canoe to the bank where a
long row of canoes and bateaux lay close to the water.
"You might get out and walk around," he said to the others. "I shall
be gone only a few moments."
Father Claude sat on the bank, lost in meditation. Danton and the maid
walked together slowly up and down, beyond earshot from the priest.
Since Menard's rebuke, both the lad and the maid had shown a slight
trace of resentment. It did not come out in their conversation, but
rather in their silences, and in the occasions which they took to sit
and walk apart from the others. It was as if a certain common ground
of interest had come to them. The maid, for all her shyness and even
temper, was not accustomed to such cool authority as Menard was
developing. The priest was keeping an eye on the fast-growing
acquaintanceship, and already had it vaguely in mind to call it to the
attention of Menard, who was getting too deeply into the spirit and
the details of his work to give much heed.
Menard was soon back.
"Push off," he said. "The Major is not here. We shall have to look for
him in the city."
They headed across the stream. The city lay before them, on its gentle
slope, with the mountain rising behind like an untiring sentry. It was
early in the afternoon, and on the river were many canoes and small
boats, filled with soldiers, friendly Indians, or _voyageurs_, moving
back and forth between the island and the city. They passed close to
many of the bateaux, heaped high with provision and ammunition bales,
and more than once the lounging soldiers rose and saluted Menard.
At the city wharf he turned to Danton.
"We shall have to get a larger canoe, Danton, and a stronger. Will you
see to it, please? We shall have two more in our party from now on.
Make sure that the canoe is in the best of condition. Also I wish you
would see to getting the rope and the other things we may need in
working through the rapids. Then spend your time as you like. We shall
start early in the morning."
Menard and Father Claude together went with the maid to the Superior,
who arranged for her to pass the night with the sisters. Then Menard
left the priest to make his final arrangements at the Mission, and
went himself to see the Commandant, to whom he outlined the bare facts
of his journey to Frontenac.
"The thing that most concerns you," he said finally, "is a meeting I
had a few days ago with three Indians down the river. One called
himself the Long Arrow, and another was Teganouan, who, Father de
Casson tells me, recently left the Mission at the Sault St. Francis
Xavier. They claim to be Mission Indians. It will be well to watch
out for them, and to have an eye on the Richelieu, and the other
routes, to make sure that they don't slip away to the south with
information."
"Very well," replied the Commandant. "I imagine that we can stop them.
Do you feel safe about taking this maid up the river just now?"
"Oh, yes. Our men are scattered along the route, are they not?" Menard
asked.
"Quite a number are out establishing Champigny's transport system."
"I don't look for any trouble. But I should like authority for one or
two extra men."
"Take anything you wish, Menard. I will get word over to the island at
once, giving you all the authority you need."
CHAPTER V.
DANTON BREAKS OUT.
When Menard reached the wharf, early on the following morning, he
found Father Claude waiting for him. The new canoe lay on the wharf,
and beside it was a heap of stores. Perrot and the two new _engagés_
sat on the edge of the wharf. The sun had just risen over the trees on
St. Helen's Island, and the air was clear and cool.
"Well, Perrot," said Menard, as he unslung his musket and horn, "is
everything ready?"
"Everything, M'sieu."
"Where is Guerin?"
"I have not seen him, M'sieu."
Menard turned to the priest.
"Good-morning, Father. You are on time, I see; and that is more than
we can say for Danton. Where is the boy?"
"He has gone for Mademoiselle St. Denis, Captain. He was here before
the sunrise, checking up the stores."
"Learning to work, is he? That is a good sign. And how about yourself?
Did you pick up anything yesterday?"
"Yes," replied the priest. "I enquired at the Mission about Teganouan
and his companions."
"Well?"
"Nothing is known of them. Teganouan had been one of the worst
drunkards among the Onondagas, and his conversion, a year ago, was
thought to be one of our greatest victories for the faith. His
penances were among the most complete and purging ever--"
"And the others?"
"Just before I left the Mission for Quebec, Teganouan went on an
errand to the city and fell among some of our fellow-countrymen who
were having a drinking bout. For a few days after that he wavered, and
fell again. Once afterward he was seen in company with two low
fellows, _coureurs de bois_, who have since been confined under
suspicion of communicating with the enemy."
"He has returned to the Mission, then?"
"No, he disappeared some time ago. They do not know the Long Arrow. I
described him to Brother de Lamberville--"
"Oh, he is here now?"
"Yes. It seems, further, that all the other workers among the Iroquois
have had word and are returning. That much of my labour is removed."
"How do they get this word?" said Menard, impatiently. "That is the
old question. It is enough to make one wonder if there are any secrets
kept from the enemy's country."
"No one seems to know, M'sieu. The Superior told me last night that
they had not been sent for, so it would seem that the information must
have reached them through the Indians."
"The folly of these new governors!" Menard strode back and forth. "Oh,
it makes one sigh for old Frontenac. He never walked blindfolded into
such a trap as this. But go on. You were speaking of Father de
Lamberville."
"It was only that I described the Long Arrow to Brother de Lamberville.
He seemed to remember such a wampum collar as the Long Arrow wore. He
could not recall exactly."
"Then we may as well forget the incident. It seems that we are to know
nothing of it. Here is Danton."
The lieutenant and the maid were walking rapidly down to the wharf.
Mademoiselle was in a gay mood after her few hours of enjoyment among
the comforts of a city.
"Good-morning," she called, waving her hand.
"Good-morning," said Menard, shortly. He did not look a second time,
to see her smile fade, for Guerin had not appeared, and he was rapidly
losing patience. He walked up and down the wharf for a few moments,
while Danton found a seat for the maid and the two talked together.
"Perrot," he said, "do you know where Guerin was last evening?"
"Yes, M'sieu. He was at the inn."
"What was he doing? Drinking?"
"A little, M'sieu."
"Go up there, on the run. If you don't find him there, come right
back, for we can't wait much longer for anyone."
Perrot ran up the street and disappeared. In a few moments he came in
sight, striding down between the row of houses, holding Guerin firmly
by one arm. The young fellow was hanging back, and stumbling in limp
fashion. He was evidently drunk. Danton, who had joined Menard when
the two men appeared, said, "Heavens, he must have started early!"
Some distance behind Perrot and Guerin came a ragged crowd of
woodsmen, singing, jeering, and shouting, and bearing broad traces of
a sleepless night.
Menard stood waiting with a look of disgust. When they came upon the
wharf Guerin laughed, and tried to get out a flippant apology for his
tardiness; but Menard seized him before the words were off his lips,
and dragging him across the wharf threw him into the water. Then he
turned to Perrot, and said, "Pull him out."
The two new men stood uneasily near, with startled faces. Behind them
the maid was sitting, a frightened look in her eyes. Danton had
risen.
"Clear away from here!" Menard called to the drunken rabble, who had
collected a few rods away, and were now hesitating between laughter
and fright. They stood looking at each other and at Menard, then they
slunk away.
In all an hour had gone before they were ready to start. Guerin was
weak and shivering from his plunge, but Menard ordered him into the
canoe. The incident drew a cloud over the maid's spirits, and
altogether depressed the party, so that not until afternoon did they
get into conversation. By that time they were past the Lachine Rapids
and the Sault St. Louis, where the men made a portage, and Danton led
the maid along the bank through the tangled brush and briers. When at
last they were ready to push on across Lake St. Louis the maid's skirt
was torn in a dozen places, and a thorn had got into her hand, which
Danton carefully removed with the point of his knife, wincing and
flushing with her at each twinge of pain. During the rest of the day,
they had an Iroquois lesson, and by the end of the afternoon when the
sun was low, and Menard headed for the shore of Isle Perrot, the maid
was bright again, laughing over Danton's blunders in the new
language.
They spent the next day on the island, for what with wind and rain
the lake was impassable for their canoe. The men built a hut of brush
and bark which sheltered the party from the driving rain. Menard's
mood lightened at the prospect of a rest, and he started a long
conversation in Iroquois which soon had even Father Claude laughing
in his silent way. The rain lessened in the afternoon, but the wind
was still running high. Menard and the _engagés_ went out early in
the afternoon and repacked all the supplies, in order that the
weight might be distributed more evenly in the canoe. With this and
other work he was occupied until late in the afternoon. Father Claude
took the occasion for a solitary walk, and for meditation. When Menard
entered the hut he found the maid sitting with her head resting
against one of the supporting trees. She wore a disturbed, unsettled
expression. Danton evidently had been sitting or standing near her,
for when Menard entered, stooping, he was moving across the hut in a
hesitating, conscious manner. The Captain looked at them curiously.
"I'm afraid we'll have to take away a part of your house to pay for
your supper," he said. "Everything is wet outside that might do for
firewood. Lend a hand, Danton." He gathered logs and sticks from the
floor and walls, and carried them out. Danton, after a quick look
toward the maid (which, of course, Menard saw), did the same.
The Captain was the first to reenter the hut. The maid had not moved,
and her eyes were puzzled and wearied, but she tried to smile.
"Has it stopped raining?" she asked.
Menard gave her an amused glance, and pointed to a sparkling beam of
sunlight that came slanting in through an opening in the wall, and
buried itself in a little pool of light on the trampled ground. She
looked at it, flushed, and turned her eyes away. He stood for a
moment, half minded to ask the question that was on his tongue, but
finally held it back. In a moment Danton came back, looking
suspiciously at each of them as he stooped to gather another armful of
wood.
Menard was thoughtful during the evening meal. Afterward he slipped
his arm through Father Claude's, and led him for a short walk, giving
him an account of the incident. "I didn't say anything at the time,"
he concluded, "partly because I thought I might be mistaken, and
partly because it would have been the worst thing I could do. I begin
to see--I should have foreseen it before I spoke to him about the
girl--that we have trouble ahead, Father, with these precious
children. I confess I don't know just what to do about it. We must
think it over. Anyway, you had better talk to her. She would tell you
what she wouldn't tell me. If he's annoying her, we must know it."
Father Claude was troubled.
"The maid is in our care," he said, "and also in that of Lieutenant
Danton. It would seem that he--"
"There's no use in expecting him to take any responsibility, Father."
"Yes, I suppose you are right. He is a child."
"Will you go to the maid, Father, and get straight at the truth? You
see that I cannot meddle with her thoughts without danger of being
misinterpreted. It is you who must be her adviser."
The priest acquiesced, and they returned to the camp, to find the maid
still sitting alone, with a troubled face, and Danton puttering about
the fire with a show of keeping himself occupied. They ate in silence,
in spite of Menard's efforts to arouse them. After the meal they hung
about, each hesitating to wander away, and yet seeing no pleasure in
gathering about the fire. Menard saw that Father Claude had it in mind
to speak to the maid, so he got Danton away on a pretext of looking
over the stores. But he said nothing of the episode that was in all
their minds, preferring to await the priest's report.
After the maid had gone to her couch beneath the canoe, and Danton had
wandered into the wilderness that was all about them, Father Claude
joined Menard at the fire.
"Well, Father, what word?"
"Softly, M'sieu. It is not likely that she sleeps as yet."
"Well?"
"I have talked long with her, but she is of a stubborn mind."
"How is that?"
"She was angry at first. She spoke hastily, and asked me in short
terms to leave her in solitude. And then, after a time, when she began
to see that it was her welfare and our duty which I had in mind, and
not an idle curiosity, she was moved."
"Did she speak then?"
"No, M'sieu, she wept, and insisted that there was no trouble on her
mind,--it was merely the thought of her home and her father that had
cast her down."
"And so she has pride," mused Menard. "Could you gather any new
opinions, Father? Do you think that they may already have come to some
understanding?"
"I hardly think so, M'sieu. But may I suggest that it would be well to
be firm with Lieutenant Danton? He is young, and the maid is in our
trust,"
"True, Father. I will account for him."
There seemed to be nothing further to do at the moment, so the priest
went to his blanket, and Menard drew a bundle under his head and went
to sleep, after a glance about the camp to see that the sentry was on
watch. Now that Montreal lay behind, and the unsettled forest before,
with only a thin line of Frenchmen stretched along the river between
them and Fort Frontenac, he had divided the night into watches, and
each of the four _engagés_ stood his turn.
The following day was all but half gone before the wind had dropped to
a rate that made the passage of the lake advisable. Menard ordered the
noon meal for an hour earlier than usual, and shortly afterward they
set out across the upper end of Lake St. Louis to the foot of the
cascades. Before the last bundle had been carried up the portage to
Buisson Pointe, the dusk was settling over the woods across the river,
and over the rising ground on Isle Perrot at the mouth of the Ottawa.
During the next day they passed on up the stream to the Coteau des
Cedres. Menard and Father Claude were both accustomed to take the
rapid without carrying, or even unloading, but Danton looked at the
swirling water with doubt in his eyes. When the maid, leaning back in
the canoe while the men halted at the bank to make fast for the
passage, saw the torrent that tumbled and pitched merrily down toward
them, she laughed. To hold a sober mood for long was not in her
buoyant nature, and she welcomed a dash of excitement as a relief from
the strained relations of the two days just gone.
"M'sieu," she called to Menard, with a sparkle in her eyes. "Oh,
M'sieu, may I stay in the canoe?"
Danton turned quickly at the sound of her voice, and a look, half of
pain, half of surprise, came over his face as he saw her eagerness.
Menard looked at her in doubt.
"It may be a wet passage, Mademoiselle."
"And why not, M'sieu? Have I not been wet before? See, I will protect
myself." She drew the bundles closely about her feet, and threw a
blanket across her knees. "Now I can brave the stream, Captain.
Or,"--her gay tone dropped, and she looked demurely at him,--"perhaps
it is that I am too heavy, that I should carry myself up the bank. I
will obey my orders, Captain." But as she spoke she tucked the blanket
closer about her, and stole another glance at Menard.
He smiled. He was thinking of Madame Gordeau and her fragile daughter,
who had shuddered with fear at a mere glimpse of the first rapid.
"Very well," he said, "Mademoiselle shall stay in the canoe."
"But it is not safe"--broke in Danton, stepping forward. Then,
conscious of the blunder, he turned away, and took up the rope.
"Lay hold, boys," said Menard.
Perrot and one of the new men waded into the water, and laid hold of
the gunwales on each side of the bow. Menard himself took the stern.
He called to Danton, who stood awkwardly upon the bank, "Take the rope
with the men."
Guerin made the rope fast and set out ahead, with the other men and
Danton close behind. Father Claude rolled up his robe and joined
them.
"Wait," called Menard, as the rope straightened. "Mademoiselle, I am
sorry to disturb you, but if you will sit farther back you will have
less trouble from the spray." He waded along the side, and helped her
to move nearer the stern, placing the bundles and the blanket about
her as before. Then he shouted, "All right," and they started into the
foaming water.
They toiled slowly up the incline, catching at rocks to steady their
course, and often struggling for a foothold. Once Menard ordered a
halt at a large rock, and all rested for a moment.
When they started again, the men at the bow of the canoe had some
trouble in holding it steady, for their feet were on a stretch of
smooth rock, and Menard called Danton back to help them. The boy
worked his way along the rope, and reached the bow.
"Come around behind Perrot," said Menard.
Danton reached around Perrot's body, and caught hold of the gunwale.
At that moment his foot slipped, and he fell, dragging the side of the
canoe down with him. The men at the bow did their best to prevent a
capsize, but succeeded only in keeping half the bundles in the canoe.
The others, the muskets, and the maid went into the river.
Menard moved forward as rapidly as he could against the current. The
maid was unable at once to get her feet, used as she was to the water,
and was swept down against him. He caught her, and, steadying himself
with one hand, by the water-logged canoe, raised her head and held her
while she struggled for a footing and shook the water from her eyes.
Before she was wholly herself, Danton came plunging toward them.
"Give her to me!" he said huskily. "I've drowned her! My God, let me
have her!"
"Stop," said Menard, sternly. "Take the men, and go after those
bales--quick!"
Danton looked stupidly at him and at the maid, who was wiping the
water from her face with one hand, and holding tightly to the Captain.
Then he followed Perrot, who had already, with the two new men and
Father Claude, commenced to get together the bales, most of which had
sunk, and were moving slowly along the bottom. Menard still had his
arm about the girl's shoulders. He helped her to the shore.
"Keep moving, Mademoiselle,--don't sit down. In a moment we shall have
a fire. Father Claude," he called, "bring the canoe ashore." Then to
the maid, "There are yet some dry blankets, thank God."
Mademoiselle was herself now, and she protested. "But it is only
water, M'sieu. Let me go on with you, beyond the rapids."
Menard merely shook his head. The canoe was soon on the bank, and
emptied of water. The other men were beginning to come in with soaked
bundles and dripping muskets. Each bale was opened, and the contents
spread out to dry, while Guerin was set to work at drying the muskets
with a cloth. Perrot and Danton built a rough shelter for the maid,
enclosing a small fire, and gave her some dry blankets. Then each man
dried himself as best he could.
This accident threw Danton into a fit of gloominess from which nothing
seemed to arouse him. He was careless of his duty, and equally
careless to the reprimands that followed. This went on for two days,
during which the maid seemed at one moment to avoid him, and at
another to watch for his coming. In the evening of the second day
following, the party camped at Pointe à Baudet, on Lake St. Francis.
The supper was eaten in a silence more oppressive than usual, for
neither Menard nor Father Claude could overcome the influence of
Danton's heavy face and the maid's troubled eyes. After the supper the
two strolled away, and sat just out of earshot on a mossy knoll. For
hours they talked there, their voices low, save once or twice when
Danton's rose. They seemed to have lost all count of time, all heed of
appearances. Menard and the priest made an effort at first to appear
unobservant, but later, seeing that their movements were beyond the
sight of those unheeding eyes, they took to watching and speculating
on the course of the conversation. The night came on, and the dark
closed over them. Still the murmur of those low voices floated across
the camp.
Father Claude, with a troubled mind, went down to the water, and
walked slowly up and down. Menard saw to the final preparations for
the night, and posted the first sentry. Then he joined the priest.
"Father?"
"Yes."
"I think it is time to speak."
"I fear it is, M'sieu."
"I must leave it in your hands."
"Shall I go now?"
"Yes."
Without further words, Father Claude walked up the bank, crackling
through the bushes. From this spot the voices were inaudible, and for
a few moments there was no sound. Then Menard could hear some one
moving heavily through the undergrowth, going farther and farther into
the stillness, and he knew that it was Danton. He sat on the bank with
his back against a tree, and waited for a long hour. At last he
dropped asleep.
He was awakened by Father Claude. The priest dropped to the ground
beside him. His training had given Menard the faculty of awaking
instantly into full grasp of a situation.
"Well," he said. "Where is the maid?"
"She has gone to her couch, but not to sleep, I fear. It has come,
M'sieu."
"What has come?"
"Danton has lost his senses. He asks her to marry him, to flee with
him. It is a difficult case. She has had no such experience before,
and knows not how to receive him. She seems to have no love for him,
beyond the pleasure his flattery has given her. She believes all he
says. One thing I know, aside from all questions of expediency, of
care for our trust, this must not go on."
"Not for the present, at least. She may do what she will, once we have
taken her safely to Frontenac."
"No, M'sieu; not even then. We must stop it at once."
"Oh, of course," said Menard; "so far as we are concerned, we have no
choice. You need not bother longer to-night. I will wait for the boy.
I am sorry for him."
"I should have more pity, if I knew less of his past."
"Tush, Father! He is not a bad fellow, as they go. To be sure he does
not rise any too well to new responsibilities, but he will grow into
it. It is better an honest infatuation with the daughter of a
gentleman than a dishonest one with an Indian maid. And you know our
officers, Father. God knows, they are all bad enough; and yet they are
loyal fellows."
"Ah, M'sieu, I fear you will be too lenient with him. Believe me, we
have not a minute to waste in stopping the affair."
"Have no fear, Father. Good-night."
"Good-night."
Menard lay on the bank, gazing at the sparkling water, and listening
to the slow step of the sentry and to the deeper sounds of the forest.
Another hour crept by, and still Danton had not returned. Menard
walked about the camp to make sure that he was not already rolled in
his blanket; then he went to the sentry, who was leaning against a
tree a few rods away.
"Colin," he said, "have you seen Lieutenant Danton?"
"Yes, M'sieu. He is up there." Colin pointed through the trees that
fringed the river. "I heard a noise some time ago, and went up to see.
He is lying under a beech tree, if he has not moved,--and I should
have heard him if he had. It may be that he is asleep."
Menard nodded, and walked slowly along the bank, bending aside the
briers that caught at his clothes and his hands.
CHAPTER VI.
THE FIGHT AT LA GALLETTE.
Danton was lying on the ground, but he was not asleep. He looked up,
at the sound of Menard's footsteps, and then, recognizing him, lowered
his eyes again. The Captain hesitated, standing over the prostrate
figure.
"Danton," he said finally, "I want you to tell me the truth."
The boy made no reply, and Menard, after waiting for a moment, sat
upon a log.
"I have decided to do rather an unusual thing, Danton," he said
slowly, "in offering to talk it over with you as a friend, and not as
an officer. In one thing you must understand me: Mademoiselle St.
Denis has been intrusted to my care, and until she has safely reached
those who have a right to share the direction of her actions, I can
allow nothing of this sort to go on. You must understand that. If you
will talk with me frankly, and try to control yourself for the
present, it may be that I can be of service to you later on."
There was a long silence. Finally, Danton spoke, without raising his
head.
"Is there need of this, M'sieu? Is it not enough that she--that
Mademoiselle dismisses me?"
"Oh," said Menard, "that is it?"
"Yes."
"You are sure of yourself, Danton? sure that you have not made a
mistake?"
"A mistake?" The boy looked up wildly. "I was--shall I tell you,
M'sieu?--I left the camp to-night with the thought that I should never
go back."
Menard looked at him curiously.
"What did you plan to do?"
"I didn't know,--I don't know now. Back to Montreal, perhaps to the
Iroquois. I don't care where."
"You did not bring your musket. It would hardly be safe."
"Safe!" There was weary contempt in the boy's voice. He sat up, and
made an effort to steady himself, leaning back upon his hands. "I
should not say this. It was what I thought at first. I am past it now;
I can think better. It was only your coming,--when I first saw you, it
came rushing back, and I wanted to--oh, what is the use? You do not
know. You cannot understand."
"And now?"
"Now, Captain, I ask for a release. Let me go back to Montreal."
"How would you go? You have no canoe."
"I will walk."
Menard shook his head.
"I am sorry," he said, "but it is too late. In the first place, you
would never reach the city. There are scouting bands of Iroquois all
along the river."
"So much the better, M'sieu, so--"
"Wait. That is only one reason. I cannot spare you. I have realized
within the last day that I should have brought more men. The Iroquois
know of our campaign; they are watching us. A small party like this is
to their liking. I will tell you, Danton, we may have a close rub
before we get to Frontenac. I wish I could help you, but I cannot.
What reason could I give for sending you alone down the river to
Montreal? You forget, boy, that we are not on our own pleasure; we are
on the King's errand. For you to go now would be to take away one of
our six fighting men,--to imperil Mademoiselle. And that, I think," he
looked keenly at Danton, "is not what you would wish to do."
The boy's face was by turns set and working. He looked at Menard as if
to speak, but got nothing out. At last he sprang to his feet, and
paced back and forth between the trees.
"What can I do?" he said half to himself. "I can't stay! I can't see
her every day, and hear her voice, and sit with her at every meal. Why
do you call yourself my friend, Menard? Why don't you help? Why don't
you say something--?"
"There are some things, Danton, that a man must fight out alone."
Danton turned away, and stood looking over the river. Menard sat on
the log and waited. The moments slipped by, and still they said
nothing. They could hear the stirring of Colin, back at the camp, and
the rustle of the low night breeze. They could almost hear the great
silent rush of the river.
"Danton."
The boy half turned his head.
"You will stay here and play the man. You will go on with your duties;
though, if the old arrangement be too hard, I will be your master in
the Iroquois study, leaving Mademoiselle to Father Claude. And now you
must return to the camp and get what sleep you can. Heaven knows we
may have little enough between here and Frontenac. Come."
He got up, and walked to the camp, without looking around. Danton
lingered until the Captain's tall figure was blending with the shadows
of the forest, then he went after.
During the following day they got as far as the group of islands at
the head of Lake St. Francis. Wherever possible Menard was now
selecting islands or narrow points for the camp, where, in case of a
night attack, defence would be a simple problem for his few men. Also,
each night, he had the men spread a circle of cut boughs around the
camp at a little distance, so that none could approach without some
slight noise. Another night saw the party at the foot of Petit
Chesneaux, just above Pointe Maligne.
While Perrot was preparing the supper, and Danton, with the
_voyageurs_, was unpacking the bales, Menard took his musket and
strode off into the forest. There was seldom a morning now that the
maid did not have for her breakfast a morsel of game which the
Captain's musket had brought down.
In half an hour he returned, and sought Father Claude; and after a few
low words the two set off. Menard led the way through thicket and
timber growth, over a low hill, and down into a hollow, where a
well-defined Indian trail crossed a brook. Here was a large sugar
maple tree standing in a narrow opening in the thicket. Menard struck
a light, and held up a torch so that the priest could make out a
blaze-mark on the tree.
"See," said Menard. "It is on the old trail. I saw it by the merest
chance."
Father Claude bent forward, with his eyes close to the inscription
that had been painted on the white inner bark, with charcoal and
bear's grease.
"Can you read it?" asked Menard, holding the torch high.
The priest nodded. Both of these men knew the Indian writing nearly as
well as their own French.
[Transcriber's Note: An illustration of picture-writing appears
here in the text with the following caption:
NOTE.--By this picture-writing the Long Arrow (of the clan of the
Beaver) tells the Beaver (of the same clan) that he has taken up
the hatchet against the party in the canoe, and he asks the Beaver
to assist him. The parallel zigzag lines under the long arrow tell
that he is travelling by the river, and the two straight lines
under these that he has two warriors with him. The attack is to be
made in either three or four sleeps, or days, as indicated by the
three finished huts and one unfinished.
The Beaver has seen this sign, as shown by his signature at the
bottom. The seventeen slanting lines under the foot mean that he
has seventeen warriors and they are travelling on foot, southward,
as shown by the fact that the lines slope toward the sun.
That the figures in the canoe are French is shown by their hats.
The priest has no paddle, the maid is represented with long
hair.]
"He does not know of the two men you got at Montreal, M'sieu. He tells
of only six in our canoe."
"No? But that matters little. The Beaver has hurried after him with
nearly a score. They can give us trouble enough. What do you make of
the huts? Do they mean three days or four?"
"It looks to me," said the priest slowly, "that he was interrupted in
drawing the fourth."
"Well,"--Menard threw his torch into the brook, and turned away into
the dusk of the thicket,--"we know enough. The fight will be somewhere
near the head of the rapids. Perhaps they will wait until we get on
into the islands."
"And meantime," said the priest, as they crackled through the
undergrowth, "we shall say nothing of this to Lieutenant Danton or the
maid?"
"Nothing," Menard replied.
In three days more they had passed Rapide Flat, after toiling
laboriously by the Long Sault. They were a sober enough party now,
oppressed with Danton's dogged attention to duty and with the maid's
listless manner.
They were passing a small island the next morning, when Perrot gave a
shout and stopped paddling.
"What is it?" asked Menard, sharply.
Perrot pointed across a spit of land. In the other channel they could
see a bateau just disappearing behind a clump of trees. It was headed
down-stream. Menard swung the canoe about, and they skirted the foot
of the island. Instead of a single bateau there were some half dozen,
drifting light down the river, with a score of _coureurs de bois_ and
_voyageurs_ under the command of a bronzed lieutenant, Du Peron, a
sergeant, and a corporal. The lieutenant recognized Menard, and both
parties landed while the two officers exchanged news.
"Can you spare me a few men?" Menard asked, when they had drawn apart
from the others.
The lieutenant's eye roamed over the group on the beach, where the men
of both parties were mingling.
"How many do you want? I'm running shorthanded. We have all we can
manage with these bateaux."
"There's a war party of twenty on my trail," said Menard. "If I had my
own men with me I should feel safe, but I have my doubts about these
fellows. I haven't room for more than two."
"What's the trouble?--that La Grange affair?"
Menard nodded.
"I heard that they had a price on your head. There's been a good deal
of talk about it at Frontenac. A converted Mohawk has been scouting
for us, and he says that the Onondagas blame you for that whole galley
business."
"I know," said Menard, grimly. "You could hardly expect them to get
the truth of it."
"It was bad work, Menard, bad work. The worst thing La Grange did was
to butcher the women and children. He was drunk at the time, and the
worst of it was over before d'Orvilliers got wind of it. Do you know
who is leading this war party?"
"The Long Arrow."
"Oh, yes. A big fellow, with a rather noticeable wampum collar. He
came to Frontenac as a Mission Indian, but got away before we
suspected anything. Our scout told me that his son was in the party
that was taken to the galleys. He's been scouting along the river ever
since. Likely as not he followed you down to Quebec. How many men have
you now?"
"Five, and Father Claude."
"He could shoot at a pinch, I suppose. I'll let you have the best two
I have, but--" Du Peron shrugged his shoulders--"you know the sort
that are assigned for this transport work. They're a bad lot at best.
But they can shoot, and they hate the Iroquois, so you're all right if
you can keep them sober. That will make nine, with yourself,--it
should be enough."
"It will be enough. How is the transport moving?"
"Splendidly. Whatever we may say about the new Governor, our Intendant
knows his business. I judge from the way he is stocking up Frontenac,
that we are to use it as the base for a big campaign."
"I suppose so. You will report, will you, at Montreal, that we were
safe at Rapide Flat? And if you find a _coureur_ going down to Quebec,
I wish you would send word to Provost that Mademoiselle St. Denis is
well and in good spirits."
The lieutenant looked curiously at the maid, who was walking with
Father Claude near the canoe. Then the two officers shook hands, and
in a few moments were going their ways, Menard with two villainous
_voyageurs_ added to his crew. That afternoon he passed the last
rapid, and beached the canoe at La Gallette, thankful that nothing
intervened between them and Fort Frontenac but a reach of still water
and the twining channels of the Thousand Islands, where it would call
for the sharpest eyes ever set in an Iroquois head to follow his
movements.
They ate an early supper, and immediately afterward Father Claude
slipped away. The maid looked after him a little wistfully, then she
wandered to the bank, and found a mossy seat where she could watch the
long rapid, with its driving, foaming current that dashed over the
ledges and leaped madly around the jagged rocks. Menard set his men at
work preparing the camp against attack. When this was well under way
he called Danton, who was lying by the fire, and spent an hour with
him conversing in Iroquois. By that time the twilight was creeping
down the river. Menard left the boy to form a speech in accord with
Iroquois tradition, and went on a tour of inspection about the camp.
The new men had swung thoroughly into the spirit of their work; one of
them was already on guard a short way back in the woods. The other men
were grouped in a cleared place, telling stories and singing.
Father Claude came hurriedly toward the fire, looking for Menard. His
eyes glowed with enthusiasm.
"M'sieu," he said, in an eager voice, "come. I have found it."
"What?"
"It has come to me,--about the canoe."
Menard looked puzzled, but the priest caught his arm, and led him
away.
"It came while we ate supper. The whole truth, the secret of the
allegory, flashed upon me. I have worked hard, and now it is done.
Instead of leaving out the canoe, I have put it back, and have placed
in it six warriors, three paddling toward the chapel, and three away
from it. Over them hovers an angel,--a mere suggestion, a faint,
shining face, a diaphanous form, and outspread hands. Thus we
symbolize the conflict in the savage mind at the first entrance of the
Holy Word into their lives, with the blessed assurance over all that
the Faith must triumph in the end."
At the last words, he stopped and drew Menard around to face the
portrait of the Lily of the Onondagas, which was leaning against a
stump.
"Is it too dark, M'sieu? See, I will bring it closer." He lifted the
picture, and held it close to Menard's eyes. He was trembling with the
excitement of his inspiration.
The Captain stepped back.
"I should like to know, Father, where you have had this picture."
"It was in my bundle. I have"--for the first time he saw the sternness
in Menard's face, and his voice faltered.
"You did not leave it at Montreal?"
Father Claude slowly lowered the canvas to the ground. The light had
gone out of his eyes, and his face was white. Then suddenly his thin
form straightened. "I had forgotten. It was M'sieu's order. See,"--he
suddenly lifted the picture over his head and whirled to the
stump,--"it shall go no farther. We will leave it here for the wolves
and the crows and the pagan redmen."
He dashed it down with all his strength, but Menard sprang forward,
and caught it on his outstretched arm. "No, Father," he said; "we will
take it with us."
The priest smiled wearily, and lowered the picture to the ground; but
when Menard said, "You have broken it," he raised it hastily, and
examined it. One corner of the wooden frame was loosened, but the
canvas was not injured.
"I can mend it," he said.
Then they walked to the camp together, without talking; and Menard
helped him repair the frame, and pack the picture carefully.
"How is it that it was not ruined in the capsize at Coteau des
Cedres?" Menard asked.
"It was preserved by a miracle, M'sieu. This bundle did not leave the
canoe."
The _voyageurs_, still lounging in the clearing, were laughing and
talking noisily. The Captain, after he had prepared the maid's couch,
and bade her good-night, called to them to be quiet. For a time the
noise ceased, but a little later, as he was spreading his blanket on
the ground, it began again, and one of the transport men sang the
opening strain of a ribald song. Menard strode over to the group so
quickly that he took them by surprise. Colin was slipping something
behind him, but he could not escape Menard's eye. In a moment he was
sprawling on his face, and a brandy flask was brought to light. Menard
dashed it against a tree, and turned to the frightened men.
"Go to your blankets, every man of you. There are Iroquois on this
river. You have already made enough noise to draw them from half a
league away. The next man that is caught drinking will be flogged." He
thought of the maid lying under her frail shelter, for whose life he
was responsible. "If it occurs twice, he will be shot. Perrot, I want
you to join the sentry. From now on we shall have two men on guard all
night. See that there is no mistake about this. At the slightest
noise, you will call me."
The men slunk to their blankets, and soon the camp was still.
The river sang as it rushed down its zigzag channel through the
rocks,--a song that seemed a part of the night, and yet was distinct
from the creeping, rustling, dropping, all-pervading life and stir of
the forest. Every leaf, every twig and root, every lump of sod and
rock-held pool of stagnant water, had its own miniature world, where
living things were fighting the battle of life. In the far distance,
perhaps, an owl hooted; or near at hand a flying squirrel alighted on
a bending elm-twig. Deer and moose followed their beaten tracks to the
streams that had been theirs before ever Frenchman pierced the forest;
beaver dove into their huts above the dams their own sharp teeth had
made; moles nosed under the rich soil, and left a winding track
behind; frogs croaked and bellowed from some backset of the
river,--and all blended, not, perhaps, so much into a sound, as into a
sense of movement,--an even murmur in a low key, to which the lighter
note of the water was apart and distinct.
To a man trained as Menard had been, this was companionship. He was
never alone in the forest, never without his millions of friends, who,
though they seldom came into his thoughts, were yet a part of him, of
his sense of life and strength. And through all these noises, even to
the roar of Niagara itself, he could sleep like a child, when the
slightest sound of a moccasined foot on a dry leaf would have aroused
him at the instant to full activity. To-night he lay awake for a long
time. With every day that he drew nearer the frontier came graver
doubts of the feasibility of the plan which had been intrusted to him.
The wretched business of La Grange's treachery and the stocking of the
King's galleys had probably alienated the Onondagas for all time.
Their presence on the St. Lawrence pointed to this. He felt safe
enough, personally, for the very imprudence of the Governor's
campaign, which had made it known so early to all the Iroquois, was an
element in his favour. The Iroquois, unlike many of the roaming
western tribes, had their settled villages, with lodges and fields of
grain to defend from invasion. One secret of the campaign had been
well kept; no one save the Governor's staff and Menard knew that the
blow was to fall on the Senecas alone. And Menard was certain enough
in his knowledge of Iroquois character to believe that each tribe,
from the Mohawks on the east to the Senecas on the west, would call in
its warriors, and concentrate to defend its villages. Therefore there
could be no strong force on the St. Lawrence, where the French could
so easily cut it off. As for the Long Arrow and his band, eight good
fighting men and a stout-hearted priest could attend to them.
No, the danger would begin after the maid was safe at Frontenac, and
he and Danton and Father Claude must set out to win the confidence of
the Onondagas. The Oneidas and Mohawks must not be slighted; but the
Onondagas and Cayugas, being the nearest to the Senecas, and between
them and the other nations, would likely prove to be the key to the
situation.
The night was black when he awoke. Clouds had spread over the sky,
hiding all but a strip in the west where a low line of stars peeped
out. This strip was widening rapidly as the night breeze carried the
clouds eastward. At a little distance some of the men were whispering
together and laughing softly. A hand was feeling his arm, and a voice
whispered,--
"Quick, M'sieu; something has happened!"
"Is that you, Colin?"
"Yes. Guerin was on guard with me, and he fell. I thought I heard an
arrow, but could not be sure. I looked for him after I heard him fall,
but could not find him in the dark."
Menard sprang to his feet, with his musket, which had lain at his side
every night since leaving Montreal.
"Where was Guerin, Colin?"
"Straight back from the river, a few rods. He had spoken but a moment
before. It must have told them where to shoot."
"Call the men, and draw them close in a circle." Menard felt his way
toward the fire, where a few red embers showed dimly, and roused
Danton with a light touch and a whispered caution to be silent.
Already he could hear the low stir of the _engagés_ as they slipped
nearer the fire. He walked slowly toward the river, with one hand
stretched out in front, to find the canoe. It was closer than he
supposed, and he stumbled over it, knocking one end off its support.
The maid awoke with a gasp.
"Mademoiselle, silence!" he whispered, kneeling beside her. "I fear we
are attacked. You must come with me." He had to say it twice before
she could fully understand, and just then an arrow sang over them, and
struck a tree with a low _thut_. He suddenly rose and shouted,
"Together, boys! They will be on us in a moment. Close in at the bank,
and save your powder. Perrot, come here and help me with the canoe."
There was a burst of yells from the dark in answer to his call, and a
few shots flashed. Danton was rallying the men, and calling to them to
fall back, where they could take cover among the rocks and trees of
the bank.
The maid was silent, but she reached out her hand, and Menard,
catching her wrist, helped her to her feet, and fairly carried her
down the slope of the bank, laying her behind the tangled roots of a
great oak. Already the sky was clearer, and the trees and men were
beginning to take dim shape. The river rushed by, a deeper black than
sky and woods, with a few ghostly bits of white where the foam of the
rapids began.
"Stay here," he whispered. "Don't move or speak. I shall not be far."
She clung to his hand in a dazed manner, but he gently drew his away,
and left her crouching on the ground.
The men were calling to one another as they dodged back from tree to
tree toward the river, shooting only when a flash from the woods
showed the position of an Indian. Some of them were laughing, and as
Menard reached the canoe Perrot broke into a jeering song. It was
clear that the attacking party was not strong. Probably they had not
taken into account the double guard, relying on the death of the
sentry to clear the way for a surprise.
"Perrot!" called the Captain. "Why don't you come here?"
The song stopped. There was a heavy noise as the _voyageur_ came
plunging through the bushes, drawing a shower of arrows and musket
balls.
"Careful, Perrot, careful."
"They can't hit me," said Perrot, laughing. He stumbled against the
Captain, stepped back, and fell over the canoe, rolling and kicking.
Menard sprang toward him and jerked him up. He smelled strongly of
brandy.
Menard swore under his breath.
"Pick up your musket. Take hold of that canoe,--quick!"
Perrot was frightened by his stern words, and he succeeded in holding
up an end of the canoe, while Menard pushed him down the slope to
the water's edge. They rushed back, and in a few trips got down
most of the stores. By this time Perrot was sobering somewhat, and
with the Captain he took his place in the line. The men were
shooting more frequently now, and by their loose talk showed
increasing recklessness. Calling to Danton, Menard finally made
them understand his order to fall back. Before they reached the
bank, Colin dropped, with a ball through the head, and was dragged
back by Danton.
They dropped behind logs and trees at the top of the slope. It began
to look as if the redmen were to get no closer, in spite of the
drunken condition of all but one or two of the men. Though the night
was now much brighter, they were in the shadow, and neither the
Captain nor Danton observed that the brandy which the transport men
had supplied was passing steadily from hand to hand. They could not
know that the boy Guerin lay on his back amid the attacking Onondagas,
an arrow sticking upright in his breast, one hand lying across his
musket, the other clasping a flask.
The maid had not moved. She could be easily seen now in the clearer
light, and Menard went to her, feeling the need of giving her some
work to occupy her mind during the strain of the fight.
"Mademoiselle," he whispered.
She looked up. He could see that she was shivering.
"I must ask you to help me. We must get the canoe into the water. They
will soon tire of the assault and withdraw; then it will be safe to
take to the canoe. They cannot hurt you. We are protected by the
bank."
He helped her to rise, and she bravely threw her weight on the canoe,
which Menard could so easily have lifted alone, and stood at the edge
of the beach, passing him the bundles, which he, wading out, placed
aboard. But suddenly he stopped, with an exclamation, peering into the
canoe.
The maid, dreading each moment some new danger, asked in a dry voice,
"What is it, M'sieu?"
For reply he seized the bundles, one at a time, and tossed them
ashore, hauling the canoe after, and running his hand along the bark.
The maid stepped to his side. There was a gaping hole in the side of
the canoe. She drew her breath in quickly, and looked up at him.
"It was Perrot," he muttered, "that fool Perrot." He stood looking at
it, as if in doubt what to do. Up on the bank the men, Danton and
Father Claude among them, were popping away at the rustling bushes.
Suddenly he turned and gazed down at the maid's upturned face.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "I do not think there is danger, but whatever
happens you must keep close to me, or to Danton and Father Claude. It
may be that there will be moments when we cannot stop and explain to
you as I am doing now, but you must trust us, and believe that all
will come out well. The other men are not themselves to-night--"
He stopped. It was odd that he should so talk to a maid while his men
were fighting for their lives; but the Menard who had the safety of
this slender girl in his hands was not the Menard of a hundred battles
gone by. So he lingered, not knowing why, save that he hoped for some
word from her lips of confidence in those who wished to protect her.
And, as he waited, she smiled with trembling lips, and said:--
"It will come out well, M'sieu. I--I am not afraid."
Then Menard went up the bank with a bound, and finding one man already
in a stupor, and another struggling for a flask, which Father Claude
was trying to take away from him, he laid about him with his hard
fists, and shortly had the drunkards as near to their senses as they
were destined to be during the short space they had yet to live.
CHAPTER VII.
A COMPLIMENT FOR MENARD.
Colin and Guerin were dead, and one of the transport men lay in a
drunken sleep, so that including Menard, Danton, and Father Claude
there were six men in the little half circle that clung to the edge of
the bank, shooting into the brush wherever a twig stirred or a musket
flashed. "There are not many of them," said Menard to Danton, as they
lay on their sides reloading. He listened to the whoops and barks in
an interval between shots. "Not a score, all told."
"Will they come closer?"
"No. You won't catch an Iroquois risking his neck in an assault.
They'll try to pick us off; but if we continue as strong as we are
now, they are likely to draw off and try some other devilment, or wait
for a better chance."
Danton crept back to his log for another shot. Now that the sky was
nearly free of clouds, and the river was sparkling in the starlight,
the Frenchmen could not raise their heads to shoot without exposing a
dim silhouette to the aim of an Indian musket. Father Claude, who was
loading and firing a long _arquebuse à croc_, had risen above this
difficulty by heaping a pile of stones. Kneeling on the slope, a pace
below the others, and resting the crutch of his piece in a hollow
close to the stones, he could shoot through a crevice with little
chance of harm, beyond a bruised shoulder.
The maid came timidly up the bank, and touched Menard's arm.
"What is it, Mademoiselle? You must not come here. It is not safe."
"I want to speak to you, M'sieu. If I could have your knife--for one
moment--"
"What do you want of a knife, child? It is best that you--" There was
a fusillade from the brush, and his voice was lost in the uproar. "You
must wait below, on the beach. They cannot get to you."
"It is the canoe, M'sieu. The cloth about the bales is stout,--I can
sew it over the hole."
Menard looked at her as she crouched by his side; her hair fallen
about her face and shoulders; her hands, grimy with the clay of the
bank, clinging to a wandering root. She was still trembling with
excitement, but her eyes were bright and eager. Without a word he drew
his knife from its sheath, and held it out. She took it, and was down
the slope with a light spring, while the Captain poked the muzzle of
his musket through the leaves. As he drew it back, after firing, he
caught a glimpse of Danton's face, turned toward him with a curious
expression. The boy laughed nervously, and wiped the sweat from his
blackened forehead. "They don't give us much rest, Captain, do they?"
Menard's reply was jerked out with the strokes of his ramrod: "They
will--before long--and we can--take to the canoe. We're letting them
have all they want." He peered through the leaves, and fired quickly.
A long shriek came from the darkness. Menard laughed. "There's one
more gone, Danton."
The fight went on slowly, wretchedly, shot for shot, Danton himself
dragging up a bale of ammunition and serving it to the men. The maid,
unaided, had overturned the canoe where it lay, and with quickened
breath was pressing her needle through the tough bark. Danton lost the
flint from his musket, and crept down the bank to set a new one.
Suddenly he exclaimed, "There goes Perrot!"
The old _voyageur_ had, in a fit of recklessness, raised his head for
a long look about the woods. Now he was rolling slowly down the slope
toward the canoe and the maid, clutching weakly at roots and bushes as
he passed. There was a dark spot on his forehead. Menard sprang after,
and felt of his wrists; the pulse was fluttering out. He looked up, to
see the maid dipping up water with her hollowed hands, and waved her
back.
"It is no use, Mademoiselle. Is the canoe ready? We may need it
soon."
She stood motionless, slowly shaking her head, and letting the water
spill from her hands a drop at a time.
"Go back there. Do what you can with it." He hurried up the bank and
fell into his place.
"Do you see what they are doing?" asked Danton.
"Playing the devil. Anything else?"
The lieutenant pointed to an arrow that was sticking in a tree beside
him, slanting downward. "They are climbing trees. Listen. You can hear
them talking, and calling down. I've fired, but I don't get them."
Menard listened closely, and shot for the sound, but with no result.
"We've got to stop this, Danton. I don't understand it. It isn't like
the Iroquois to keep at it after a repulse. Tell Father Claude; he is
shooting too low." Menard glanced along the line at his men. The
drunken transport man lay silent at his post; beyond him were his mate
and one of the Montreal men, both of them reckless and frightened by
turns, shooting aimlessly into the dark. The arrows were rattling down
about them now. One grazed Father Claude's back as he stooped to take
aim, and straightened him up with a jerk. A moment later a bullet sang
close past Menard's head. He looked for the maid; she was sitting by
the canoe, sewing, giving no heed to the arrows.
The Montreal man groaned softly, and flattened out, with an arrow
slanting into the small of his back; which so unmanned the only other
conscious _engagé_ that he sank by him, sobbing, and trying to pull
out the arrow with his hands. Menard sprang up.
"My God, Danton! Father Claude! This is massacre. Run for the canoe.
My turn, eh?"
"What is it?" asked Danton. "Did they get you?"
For reply, Menard tore an arrow from the flesh of his forearm and
dashed down the bank, musket in hand. The maid was tugging at the
canoe, struggling to move it toward the water. She did not look up to
see the yellow, crimson, and green painted figures rise from the reeds
that fringed the water but a few yards away; she did not hear the rush
of moccasined feet on the gravel. Before she could turn, she was
seized and thrown to the ground, surrounded by the Indians, who were
facing about hastily to meet Menard. The Captain came among them with
a whirl of his musket that sent one warrior to the ground and dropped
another, half stunned, across the canoe. Danton was at his heels, and
Father Claude, fighting like demons with muskets and knives.
"Quick, Mademoiselle!" Menard lifted her as he spoke, and swung her
behind him; and then the three were facing the group of howling,
jumping figures, which was increased rapidly by those who had followed
the Frenchmen down the bank. "Come back here, Father. Protect the
maid! They dare not attack you, if you drop your musket! Loose your
hold, Mademoiselle." He caught roughly at the slender arms that held
about his waist, parrying a knife stroke with his other hand. "They
will kill you if you cling to me. Now, Danton! Never mind your arm. I
have one in the hand. Fight for the maid and France!" Menard was
shouting for sheer lust and frenzy of battle, "What is the matter with
the devils? Why don't they shoot? God, Danton, they're coming at us
with clubs!" He called out in the Iroquois tongue: "Come at us,
cowards! Make an end of it! Where are your bows? your muskets? Where
is the valour of the Onondagas--of my brothers?"
The last words brought forth a chorus of jeers and yells. The two
officers stood side by side at the water's edge. Behind them,
knee-deep in the water, was Father Claude, holding the maid in his
arms. The Indians seemed to draw together, still with that evident
effort to take their game alive, for two tall chiefs were rushing
about, cautioning the warriors. Then, of a sudden, the whole body came
forward with a rush, and Menard, Danton, Father Claude, and the maid
went down; the three men fighting and splashing until they lay, bound
with thongs, on the beach.
Menard turned his head and saw that Danton lay close to him.
"Mademoiselle?" he said. "What have they done with her?"
"She is here." The reply was in Father Claude's voice. It came from
the farther side of Danton.
"Is she hurt?"
"No. But they have bound her and me."
"Bound you!" The Captain tried to sit up, but could not. "They would
not do that, Father. It is a mistake."
A warrior, carrying a musket under his arm, walked slowly around the
prisoners, making signs to them to be silent. The others had withdrawn
to the shadow of the bank; the sound of their voices came indistinctly
across the strip of shore. Indifferent to the pain in his arm, Menard
struggled at his thongs, and called to them in Iroquois: "Who of my
brothers has bound the holy Father? What new fear strikes the breasts
of the sons of the night-wind that they must subdue with force the
gentle spirit of their Father, who has given his years for his
children? Is it not enough that you have broken the faith with your
brother, the child of your own village, the son of your bravest chief?
Need you other prey than myself?"
The guard stood over Menard, and lifted his musket. Menard laughed.
"Strike me, brave warrior. Show that your heart is still as fond as on
the day I carried your torn body on my shoulder to the safety of your
lodge. Ah, you remember? You have not forgotten the Big Buffalo? Then,
why do you hesitate? The man who has courage to seize a Father of the
Church, surely can strike his brother. This is not the brave Tegakwita
I have known."
Father Claude broke in on Menard, whose voice was savage in its
defiance.
"Have patience, M'sieu. I will speak." He lifted his voice.
"Teganouan! Father Claude awaits you." There was no reply from the
knot of warriors at the bank, and the priest called again. Finally a
chief came across and looked stolidly at the prisoners.
"My Father called?" he said.
"Your Father is grieved, Long Arrow, that you would bind him like a
soldier taken in war." The priest's voice was gentle. "Is this the
custom of the Onondagas? It was not so when I served you with Father
de Lamberville."
"My Father fought against his children."
"You would have slain me, Long Arrow, had I not."
The Indian walked slowly back to his braves, and for some moments
there was a consultation. Then the other chief came to them, and,
without a word, himself cut the thongs that bound the priest's wrists
and ankles. There was no look of recognition in his eyes as he passed
Menard, though they had been together on many a long hunt. He was the
Beaver.
As the Captain lay on his back, looking first at the kneeling Indian,
then at the sky overhead, he was thinking of the Long Arrow, again
with a half-memory of some other occasion when they had met. Then,
slowly, it came to him. It was at the last council to decide on his
release from captivity, five years before. The Long Arrow had come
from a distant village to urge the death of the prisoner. He had
argued eloquently that to release Menard would be to send forth an
ungrateful son who would one day strike at the hand that had
befriended him.
Father Claude was on his feet, chafing his wrists and talking with the
Beaver. The Long Arrow joined them, and for a few moments the chiefs
reasoned together in low, dignified tones. Then, at a word from the
Beaver, and a grunt of disgust from the Long Arrow, Father Claude,
with quick fingers, set the maid free, and took her head upon his
knee.
"Have they hurt her, Father?" asked Menard, in French.
"No, M'sieu, I think not. It is the excitement. The child sadly needs
rest."
"Will they release you? It is not far to Frontenac. It may be that you
can reach there with Mademoiselle."
"No, my son." The priest paused to dip up some water, and to stroke
the maid's forehead and wrists. "They have some design which has not
been made clear to me. They have promised not to bind me or to injure
what belongs to me among the supplies. But the Beaver threatens to
kill us if we try to escape, Mademoiselle and I."
"Why do they hold you?"
"To let no word go out concerning your capture. I fear, M'sieu--"
"Well?"
The priest lowered his eyes to the maid, who still lay fainting, and
said no more. A long hour went by, with only a commonplace word now
and then between the prisoners. The maid revived, and sat against the
canoe, gazing over the water that swept softly by. Danton lay silent,
saying nothing. Once a groan slipped past the Captain's lips at a
twitch of his wounded arm, and Father Claude, immediately cheered by
the prospect of a moment's occupation, cleaned the wound with cool
water, and bandaged it with a strip from his robe.
Preparations were making for a start. A half-dozen braves set out,
running down the beach; and shortly returned by way of the river with
two canoes. The others had opened the bales of supplies (excepting
Father Claude's bundle, which he kept by him), and divided the food
and ammunition among themselves. The two chiefs came to the prisoners,
and seated themselves on the gravel. The Long Arrow began talking.
"My brother, the Big Buffalo, is surprised that he should be taken a
prisoner to the villages of the Onondagas. He thinks of the days when
he shared with us our hunts, our lodges, our food, our trophies; when
he lived a free life with his brothers, and parted from them with
sadness in his voice. He had a grateful heart for the Onondagas then.
When he left our lodges he placed his hand upon the hearts of our
chiefs, he swore by his strange gods to keep the pledge of friendship
to his brothers of the forest. Moons have come and gone many times
since he left our villages. The snow has fallen for five seasons
between him and us, to chill his heart against those who have
befriended him. Twice has he been in battle when we might have taken
him a prisoner, but the hearts of our braves were warm toward him, and
they could not lift their arms. When there have been those who have
urged that the hatchet be taken up against him, many others have come
forward to say, 'No; he will yet prove our friend and our brother.'"
Menard lay without moving, looking up at the stars. Danton, by his
side, and the maid, sitting beyond, were watching him anxiously.
Father Claude stood erect, with folded arms.
"And now," continued the chief, "now that Onontio, the greatest of war
chiefs, thinks that he is strong, and can with a blow destroy our
villages and drive us from the lands our gods and your gods have said
to be ours by right, as it was our fathers',--now there is no longer
need for the friendship of the Onondagas, whose whole nation is fewer
than the fighting braves of the great Onontio. The war-song is sung in
every white village. The great canoes take food and powder up our
river, for those who would destroy us."
Menard was still looking upward. "My brother," he said, speaking
slowly, "was once a young brave. When he was called before his great
chief, and commanded to go out and fight to save his village and his
brothers and sisters, did he say to his chief: 'No, my father, I will
no longer obey your commands. I will no longer strive to become a
famous warrior of your nation. I will go away into the deep
forest,--alone, without a lodge, without a nation, to be despised
alike by my brothers and my foes?' Or did he go as he was bid,
obeying, like a brave warrior, the commands of those who have a right
to command? Does not the Long Arrow know that Onontio is the greatest
of chiefs, second only to the Great-Chief-Across-the-Water, the father
of red men and white men? If Onontio's red sons are disobedient, and
he commands me to chastise them, shall I say to my father, 'I cannot
obey your will, I will become an outcast, without a village or a
nation?' The Long Arrow is a wise man. He knows that the duty of all
is to obey the father at Quebec."
"The Big Buffalo speaks with wisdom. But it may be he forgets that our
braves have passed him by in the battles of every season since he left
our villages. He forgets that he met a band of peaceful hunters from
our nation, who went into his great stone house because they believed
that his white brothers, if not himself, would keep the word of
friendship. He forgets that they were made to drink of the white man's
fire water, and were chained together to become slaves of the great
kind Chief-Across-the-Water, who loves his children, and would make
them mighty in his land. Is this the father he would have us obey?
Truly, he speaks with an idle tongue."
Menard lay silent. His part in La Grange's treachery, and in carrying
out later the Governor's orders, would be hard to explain. To lay the
blame on La Grange would not help his case, at least until he could
consult with Father Claude, and be prepared to speak deliberately.
"My brother does not reply?"
"He will ask a question," replied Menard. "What is the will of the
chiefs to do with the sons of Onontio?"
"The Big Buffalo has seen the punishment given by the Onondagas to
those who have broken their faith."
"I understand. And of course we shall be taken to your villages before
this death shall come?"
The Long Arrow bowed.
"Very well," said Menard, in his slow voice. "As the Long Arrow, brave
as he is, is but a messenger, obeying the will of the nation, I will
withhold my word until I shall be brought before your chiefs in
council. I shall have much to say to them; it need be said only once.
I shall be pleased to tell my truths to the Big Throat, whose eyes can
see beyond the limits of his lodge; who knows that the hand of Onontio
is a firm and strong hand. He shall know from my lips how kind Onontio
wishes to be to his ungrateful children--" He paused. The Indians must
not know yet that the Governor's campaign was to be directed only
against the Senecas. The mention of the Big Throat would, he knew, be
a shaft tipped with jealousy in the breast of the Long Arrow. The Big
Throat, Otreouati, was the widest famed orator and chief of the
Onondagas; and it was he who had adopted Menard as his son. Above all,
the Long Arrow would not dare to do away with so important a prisoner
before he could be brought before the council.
The maid was leaning forward, following their words intently. "Oh,
M'sieu," she said, "I cannot understand it all. What will they do with
you?"
Menard hesitated, and replied in French without turning his head:
"They will take us to their villages below Lake Ontario. They will not
harm you, under Father Claude's protection. And then it is likely that
we may be rescued before they can get off the river."
"But yourself, M'sieu? They are angry with you. What will they do?"
"Lieutenant Danton and I must look out for ourselves. I shall hope
that we may find a way out."
The Long Arrow was looking closely at them, evidently resenting a
woman's voice in the talk. At the silence, he spoke in the same low
voice, but Menard and Father Claude read the emotion underneath.
"It may be that the Big Buffalo has never had a son to brighten his
days as his life reaches the downward years. It may be that he has not
watched the papoose become a fleet youth, and the youth a tireless
hunter. He may not have waited for the day when the young hunter
should take his seat at the council and speak with those who will hear
none but wise men. I had such a son. He went on the hunt with a band
that never returned to the village." His voice rose above the pitch
customary to a chief. It was almost cold in its intensity. "I found
his body, my brother, the body of my son, at this place, killed by the
white men, who talked to us of the love of their gods and their
Chief-Across-the-Water. Here it was I found him, who died before he
would become the slave of a white man; and here I have captured the
man who killed him. It is well that we have not killed my brother
to-night. It is better that we should take him alive before the
council of the Onondagas, who once were proud in their hearts that he
was of their own nation."
The maid's eyes, shining with tears, were fixed on the Indian's face.
She had caught up with her hand the flying masses of her hair and
braided them hastily; but still there were locks astray, touched by
the light of the starlit sky. Menard turned his head, and watched her
during the long silence. Danton was watching her too. He had not
understood the chief's story, but it was clear from her face that she
had caught it all. It was Father Claude who finally spoke. His voice
was gentle, but it had the air of authority which his long experience
had taught him was necessary in dealing with the Indians.
"The Big Buffalo has said wisely. He will speak only to the great
chiefs of the nation, who will understand what may be beyond the minds
of others. The heart of the Long Arrow is sad, his spirit cast down,
and he does not see now what to-morrow he may,--that the hand of the
Big Buffalo is not stained with the blood of his son. We will go to
your village, and tell your chiefs many things they cannot yet know.
For the Big Buffalo and his young brother, I shall ask only the
justice which the Onondagas know best how to give. For myself and my
sister, I am not afraid. We will follow your course, to come back when
the chiefs shall order it."
The two Indians exchanged a few signs, rose, and went to the scattered
group of braves, who were feasting on the white men's stores. In a
moment these had thrown the bundles together, and were getting the
canoes into the water. Two warriors cut Danton's thongs and raised him
to his feet. He rubbed his wrists, where the thongs had broken the
skin, and stepped about to get the stiffness from his ankles. Then he
bent down to set Menard loose, but was thrown roughly back.
"What's this? What's the matter? Do you understand this, Menard?"
"I think so," replied the Captain, quietly.
"What is it?"
"A little compliment to me, that is all."
Danton stood looking at him in surprise, until he was hustled to
the nearest canoe and ordered to take a paddle. He looked back and
saw four warriors lift Menard, still bound hand and foot, and
carry him to the other canoe, laying him in the bottom beneath the
bracing-strips. Father Claude, too, was given a paddle. Then they
glided away over the still water, into a mysterious channel that
wound from one shadow-bound stretch to another, past islands that
developed faintly from the blackness ahead and faded into the
blackness behind. The lean arms of the Indians swung with a
tireless rhythm, and their paddles slipped to and fro in the water
with never a sound, save now and then a low splash.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE MAID MAKES NEW FRIENDS.
The prisoners were allowed some freedom in the Onondaga village. They
were not bound, and they could wander about within call of the low hut
which had been assigned to them. This laxity misled Danton into
supposing that escape was practicable.
"See," he said to Menard, "no one is watching. Once the dark has come
we can slip away, all of us."
Menard shook his head.
"Do you see the two warriors sitting by the hut yonder,--and the group
playing platter among the trees behind us? Did you suppose they were
idling?"
"They seem to sleep often."
"You could not do it. We shall hope to get away safely; but it will
not be like that."
Danton was not convinced. He said nothing further, but late on that
first night he made the attempt alone. The others were asleep, and
suspected nothing until the morning. Then Father Claude, who came and
went freely among the Indians, brought word that he had been caught a
league to the north. The Indians bound him, and tied him to stakes in
a strongly guarded hut. This much the priest learned from Tegakwita,
the warrior who had guarded them on the night of their capture. After
Menard's appeal to his gratitude he had shown a willingness to be
friendly, and, though he dared do little openly, he had given the
captives many a comfort on the hard journey southward.
Later in the morning Menard and Mademoiselle St. Denis were sitting at
the door of their hut. The irregular street was quiet, excepting for
here and there a group of naked children playing, or a squaw passing
with a load of firewood on her back. An Indian girl came in from the
woods toward them. She was of light, strong figure, with a full face
and long hair, which was held back from her face by bright ribbons.
Her dress showed more than one sign of Mission life. She was cleaner
than most of the Indians, and was not unattractive. She came to them
without hesitation.
"I am Tegakwita's sister. My name is Mary; the Fathers at the Mission
gave it to me."
Menard hardly gave her a glance, but Mademoiselle was interested.
"That is not your Indian name?" she asked.
"Yes,--Mary."
"Did you never have another?"
"My other name is forgotten."
"These Mission girls like to ape our ways," said Menard, in French.
The girl looked curiously at them, then she untied a fold of her
skirt, and showed a heap of strawberries. "For the white man's squaw,"
she said.
Mademoiselle blushed and laughed. "Thank you," she replied, holding
out her hands. The girl gave her the berries, and turned away. Menard
looked up as a thought came to him.
"Wait, Mary. Do you know where the young white chief is?"
"Yes. He tried to run away. He cannot run away from our warriors."
"Are you afraid to go to him?"
"My brother, Tegakwita, is guarding him. I am not afraid."
Menard went to a young birch tree that stood near the hut, peeled off
a strip of bark, and wrote on it:--
"If you try to escape again you will endanger my plans. Keep your
patience, and I can save you."
"Will you take him some berries, and give him this charm with them?"
She took the note, rolled it up with a nod, and went away. Menard saw
the question in Mademoiselle's eyes, and said: "It was a warning to be
cool. Our hope is in getting the good-will of the chiefs."
"Will they--will they hurt him, M'sieu?"
"I hope not. At least we are still alive and safe; and years ago,
Mademoiselle, I learned how much that means."
The maid looked into the trees without replying. Her face had lost
much of its fulness, and only the heavy tan concealed the worn
outlines. But her eyes were still bright, and her spirit, now that the
first shock had passed, was firm.
Father Claude returned, after a time, with a heavy face. He drew
Menard into the hut, and told him what he had gathered: that the Long
Arrow and his followers were planning a final vengeance against
Captain Menard. All the braves knew of it; everywhere they were
talking of it, and preparing for the feasting and dancing.
"They will wait until after the fighting, won't they?"
"No, M'sieu. It is planned to begin soon, within a day or two."
"Have you inquired for the Big Throat?"
"He is five leagues away, at the next village. We can hardly hope for
help from him, I fear. All the tribes are preparing to join in
fighting our troops."
Menard paused to think.
"It looks bad, Father." He walked up and down the hut. "The Governor's
column must have followed up the river within a few days of us. Then
much time was lost in getting us down here." He turned almost fiercely
to the priest. "Why, the campaign may have opened already. Word may
come to-morrow from the Senecas calling out the Onondagas and Cayugas.
Do you know what that means? It means that I have failed,--for the
first time in my life, Father,--miserably failed. There must be some
way out. If I could only get word to the Big Throat. I'm certain I
could talk him over. I have done it before."
Father Claude had never before seen despair in Menard's eyes.
"You speak well, M'sieu. There must be some way. God is with us."
The Captain was again pacing the beaten floor. Finally he came to the
priest, and took his arm. "I don't know what it is that gives me
courage, Father, but at my age a man isn't ready to give up. They may
kill me, if they like, but not before I've carried out my orders. The
Onondagas must not join the Senecas."
"How"--began the priest.
Menard shook his head. "I don't know yet,--but we can do it." He went
out of doors, as if the sunlight could help him, and during the rest
of the day and evening he roamed about or lay motionless under the
trees. The maid watched him until dark, but kept silent; for Father
Claude had told her, and she, too, believed that he would find a way.
Late in the evening Father Claude began to feel disturbed. Menard was
still somewhere off among the trees. He had come in for his handful of
grain, at the supper hour, but with hardly a word. The Father had
never succeeded, save on that one occasion when Danton was the
subject, in carrying on a long conversation with the maid; and now
after a few sorry attempts he went out of doors. He thought of going
to the Captain, to cheer his soul and prepare his mind for whatever
fate awaited him, but his better judgment held him back.
The village had no surface excitement to suggest coming butchery and
war. The children were either asleep or playing in the open. Warriors
walked slowly about, wrapped closely in blankets, though the night was
warm. The gnats and mosquitoes were humming lazily, the trees barely
stirring, and the voices of gossiping squaws or merry youths blended
into a low drone. There was the smell in the air of wood and leaves
burning, from a hundred smouldering fires. Father Claude stood for a
long time gazing at the row of huts, and wondering that such an air of
peace and happiness could hover over a den of brute savages, who were
even at the moment planning to torture to his death one of the bravest
sons of New France.
While he meditated, he was half conscious of voices near at hand. He
gave it no attention until his quick ear caught a French word. He
started, and hurried to the hut, pausing in the door. By the dim light
of the fire, that burned each night in the centre of the floor, he
could see Mademoiselle standing against the wall, with hands clasped
and lips parted. Nearer, with his back to the door, stood an Indian.
The maid saw the Father, but did not speak. He came forward into the
hut, and gently touched the Indian's arm.
"What is it?" he asked in Iroquois.
The Indian stood, without a reply, until the silence grew heavy.
Mademoiselle had straightened up, and was watching with fascinated
eyes. Then, slowly, the warrior turned, and beneath buckskin and
feathers, dirt and smeared colours, the priest recognized Danton. He
turned sadly to the maid.
"I do not understand," he said.
She put her hands before her eyes. "I cannot talk to him," she said,
in a broken voice. "Why does he come? Why must I--" Then she collected
herself, and came forward. Pity and dignity were in her voice. "I am
sorry, Lieutenant Danton. I am very sorry."
The boy choked, and Father Claude drew him, unresisting, outside the
hut.
"How did you come here, Danton? Tell me."
Danton looked at him defiantly.
"What does this mean? Where did you get these clothes?"
"It matters not where I got them. It is my affair."
"Who gave you these clothes?"
"It is enough that I have friends, if those whom I thought friends
will not aid me."
The priest was pained by the boy's rough words.
"I am sorry for this, my son,--for this strange disorder. Did you not
receive a message from your Captain?"
Danton hesitated. "Yes," he said at last. "I received a message,--an
order to lie quiet, and let these red beasts burn me to death. Menard
is a fool. Does he not know that they will kill him? Does he not know
that this is his only chance to escape? He is a fool, I say."
"You forget, my son."
"Well, if I do? Must I stay here for the torture because my Captain
commands? Why do you hold me here? Let me go. They will be after me."
"Wait, Danton. What have you said to Mademoiselle?"
The boy looked at him, and for a moment could not speak.
"Do you, too, throw that at me, Father? It was all I could do. I
thought she cared for her life more than for--for Menard. No, let me
go on. I have risked everything to come for her, and she--she--I did
not know it would be like this."
"But what do you plan?" The priest's voice was more gentle. "Where are
you going? You cannot get to Frontenac alone."
"I don't know," replied Danton wearily, turning away. "I don't care
now. I may as well go to the devil."
Without a word of farewell he walked boldly off through the trees,
drawing his blanket about his shoulders. Father Claude stood watching
him, half in mind to call Menard, then hesitating. Already the boy was
committed: he had broken his bonds, and to make any effort to hold him
meant certain death for him. Perhaps it was better that he should take
the only chance left to him. The hut was silent. He looked within, and
saw the maid still standing by the wall. Her eyes were on him, but she
said nothing, and he turned away. He walked slowly up and down under
the great elms that arched far up over his head. At last he looked
about for the Captain, and finding him some little way back in the
woods, told him the story.
Menard's face had aged during the day. His eyes had a dull firmness in
place of the old flash. He heard the account without a word, and, at
the close, when the priest looked at him questioningly for a reply, he
shook his head sadly. His experiment with Danton had failed.
"He didn't tell you who had helped him?"
"No, M'sieu. It is very strange."
"Yes," said Menard, "it is."
The night passed without further incident. Early in the morning,
Father Claude went out to find Tegakwita, and learn what news had come
in during the night of the French column. Runners were employed in
passing daily between the different villages, keeping each tribe fully
informed.
Menard sat before the hut. The clearing showed more life than on the
preceding day. Bands of warriors, hunting and scouting parties, were
coming in at short intervals, scattering to their shelters or hurrying
to the long building in the centre of the village. The growing boys
and younger warriors ran about, calling to one another in eager,
excited voices. As the morning wore along, grave chiefs and braves,
wrapped in their blankets, walked by on their way to the council
house.
The maid, after Father Claude had gone, watched the Captain for a long
time through the open door. The conversation with the Long Arrow, on
the night of their capture, had been burned into her memory; and now,
as she looked at Menard's drawn face and weary eyes, the picture came
to her again of the Long Arrow sitting by the river in the dim light
of the stars,--and of the white man who had fought for her, lying
before him, gazing upward and speaking with a calm voice to the stern
chief who wished to kill him. Then, in spite of the excitement, the
danger, and exhaustion of the fight, it had seemed that the Captain
could not long be held by this savage. His stern manner, his command,
had given her a confidence which had, until this moment, strengthened
her. But now, of a sudden, she saw in his eyes the look of a man who
sees no way ahead. This quarrel with the Long Arrow was no matter of
open warfare, even of race against race; it was an eye for an eye, the
demand of a crazed father for the life of the slayer of his son. That
she could do nothing, that she must sit feebly while he went to his
death, came to her with a dead sense of pain.
With a restless spirit she went out of doors, passing him with a
little smile; but he did not look up. A group of passing youths
stopped and jeered at him, but he did not give them a glance. She
shrank back against the building until they had gone on.
"Do not mind them, Mademoiselle," said Menard, quietly. "They will not
harm you."
She hesitated by his side, half in mind to speak to him, to tell him
that she knew his trouble, and had faith in him, but his bowed head
was forbidding in its solitude. All about the hut, under the spreading
trees, was a stretch of coarse green sod, dotted with tiny yellow
flowers and black-centred daisies. She wandered over the grass,
gathering them until her hands were full. Two red boys came by, and
paused to cry at her, taunting her as if she, too, were to meet the
fate of a war captive. The thought made her shudder, but then, on an
impulse, she called to them in their own language. They looked at each
other in surprise. She walked toward them, laying down the flowers,
and holding out her hand. A little later, when Menard looked up, he
saw her sitting beneath a gnarled oak, a boy on either side eagerly
watching her. She was talking and laughing with them, and teaching
them to make a screeching pipe with grass-blades held between the
thumbs. He envied her her elastic spirits.
"You have made two friends," he called in French.
She looked up and nodded, laughing. "They are learning to make the
music of the white brothers."
The boys' faces had sobered at the sound of his voice. They looked at
him doubtfully, and then at each other. He got up and walked slowly
toward them.
"I will make friends, too, Mademoiselle," he said, smiling. "We have
none too many here."
Before he had taken a dozen steps, the boys arose. He held out his
hands, saying, "Your father would be friends with his children." But
they began to retreat, a step at a time.
"Come, my children," said the maid, smiling at the words as she
uttered them. "The white father is good. He will not hurt you."
They kept stepping backward until he had reached the maid's side;
then, with a shout of defiance, they scampered away. In the distance
they stopped, and soon were the centre of a group of children whom
they taught to blow on the grass-blades, with many a half-frightened
glance toward Menard and the maid.
"There," he said, at length, "you may see the advantage of a
reputation."
She looked at him, and, moved by the pathos underlying the words,
could not, for the moment, reply.
"I once had a home in this village," he added. "It stood over there,
in the bare spot near the beech tree." His eyes rested on the spot for
a moment, then he turned back to the hut.
"M'sieu," she said shyly.
The little heap of flowers lay where she had dropped them; and, taking
them up, she arranged them hastily and held them out. "Won't you take
them?"
He looked at her, a little surprised, then held out his hand.
"Why,--thank you. I don't know what I can do with them."
They walked back together.
"You must wear some of the daisies, Mademoiselle. They will look
well."
She looked down at her torn, stained dress, and laughed softly; but
took the white cluster he gave her, and thrust the stems through a
tattered bit of lace on her breast.
Menard was plainly relieved by the incident. He had been worn near to
despair, facing a difficulty which seemed every moment farther from a
solution; and now he turned to her fresh, light mood as to a refuge.
"We must put these in water, Mademoiselle, or they will soon lose
their bloom."
"If we had a cup--?"
"A cup? A woodsman would laugh at your question. There is the spring,
here is the birch; what more could you have?"
"You mean--?"
"We will make a cup,--if you will hold the flowers. They are
beautiful, Mademoiselle. No nation has such hills and lakes and
flowers as the Iroquois. The Hurons boast of their lake country,--and
the Sacs and Foxes, too, though they have a duller eye for the
picturesque. See--the valley yonder--" He pointed through a rift in
the foliage to the league-long glimpse of green, bound in by the
gentle hills that rose beyond--"even to the tired old soldier there is
nothing more beautiful, more peaceful."
He peeled a long strip of bark from the birch tree, and rolled it into
a cup. "Your needle and thread, Mademoiselle,--if they have not taken
them."
"No; I have everything here."
She got her needle, and under his direction stitched the edges of the
bark.
"But it will leak, M'sieu."
He laughed. "The tree is the Indian's friend, Mademoiselle. Now it is
a pine tree that we need. The guards will tell me of one."
He walked over to the little group of warriors still at their game of
platter,--the one never-ceasing recreation of the Onondagas, at which
they would one day gamble away blankets, furs, homes, even squaws,
only to win them back on the next. They looked at him suspiciously
when he questioned them; but he was now as light of heart as on the
day, a few weeks earlier, when he had leaned on the balcony of the
citadel at Quebec, idly watching the river. He smiled at them, and
after a parley the maid saw one tall brave point to a tree a few yards
farther in the wood. They followed him closely with their eyes until
he was back within the space allowed him.
"Now, Mademoiselle, we can gum the seams,--see? It is so easy. The
cold water will harden it."
They went together to the spring and filled the cup, first drinking
each a draught. He rolled a large stone to the hut door, and set the
cup on it.
"Oh, Mademoiselle, it will not stand. I am not a good workman, I fear.
But then, it is not often in a woodsman's life that he keeps flowers
at his door. We must have some smaller stones to prop it up."
"I will get them, M'sieu." In spite of his protests she ran out to the
path and brought some pebbles. "Now we have decorated our home." She
sat upon the ground, leaning against the log wall, and smiling up at
him. "Sit down, M'sieu. I am tired of being solemn, we have been
solemn so long."
Already the heaviness was coming back on the Captain. He wondered, as
he looked at her, if she knew how serious their situation was. It
hardly seemed that she could understand it, her gay mood was so
genuine. She glanced up again, and at the sight of the settling lines
about his mouth and the fading sparkle in his eyes, her own eyes,
while the smile still hovered, grew moist.
"I am sorry," she said softly,--"very, very sorry."
He sat near by, and fingered the flowers in the birch cup. They were
both silent. Finally she spoke.
"M'sieu."
He looked down.
"It may be that you think that--that I do not understand. It is not
that, M'sieu. But when I think about it, and the sadness comes, I
know, some way, that it is going to come out all right. We are
prisoners, but other people have been prisoners, too. I have heard of
many of them from Father Dumont. He himself has suffered among the
Oneidas. I--I cannot believe it, even when it seems the darkest."
"I hope you are right, Mademoiselle. I, too, have felt that there must
be a way. And at the worst, they will not dare to hurt Father Claude
and--you." And under his breath he added, "Thank God."
"They will not dare to hurt you, M'sieu. They must not do it." She
rose and stood before him. "When I think of that,--that you, who have
done so much that I might be safe, are in danger, I feel that it would
be cowardly for me to go away without you. You would not have left me,
on the river. I know you would have died without a thought. And I--if
anything should happen, M'sieu; if Father Claude and I should be set
free, and--without you--I could never put it from my thoughts. I
should always feel that I--that you--no no, M'sieu. They cannot do
it."
She shook away a tear, and looked at him with an honest, fearless
gaze. It was the outpouring of a grateful heart, true because she
herself was true, because she could not accept his care and sacrifice
without a thought of what she owed him.
"You forget," he said gently, "that it was not your fault. They could
have caught me as easily if you had not been there. It is a soldier's
chance, Mademoiselle. He must take what life brings, with no
complaint. It is the young man's mistake to be restless, impatient.
For the rest of us, why, it is our life."
"But, M'sieu, you are not discouraged? You have not given up?"
"No, I have not given up." He rose and looked into her eyes. "I have
come through before; I may again. If I am not to get through, I shall
fight them till I drop. And then, I pray God, I may die like a
soldier."
He turned away and went into the hut. He was in the hardest moment of
his trial. It was the inability to fight, the lack of freedom, of
weapons, the sense of helplessness, that had come nearer to
demoralizing Menard than a hundred battles. He had been trusted with
the life of a maid, and, more important still, with the Governor's
orders. He was, it seemed, to fail.
The maid stood looking after him. She heard him drop to the ground
within. Then she roamed aimlessly about, near the building.
Father Claude came up the path, walking slowly and wearily, and
entered the hut. A moment later Menard appeared in the doorway and
called:--
"Mademoiselle." As she approached, he said gravely, "I should like it
if you will come in with us. It is right that you should have a voice
in our councils."
She followed him in, wondering.
"Father Claude has news," Menard said.
The priest told them all that he had been able to learn. Runners had
been coming in during the night at intervals of a few hours. They
brought word of the landing of the French column at La Famine. The
troops had started inland toward the Seneca villages. The Senecas were
planning an ambush, and meanwhile had sent frantic messages to the
other tribes for aid. The Cayuga chiefs were already on the way to
meet in council with the Onondagas. The chance that the attack might
be aimed only at the Senecas, to punish them for their depredations of
the year before, had given rise to a peace sentiment among the more
prudent Onondagas and Cayugas, who feared the destruction of their
fields and villages. Up to the present, none had known where the
French would strike. But, nevertheless, said the priest, the general
opinion was favourable to taking up the quarrel with the Senecas.
Further, the French were leaving a rearguard of four hundred men in a
hastily built stockade at La Famine, and the more loose-tongued
warriors were already talking of an attack on this force, cutting the
Governor's communications, and then turning on him from the rear,
leaving it to the Senecas to engage him in front.
CHAPTER IX.
THE WORD OF AN ONONDAGA.
For a long time after Father Claude had finished speaking, the three
sat talking over the situation. Even the maid had suggestions. But
when all had been said, when the chances of a rescue by the French, or
of getting a hearing before the council, even of a wild dash for
liberty, had been gone over and over, their voices died away, and the
silence was eloquent. D'Orvilliers would know that only capture could
have prevented them from reaching the fort; but even supposing him to
believe that they were held by the Onondagas, he had neither the men
nor the authority to fight through the Cayuga lakes and hills to reach
them. As for the Governor's column, it would have its hands full
before marching ten leagues from La Famine. Had Menard been alone, he
would have made the attempt to escape, knowing from the start that the
chance was near to nothing, but glad of the opportunity at least to
die fighting. But with Mademoiselle to delay their progress, and to
suffer his fate if captured, it was different. As matters stood, she
was likely to be released with Father Claude, as soon as he should be
disposed of. And so his mind had settled on staying, and dying, if he
must, alone.
"I have not known whether to tell all," said Father Claude, after the
silence. "And yet it would seem that Mademoiselle may as well know the
truth now as later."
"You have not told me?" she said, with reproach in her voice. "Must I
always be a child to you, Father? If God has seen it best to place me
here, am I not to help bear the burden?"
"Mademoiselle is right, Father. Hold nothing back. Three stout hearts
are better than two."
The priest looked gravely at the fire.
"The word has gone out," he said. "The Long Arrow, by his energy and
his eloquence, but most of all because he had the courage to capture
the Big Buffalo in the enemy's country with but a score of braves, now
controls the village. To-morrow night the great council will begin.
The war chiefs of all the Cayuga and Onondaga and Oneida and Mohawk
villages will meet here and decide whether to take up the hatchet
against the white men. The Long Arrow well knows that his power will
last only until the greater chiefs come, and he will have his revenge
before his day wanes."
"When?" asked the Captain.
"To-morrow morning, M'sieu. The feasting and dancing will begin
to-night."
The maid was looking at the priest. "I do not understand," she said.
"What will he do?"
"He means me, Mademoiselle," said the Captain, quietly.
"Not--" she said, "not--"
"Yes," he replied. "They will bring us no food to-night. In the
morning they will come for me."
"Oh, M'sieu, they cannot! They--" She gazed at him, not heeding the
tears that suddenly came to her eyes and fell down upon her cheeks;
and, as she looked, she understood what was in his mind. "Why do you
not escape, M'sieu? There is yet time,--to-night! You are thinking of
me, and I--I--Oh, I have been selfish--I did not know! We will stay
here, Father Claude and I. You need not think of us; they will not
harm us--you told me that yourself, M'sieu. I should be in your way,
but alone--it is so easy." She would have gone on, but Menard held up
his hand.
"No," he said, shaking his head, "no."
Her lips moved, but she saw the expression in his eyes, and the words
died. She turned to Father Claude, but he did not look up.
"I do not know," said Menard, slowly, "whether the heart of the Big
Throat is still warm toward me. He was once as my father."
"He will not be here in time," Father Claude said. "He does not start
from his village until the sun is dropping on the morrow."
The maid could not take her eyes from Menard's face. Now that the
final word had come, now that all the doubts of the unsettled day, now
only half gone, had settled into a fact to be faced, he was himself
again, the quiet, resolute soldier. Only the set, almost hard lines
about the mouth told of his suffering.
"If we had a friend here," he was saying, quietly enough, "it may be
that Tegakwita--But no, of course not. I had forgotten about
Danton--"
"Tegakwita has lost standing in the tribe for allowing Lieutenant
Danton to escape. He is very bitter, We can ask nothing from him."
"No, I suppose not."
The cool air of these two men, the manner in which they could face the
prospect, coupled with her own sense of weakness, weighed hard upon
the maid's heart. She felt that she must cry out, must in some manner
give way to her feelings. She rose and hurried into the open air. The
broad sunlight was still sifting down through the leaves and lying
upon the green earth in bright patches. The robins were singing, and
many strange birds, whose calls she did not know, but who piped
gently, musically, so in harmony with the soft landscape that their
notes seemed a part of it. It was all unreal, this quiet, sunlit
world, where the birds were free as the air which bore their songs,
while the brave Captain--she could not face the thought.
The birch cup was still on the stone by the door. She lifted out the
flowers with their dripping stems, and rearranged them carefully,
placing a large yellow daisy in the centre.
An Indian was approaching up the path. He had thrown aside his
blanket, and he strode rapidly, clad in close-fitting jacket and
leggings of deerskin, with knife and hatchet slung at his waist. He
came straight to the hut and entered, brushing by her without a
glance. Just as he passed she recognized him. He was Tegakwita. Her
fear of these stern warriors had suddenly gone, and she followed him
into the doorway to hear his errand. Menard greeted him with a nod;
Father Claude, too, was silent.
"The White Chief, the Big Buffalo, has a grateful heart," said the
Indian, in cutting tones. She was glad that she could understand him.
She took a flower from the bunch at her breast, and stood motionless
in the low doorway, pulling the petals apart, one by one and watching
the little group within. The priest and the Captain were sitting on
the ground, Menard with his hands clasped easily about his knees.
Tegakwita stood erect, with his back to the door. "He feels the love
of a brother for those who would make sacrifices for him," he went on.
"It was many years ago that he saved Tegakwita from the perils of the
hunt. Tegakwita has not forgotten. When the White Chief became a
captive, he had not forgotten. He has lost his brave name as a warrior
because he believed in the White Chief. He has lost--" his voice grew
tremulous with the emotion that lay underneath the words--"He has lost
his sister, whom he sent to be a sister to the white man and his
squaw."
"My brother speaks strangely," said Menard, looking up at him half
suspiciously.
"Yes, it is strange." His voice was louder, and in his excitement he
dropped the indirect form of speech that, in the case of an older
warrior, would have concealed his feelings. "It is strange that you
should send my sister, who came to you in trust, to release the white
brave. It is strange you should rob me of her whom my father placed by
my side."
Menard and Father Claude looked at each other. The Indian watched them
narrowly.
"My son is mistaken," said Father Claude, quietly. "His sister has
wandered away. It may be that she has even now returned."
"No, my Father. The white brave has stolen her."
Menard got up, and spoke with feeling.
"Tegakwita does not understand. The white brave was foolish. He is a
young warrior. He does not know the use of patience. He first escaped
against my orders. The word I sent by your sister was a command to be
patient. He went alone, my brother. He has gone forever from my camp.
It cannot be that she--"
"The Big Buffalo speaks lies. Who came to cut the white brave's bonds?
Who stole the hunting coat, the leggings of Tegakwita, that her lover
might go free? Who has dishonoured herself, her brother, the father
that--" Words failed him, and he stood facing them with blazing eyes.
Menard glanced at the maid, but she had passed the point where a shock
could sway her, and now stood quietly at the door, waiting to hear
what more the warrior would say. But he stood motionless. Father
Claude touched his arm.
"If this is true, Tegakwita, the Big Buffalo must not be held to
blame. He has spoken truly. To talk in these words to the man who has
been your brother, is the act of a dog. You have forgotten that the
Big Buffalo never speaks lies."
The Indian gave no heed to his words. He took a step forward, and
raised his hand to his knife. Menard smiled contemptuously, and spread
out his hands; he had no weapon. But Tegakwita had a second thought,
and dropped his hand.
"Tegakwita, too, never speaks lies," he said. "He will come back
before the sun has come again."
He walked rapidly out, crowding roughly past the maid.
Menajd leaned against the wall. "Poor boy!" he said, "poor boy!"
The maid came slowly in, and sat on the rude bench which leaned
against the logs near the door. The strain of the day was drawing out
all the strength, the womanhood, that lay behind her buoyant youth.
Already the tan was fading from her face, here in the hut and under
the protecting elms; and the whiteness of her skin gave her, instead
of a worn appearance, the look of an older woman,--firmer, with
greater dignity. Her eyes had a deeper, fuller understanding.
"I suppose that there is nothing, M'sieu--nothing that we can do?"
Menard shook his head. "No; nothing."
"And the Indian,--he says that he will come back?"
"Yes. I don't know what he means. It doesn't matter."
"No, I suppose it doesn't."
They were silent for a moment. The maid leaned forward. "What was
that, M'sieu?"
"Loungers, on the path."
"No, they are coming here."
Menard rose, but she stepped to the door. "Let me go, M'sieu. Ah, I
see them. It is my little friends." She went out, and they could hear
her laughing with the two children, and trying to coax them toward the
door.
"Danton will never get away," said the Captain, in a low tone to the
priest.
"I fear not, M'sieu."
"He has lost his head, poor boy. I thought him of better stuff. And
the girl--Ah, if he had only gone alone! I could forgive his rashness,
Father, his disobedience, if only he could go down with a clear
name."
"There is still doubt," said the priest, cautiously. "We know only
what Tegakwita said."
"I'm afraid," Menard replied, shaking his head, "I'm afraid it's true.
You said he wore the hunting clothes. Some one freed him. And the girl
is gone. I wish--Well, there is no use. I hoped for something better,
that is all."
Just outside the door the maid was talking gaily with the two
children, who now and then raised their piping voices. Then it was
evident that they were going away, for she was calling after them. She
came into the hut, smiling, and carrying a small willow basket full of
corn.
"See," she said, "even now it is something to have made a friend. We
shall not go hungry to-day, after all. Will you partake, Father? And
M'sieu?"
She paused before the Captain. He had stepped forward, and was staring
at her.
"Where are they?" he asked.
"The children? They are wandering along the path."
"Quick, Mademoiselle! Call them back."
She hesitated, in surprise; then set the basket on the ground and
obeyed. Menard paced the floor until she returned.
"They are outside, M'sieu, too frightened to come near."
"Give me that birch cup, outside the door." He was speaking in quick,
low tones. "They must not see me. It would frighten them."
She brought him the cup, and he emptied the flowers on the floor,
tearing open the seams, and drying the wet white bark on his sleeve.
He snatched a charred coal from the heap of ashes in the centre of the
floor, and wrote rapidly in a strange mixture of words and signs, "A
piece of thread, Mademoiselle. And look again--see that they have not
gone."
"They are waiting, M'sieu."
He rolled the bark tightly, and tied it with the thread which she
brought from her bundle.
"We must have a present. Father Claude, you have your bale.
Find something quickly,--something that will please them. No,
wait--Mademoiselle, have you a mirror? They would run fifty
leagues for a mirror."
She nodded, rummaged through her bundle, and brought out a small
glass.
"Take this, Mademoiselle. Tell them to give this letter to the Big
Throat, at the next village. They will know the way. He must have it
before the day is over. No harm can come to them. If anyone would
punish them, the Big Throat will protect them. You must make them do
it. They cannot fail."
Her face flushed, and her eyes snapped as she caught his nervous
eagerness. Even Father Claude had risen, and was watching him with
kindling eyes. She took the roll and the mirror, and ran out the door.
In a moment, Menard, pacing the floor, could hear her merry laugh, and
the shrill-voiced delight of the children over their new toy. He
caught the priest's hand.
"Father, we shall yet be free. Who could fail with such a lieutenant
as that maid. How she laughs. One would think she had never a care."
At last she came back, and sank, with a nervous, irresponsible little
laugh, on the bench. And then, for the moment, they all three laughed
together.
In the silence that followed, Father Claude moved toward the door.
"I must go out again, M'sieu. It may be that there is further word."
"Very well, Father. And open your ears for news of the poor boy."
The priest bowed, and went out. Menard stood in the door watching him,
as he walked boldly along the path. After a little he turned. The maid
was looking at him, still flushed and smiling.
"Well, Mademoiselle, we can take hope again."
"You are so brave, M'sieu."
He smiled at her impulsiveness, and looked at her, hardly conscious
that he was causing her to blush and lower her eyes.
"And so I am brave, Mademoiselle? It may be that Major Provost and
Major d'Orvilliers will not feel so."
"But they must, M'sieu."
"Do you know what they will say? They will speak with sorrow of
Captain Menard, the trusted, in whose hands Governor Denonville placed
the most important commission ever given to a captain in New France.
They will regret that their old friend was not equal to the test; that
he--ah, do not interrupt, Mademoiselle; it is true--that his failure
lost a campaign for New France. You heard Father Claude; you know what
these Indians plan to do."
"You must not speak so, M'sieu. It is wicked. He would be a coward who
could blame you. It was not your fault that you were captured. When I
return I shall go to them and tell them how you fought, and how you
faced them like--like a hero. When I return--" She stopped, as if the
word were strange.
"Aye, Mademoiselle, and God grant that you may return soon. But your
good heart leads you wrong. It was my fault that I did not bring a
force strong enough to protect myself,--and you. To fight is not a
soldier's first duty. It is to be discreet; he must know when not to
fight as well as when to draw his sword; he must know how many men are
needed to defend his cause. No; I was overconfident, and I lost. And
there we must leave it. Nothing more can be said."
He stood moodily over the heap of ashes. When he looked at her again,
she had risen.
"The flowers, M'sieu," she said, "you--you threw them away."
He glanced down. They lay at his feet. Silently he knelt and gathered
them.
"Will you help me, Mademoiselle? We will make another cup. And these
two large daisies,--did you see how they rested side by side on the
ground when I would have trampled on them? You will take one and I the
other; and when this day shall be far in the past, it may be that you
will remember it, and how we two were here together, waiting for the
stroke that should change life for us."
He held it out, and she, with lowered eyes, reached to take it from
his hand, but suddenly checked the motion and turned to the door.
"Will you take it, Mademoiselle?"
She did not move; and he stood, the soldier, helpless, waiting for a
word. He had forgotten everything,--the low, smoke-blackened hut, the
responsibility that lay on his shoulders, the danger of the
moment,--everything but the slender maid who stood before him, who
would not take the flower from his hand. Then he stepped to her side,
and, taking away the other flowers from the lace beneath her throat,
he placed the single daisy in their stead. Her eyes were nearly
closed, and she seemed hardly to know that he was there.
"And it may be," he whispered softly, "that we, like the flowers,
shall be spared."
She turned slowly away, and sank upon the bench. Menard, with a
strange, new lightness in his heart, went out into the sunlight.
The day wore on. The warm sunbeams, that slipped down through the
foliage, lengthened and reached farther and farther to the east. The
bright spots of light crept across the grass, climbed the side of the
hut and the tree-trunks, lingered on the upreaching twigs, and died
away in the blue sky. The evening star shot out its white spears,
glowing and radiant, long before the light had gone, or the purple and
golden afterglow had faded into twilight. Menard's mind went back to
another day, just such a glorious, shining June day as this had been,
when he had sat not a hundred yards from this spot, waiting, as now,
for the end. He looked at his fingers. They were scarred and knotted;
one drunken, frenzied squaw had mangled them with her teeth. He had
wondered then how a man could endure such torture as had come to him,
and still could live and think, could even struggle back to health.
The depression had gone from him now; his mind was more alert than
since the night of the capture. Whether it was the bare chance of help
from the Big Throat, or the gentle sadness in the face of the maid as
she bowed her head to the single daisy on her breast,--something had
entered into his nerves and heart, something hopeful and strong, He
wondered, as Father Claude came up the path, slowly, laboriously, why
the priest should be so saddened. After all, the world was green and
bright, and life, even a few hours of it, was sweet.
"What news, Father?"
The priest shook his head. "Little, M'sieu."
"Has the feast begun?"
"Not yet. They are assembling before the Long House."
"Are they drinking?"
"Yes."
There was no need for talk, and so the two men sat before the hut,
with only an idle word now and then, until the dark came down. The
quiet of the village was broken now by the shouts of drinking
warriors, with a chanting undertone that rose and swelled slowly into
the song that would continue, both men knew, until the break of day,
or until none was left with sober tongue to carry the wavering air. A
great fire had been lighted, and they could see the glare and the
sparks beyond a cluster of trees and huts. Later, straggling braves
appeared, wandering about, bottle or flask in hand, crazed by the raw
brandy with which the English and Dutch of New York and Orange and the
French of the province alike saw fit to keep the Indians supplied.
A group of the warriors came from the dance, and staggered toward the
hut of the captives. They were armed with knives and hatchets. One had
an arquebuse, which he fired at the trees as often as the uncertain
hands of all of them could load it. He caught sight of the white men
sitting in the shadow, and came toward them, his fellows at his
heels.
"Move nearer the door," whispered Menard. "They must not get in."
The two edged along the ground without rising, until they sat with
their backs in the open doorway. The Indians hung about, a few yards
away, jeering and shouting. The one with the arquebuse evidently
wished to shoot, but the others were holding his arms, and reasoning
in thick voices. No construction of the Iroquois traditions could make
it right to kill a prisoner who was held for the torture.
The white men watched them quietly. Menard heard a rustle, and the
sound of a quick breath behind him, and he said, without taking his
eyes from the Indians:--
"Step back, Mademoiselle, behind the wall. You must not stand here."
The warrior broke away from the hands that held him, staggering a rod
across the grass before he could recover his balance. The others went
after him, but he quickly rested the piece and fired. The ball went
over their heads through the doorway, striking with a low noise
against the rear wall. Menard rose, jerking away from the priest's
restraining hand.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "you are not hurt?"
"No, M'sieu."
"Thank God!" He stood glaring at the huddled band of warriors, who
were trying to reload the arquebuse; then he bounded forward, broke
into the group with a force that sent two to the ground, snatched the
weapon, and, with a quick motion, drew out the flint. He threw the gun
on the ground, and walked back to his seat.
Two of the guards came running forward. They had not been drinking,
and one of them ordered the loafers away. This did not strike them
amiss. They started off, trying to reload as they walked, evidently
not missing the flint.
The maid came again to the doorway, and asked timidly:--
"Is there danger for you, M'sieu? Will they come back?"
"No. It is merely a lot of drunken youths. They have probably
forgotten by now. Can you sleep, Mademoiselle?--have you tried?"
"No, I--I fear that I could not."
"It would be well to make the effort," he said gently, looking over
his shoulder at her as she leaned against the doorpost. "We do not
know what may happen. At any rate, even if you escape, you will need
all your strength on the morrow. A fallen captain may not command,
Mademoiselle, but--"
"If it is your command, M'sieu, I will try. Good night."
There was a long stillness, broken only by the distant noises of the
dance.
"You, too, will sleep, M'sieu?" said Father Claude. "I will watch."
"No, no, Father."
"I beg it of you. At the least you will let me divide the night with
you?"
"We shall see, we shall see. There is much to be said before either of
us closes his eyes. Hello, here is a runner."
An Indian was loping up the path. He turned in toward the hut.
"Quiet," said the priest. "It is Tegakwita."
The warrior had run a long way. He was breathing deeply, and the sweat
stood out on his face and caught the shine of the firelight.
"My brother has been far," said Menard, rising.
"The White Chief is not surprised? He heard the word of Tegakwita,
that he would return before another sun. He has indeed been far. He
has followed the track of the forest wolf that stole the child of the
Onondagas. He has found the bold, the brave white warrior, who stole
away in the night, robbing Tegakwita of what is dearer to him than the
beating of his heart."
The maid stood again in the doorway, resting a hand on the post, and
leaning forward with startled eyes.
"He has found--he has found him--" she faltered.
The Indian did not look at her. He drew something from the breast of
his shirt, and threw it on the ground at Menard's feet. Then, with
broken-hearted dignity, he strode away and disappeared in the night.
Father Claude stooped, and picked up the object. Dimly in the
firelight they could see it,--two warm human scalps, the one of brown
hair knotted to the other of black. Menard took them in his hand.
"Poor boy!" he said, over and over. "Poor boy!"
He looked toward the door, but the maid had gone inside.
CHAPTER X.
A NIGHT COUNCIL.
The night crept by, as had the day, wearily.
The two men sat in the doorway or walked slowly back and forth across
the front of the hut, saying little. The Captain was calling to mind
every incident of their capture, and of the original trouble between
La Grange and the hunting party. He went over the conversation with
Major Provost at Quebec word by word, until he felt sure in his
authority as the Governor's representative; although the written
orders in the leather bag that hung from his neck were concerned only
with his duties in preparing Fort Frontenac for the advancing
column,--duties that he had not fulfilled.
A plan was forming in his mind which would make strong demands on the
good faith of Major Provost and the Governor. He knew, as every old
soldier knows, that governments and rulers are thankless, that even
written authority is none too binding, if to make it good should
inconvenience those who so easily give it. He knew further that if he
should succeed now in staying the Onondagas and Cayugas by pledges
which, perchance, it might not please Governor Denonville to observe,
the last frail ties that held the Iroquois to the French would be
broken, and England would reign from the Hudson to the river of the
Illinois. And he sighed, as he had sighed many times before, for the
old days under Frontenac, under the only Governor of New France who
could hold these slippery redskins to their obligations.
"Father," he said finally, "I begin to see a way."
"The Big Throat?"
"He must help, though to tell the truth I fear that he will be of
little service. He may come in time to give us a stay; but, chief
though he is, he will hardly dare overrule the Long Arrow on a matter
so personal as this."
"What is the Long Arrow's family--the Beaver?"
"Yes."
"But, M'sieu, that is the least of the eight families. If it were the
Tortoise or the Bear against us, we should have greater cause for
fear."
"True, Father, but to each family belongs its own quarrels, its own
revenge. If the Big Throat should interfere too deeply, it would anger
the other small families, who might fear the same treatment at some
other time. And with Beaver, Snipe, Deer, and Potato united against
us,--well, it is a simple enough problem."
They were walking by the door, and Menard, as he spoke, sat on the
stone which he had rolled there in the afternoon. The priest stood
before him.
"I hope we may succeed, my son. I have seen this anger before, and it
has always ended in the one way."
"Of course," the Captain replied, "it does depend on the Big Throat.
He must reach here in time."
"God grant that he may!"
"In that case, Father, I look for a delay. Unless his heart has
hardened rapidly, he still thinks of me. Together we will go to him,
and ask a hearing in the war council."
"Oratory will not release us, I fear, M'sieu."
"We shall not ask to be released, Father. Don't you understand? It is
more than that we shall demand,--it is peace with New France, the
safety of the column--"
The priest's eyes lighted. "Do you think, M'sieu--"
"We can do it. They have not heard all the truth. They do not want a
long war which will kill their braves and destroy their homes and
their corn. It is this attack on the Senecas that has drawn them
out."
"You will tell them that the Governor fights only the Senecas?"
"More than that. The La Grange affair has stirred them up. It has
weakened their faith in the Governor,--it has as good as undone all
the work of twenty years past. Our only hope is to reestablish that
faith."
"I hope that we may," said the priest, slowly. "But they have reached
a state now where words alone will hardly suffice. I have tried it,
M'sieu. Since we came, I have talked and reasoned with them."
"Well, Father, I am going to try it. The question is, will the
Governor make good what I shall have to promise? It may be that he
will. If not,--then my life will not be worth a box of tinder if I
stray a league from Quebec without a guard." He looked down at the
daisy on his coat. "But the maid will be safe, Father. She will be
safe."
"I do not believe that they would harm her, even as it is."
"No, I trust not--I trust not. But we are here, and she is here; and
not until I know that her journey is over will my eyes close easily at
night."
"But your plan, M'sieu,--you have not told me."
"Ah, I thought you understood. Did you know about the capture at
Frontenac when it happened? No? It was like this. The Governor sent
word, with the orders that came up to the fort in May, that at the
first sign of trouble or disturbance with the Indians there,
d'Orvilliers should seize a few score of them and send them down
the river in chains. It would be an example, he said. I was
awaiting orders,--I had just returned from the Huron Country and
Michillimackinac,--and d'Orvilliers called me to his rooms and
showed me the order. 'Now,' he said, 'who in the devil is meddling
at Quebec?' I did not know; I do not know yet. But there was the
order. He turned it over to La Grange, with instructions to wait until
some offence should give him an excuse."
"I know the rest, M'sieu."
"Yes, yes. You have heard a dozen times,--how La Grange was drinking,
and how he lied to a peaceful hunting party, and drugged them, and
brained one poor devil with his own sword. And what could we do,
Father? Right or wrong, the capture was made. It was too late to
release them, for the harm was done. If d'Orvilliers had refused to
carry out his orders and send them to Quebec, it would have cost him
his commission."
"And you, M'sieu?"
"I was the only officer on detached service at the Fort. D'Orvilliers
could not look me in the face when he ordered me to take them."
"You will tell them this?"
"This? Yes, and more. I will pledge the honour of New France that La
Grange shall suffer. The man who has betrayed the Onondagas must be
punished before we can have their good faith. Don't you understand?"
Father Claude walked away a few steps, and then back, his hands
clasped before him.
"Don't you understand, Father? If a wrong has been done an Iroquois,
it is revenge that will appease him. Very well. Captain la Grange has
wronged them; let them have their revenge."
"Is that the right view, M'sieu?"
"Not for us, Father,--for you and me. To us it is simple justice. But
justice,--that is not the word with which to reach an Indian."
"But it may be that Captain la Grange is in favour at Quebec. What
then?"
"You do not seem to understand me yet, Father." Menard spoke slowly
and calmly. "This is not my quarrel. I can take what my life brings,
and thank your God, the while, that I have life at all. But if by one
foolish act the Iroquois are to be lost to France, while I have the
word on my tongue that will set all right, am I,--well, would you have
me such a soldier?"
The priest was looking through the leaves at the firelight. For once
he seemed to have nothing to offer.
"It will not be easy, Father; but when was a soldier's work easy?
First I must make these Indians believe me,--and you know how hard
that will be. Then I must convince Governor Denonville that this is
his only course; and that will be still harder. Or, if they will not
release me, you will be my messenger, Father, and take the word. I
will stay here until La Grange has got his dues."
"Let us suppose," said the priest,--"let us suppose that you did not
do this, that you did not take this course against Captain la Grange
which will leave him a marked man to the Iroquois, even if the
Governor should do nothing."
"Then," said Menard, "the rear-guard at La Famine will be butchered,
and the army of New France will be cut to pieces. That is all."
"You are sure of this?"
"It points that way, Father."
"Then let us take another case. Suppose that you succeed at the
council, that you are released. Then if the Governor should disclaim
responsibility, should--"
"Then, Father, I will go to La Grange and make him fight me. I mean to
pledge my word to these chiefs. You know what that means."
"Yes," replied the priest, "yes." He seemed puzzled and unsettled by
some thought that held his mind. He walked slowly about, looking at
the ground. Menard, too, was restless. He rose from the stone and
tossed away the pebbles that had supported the cup, one at a time.
"They are singing again," he said, listening to the droning chant that
came indistinctly through the dark. "One would think they would long
ago have been too drunk to stand. How some of these recruits the King
sends over to us would envy them their stomachs."
The priest made no reply. He did not understand the impulse that led
the Captain to speak irrelevantly at such a moment.
"I suppose the doctors are dancing now," Menard continued. "It may be
that they will come here. If they do, we shall have a night of it."
"We will hope not, M'sieu."
"If they should, Father,--well, it is hard to know just what to do."
"You were thinking--?"
"Oh, I was wondering. If they come here, and let their wild talk run
away with them, it might be well to fight them off until morning.
Maybe we could do it."
"Yes, it might seem best."
"But if--if the Big Throat should not come, or should have changed,
then it would have been better that I had submitted."
"You are thinking of me, my son. You must not. I will not leave you to
go without a struggle. I can fight, if needs be, as well as you. I
will do my part."
"It is not that, Father. But if we fight, and the Big Throat does not
come,--there is the maid. They would not spare her then."
The priest looked at the Captain, and in the dim, uncertain light he
saw something of the thought that lay behind those wearied eyes.
"True," he said; "true."
Menard walked up and down, a half-dozen steps forward, a half-dozen
back, without a glance at the priest, who watched him closely.
Suddenly he turned, and the words that were in his mind slipped
unguarded from his tongue, low and stern:--
"If they come, Father,--if they harm her,--God! if they even wake her,
I will kill them."
Father Claude looked at him, but said nothing. They walked together up
and down; then, as if weary, they sat again by the door.
"There are some things which I could not talk over with you," said the
priest, finally. "It was best that I should not. And now I hardly know
what is the right thing for me to do, or to say."
"What troubles you?"
"When you are cooler, it will come to you. For to-night,--until our
last moment of choice,--I must ask one favour, M'sieu. You will not
decide on this course until it comes to the end. You will think of
other ways; you will--"
"What else have I been doing, Father? There is no other way."
"But you will not decide yet?"
"No. We need not, to-night."
The priest seemed relieved.
"M'sieu," came in a low voice from the darkness within the hut, "may I
not sit with you?"
"You are awake, Mademoiselle? You have not been sleeping?"
"No, I could not. I--I have not heard you, M'sieu,--I have not
listened. But I wanted to very much. I have only my thoughts, and they
are not the best of company to-night."
"Come." Menard rose and got one of the priest's blankets, folding it
and laying it on the ground against the wall. "I fear that we may be
no better than the thoughts; but such as we are, we are at the service
of Mademoiselle."
She sat by them, and leaned back, letting her hands fall into her lap.
Menard was half in the shadow, and he could let his eyes linger on her
face. It was a sad face now, worn by the haunting fears that the night
had brought,--fears that had not held their substance in the sunlight;
but the eyes were still bright. Even at this moment she had not
forgotten to catch up the masses of hair that were struggling to be
free; and there was a touch of neatness about her torn dress that the
hardships of the journey and the dirt and discomforts of an Indian
shelter had not been able to take away. They all three sat without
talking, watching the sparks from the fire and the tips of flame that
now and then reached above the huts.
"How strange their song is, M'sieu."
"Yes. They will keep it up all night. If we were nearer, you would see
that as soon as a brave is exhausted with the dancing and singing,
another will rush in to take his place. Sometimes they fall fainting,
and do not recover for hours."
"I saw a dance once, at home. The Ottawas--there were but a few of
them--had a war-dance. It seemed to be just for amusement."
"They enjoy it. It is not uncommon for them to dance for a day when
there is no hunt to occupy them."
Father Claude had been silent. Now he rose and walked slowly away,
leaving them to talk together. They could see him moving about with
bowed head.
"The Father is sad, M'sieu."
"Yes. But it is not for himself."
"Does he fear now? Does he not think that the Big Throat will come?"
"I think he will come."
The maid looked down at her clasped hands. Menard watched her,--the
firelight was dancing on her face and hair,--and again the danger
seemed to slip away, the chant and the fire to be a part of some
mad dream that had carried him in a second from Quebec to this
deep-shadowed spot, and had set this maid before him.
"You are wearing the daisy, Mademoiselle."
She looked up, half-startled at the change in his voice. Then her eyes
dropped again.
"See," he continued, "so am I. Is it not strange that we should be
here, you and I. And yet, when I first saw you, I thought--"
"You thought, M'sieu?"
Menard laughed gently. "I could not tell you, without telling you what
I think now, and that would--be--"
He spoke half playfully, and waited; but she did not reply.
"I do not know what it is that has come to me. It is not like me. Or
it may be that the soldier, all these years, has not been me. Would it
not be strange if I were but now to find myself,--or if you were to
find me, Mademoiselle? If it is true, if this is what I have waited so
long to find, it would be many years before I could repay you for
bringing it to me,--it would be a long lifetime."
Again he waited, and still she was silent. Then he talked on, as madly
now as on the night of their capture, when he had fought, shouting,
musket and knife in hand, at the water's edge. But this was another
madness.
"It is such a simple thing. Until you came out here under the trees my
mind was racked with the troubles about us. But now you are here, and
I do not care,--no, not if this were to be my last night, if to-morrow
they should--" She made a nervous gesture, but he went on.
"You see it is you, Mademoiselle, who come into my life, and then all
the rest goes out."
"Don't," she said brokenly. "Don't."
Father Claude came slowly toward them.
"My child," he said, "if you are not too wearied, I wish to talk with
you."
She rose with an air of relief and joined him. Menard watched them,
puzzled. He could hear the priest speaking in low, even tones; and
then the maid's voice, deep with emotion. Finally they came back, and
she went hurriedly into the hut without a glance at the soldier, who
had risen and stood by the door.
"Come, M'sieu, let us walk."
Menard looked at him in surprise, but walked with him.
"It is about the speech to the council--and Captain la Grange. It may
be that you are right, M'sieu."
"Right? I do not understand."
"It was but a moment ago that we talked of it."
"Yes, I have not forgotten. But what do you mean now?"
"You promised me to wait before deciding. It may be that I was wrong.
If you are to make the speech, you will need to prepare it carefully.
There is none too much time."
"Yes," said Menard. Then suddenly he stopped and took the priest's
arm. "I did not think, Father; I did not understand. What a fool I
am!"
"No, no, M'sieu."
"You have talked with her. He is her cousin, and yet it did not come
to me. It will pain her."
"Yes," said Father Claude, slowly, "it will pain her. But I have been
thinking. I fear that you are right. It has passed beyond the simple
matter of our own lives; now it is New France that must be thought of.
You have said that it was Captain la Grange's treachery that first
angered the Onondagas. We must lay this before them. If his punishment
will satisfy them, will save the rear-guard, why then, my son, it is
our duty."
They paced back and forth in silence. Menard's heavy breathing and his
quick glances toward the hut told the priest something of the struggle
that was going on in his mind. Suddenly he said:--
"I will go to her, Father. I will tell her. I cannot pledge myself to
this act if--if she--"
"No, M'sieu, you must not; I have told her. She understands. And she
has begged me to ask you not to speak with her. She has a brave heart,
but she cannot see you now."
"She asked you,--" said the Captain, slowly. "She asked you--I cannot
think. I do not know what to say."
The priest quietly walked back to the stone by the door, and left the
soldier to fight out the battle alone. It was half an hour before he
came back and stood before Father Claude.
"Well, M'sieu?"
Menard spoke shortly, "Yes, Father, you are right."
That was all, but it told the priest that the matter had been finally
settled. He had seen the look in the Captain's eyes when the truth had
come to him; and he knew now what he had not dreamed before, that the
soldier's heart had gone out to this maid, and now he must set his
hand against one of her own blood. The Father knew that he would do
it, would fight La Grange to the end. A word was trembling on his
tongue, but as he looked at the seamed face before him, he could not
bring himself to add a deeper sorrow to that already stamped there.
"You must help me with the speech, Father. My wits are not at their
best, I fear."
"Willingly, M'sieu. And the presents,--we must think of that."
"True. We have not the wampum collars. It must be something of great
value that will take their place. You know how much tradition means to
these people. Of course I have nothing. But you--you have your bale.
And Mademoiselle--together you should find something."
"I fear that I have little. My blankets and my altar they would not
value. One moment--" He stepped to the door, and spoke softly,
"Mademoiselle."
"Yes, Father." She stood in the doorway, wearily. It was plain that
she had been weeping, but she was not ashamed.
"We shall need your help, Mademoiselle. Anything in your bale that
would please the chiefs must be used."
She was puzzled.
"It is the custom," continued the priest, "at every council. To the
Indians a promise is not given, a statement is not true, a treaty is
not binding, unless there is a present for each clause. We have much
at stake, and we must give what we have."
"Certainly, Father."
She stepped back into the darkness, and they could hear her dragging
the bundle. Menard sprang to help.
"Mademoiselle, where are you?"
"Here, M'sieu."
He walked toward the sound with his hands spread before him. One hand
rested on her shoulder, where she stooped over the bale. She did not
shrink from his touch. For a moment he stood, struggling with a mad
impulse to take her slender figure in his arms, to hold her where a
thousand Indians could not harm her save by taking his own strong
life; to tell her what made this moment more to him than all the stern
years of the past. It may be that she understood, for she was
motionless, almost breathless. But in a moment he was himself.
"I will take it," he said.
He stooped, took up the bundle, and carried it outside. She followed
to the doorway.
"You will look, Mademoiselle."
She nodded, and knelt by the bundle, while the two men waited.
"There is little here, M'sieu. I brought only what was necessary. Here
is a comb. Would that please them?"
She reached back to them, holding out a high tortoise-shell comb. They
took it and examined it.
"It is beautiful," said Menard.
"Yes; my mother gave it to me."
"Perhaps, Mademoiselle,--perhaps there is something else, something
that would do as well."
"How many should you have, M'sieu?"
"Five, I had planned. There will be five words in the speech."
"Words?" she repeated.
"To the Iroquois each argument is a 'word.'"
"I have almost nothing else, not even clothing of value. Wait--here is
a small coat of seal."
"And you, Father?" asked Menard.
"I have a book with highly coloured pictures, M'sieu,--'The Ceremonies
of the Mass applied to the Passion of Our Lord.'"
"Splendid! Have you nothing else?"
"I fear not."
Menard turned to the maid, who was still on her knees by the open
bundle, looking up at them.
"I am afraid that we must take your coat and the comb," he said. "I am
sorry."
She answered in a low tone, but firmly: "You know, M'sieu, that it
would hurt me to do nothing. It hurts me to do so little."
"Thank you, Mademoiselle. Well, Father, we must use our wits. It may
be that four words will be enough, but I cannot use fewer. We have but
three presents."
"Yes," replied the priest, "yes." He walked slowly by them, and about
in a circle, repeating the word. The maid leaned back and watched him,
wondering. He paused before the Captain and seemed about to speak.
Then abruptly he went into the hut, and they could hear him moving
within. Menard and the maid looked at each other, the soldier smiling
quietly. He understood.
Father Claude came out holding the portrait of Catharine, the Lily of
the Onondagas, in his hands.
"It may be that this could be used for the fourth present," he said.
Menard took it without a word, and laid it on the ground by the fur
coat. The maid looked at it curiously.
"Oh, it is a picture," she said.
"Yes, Mademoiselle," the Captain replied. "It is the portrait of an
Onondaga maiden who is to them, and to the French, almost a saint.
They will prize this above all else."
The maid raised it, and looked at the strangely clad figure. Father
Claude quietly walked away, but Menard went after and gripped his
hand.
CHAPTER XI.
THE BIG THROAT SPEAKS.
The light of the rising sun struggled through the mist that lay on the
Onondaga Valley. The trees came slowly out of the gray air, like ships
approaching through a fog. As the sun rose higher, each leaf glistened
with dew. The grass was wet and shining.
Menard had seized a few hours of sleep. He awoke with the first beam
of yellow light, and rose from his bed on the packed, beaten ground
before the door. Father Claude was sitting on a log, at a short
distance, with bowed head. The Captain stretched his stiff limbs, and
walked slowly about until the priest looked up.
"Good morning, Father."
"Good morning, M'sieu."
"It was a selfish thought that led me to choose the earlier watch.
These last hours are the best for sleeping."
"No, I have rested well."
"And Mademoiselle?"
"I have heard no sound. I think that she still sleeps."
"Softly, then. There has been no disturbance?"
"None. The singing has died down during the last hour. There, you can
hear it, M'sieu."
"Yes. But it is only a few voices. It must be that the others are
sleeping off the liquor. They will soon awaken."
"Listen."
A musket was fired, and another.
"That is the signal."
The song, which one group after another had taken up all through the
night, rose again and grew in volume as one at a time the sleepers
aroused and joined the dance. The only sign of the fire was a pillar
of thin smoke that rolled straight upward in the still air.
"Father," said Menard, "are the guards about?"
"I have not seen them. I suppose they are wandering within call."
"Then, quickly, before we are seen, help me with this log."
"I do not understand, M'sieu."
"Into the hut with it, and the others, there. If a chance does
come,--well, it may be that we shall yet be reduced to holding the
hut. These will serve to barricade the door."
They were not disturbed while they rolled the short logs within and
piled them at one side of the door, where they could not be seen from
the path.
"Quietly, Father," whispered the Captain. He knew that the maid lay
sleeping, back among the shadows. "And the presents,--you have packed
them away?"
"In my bundle, M'sieu. They will not be harmed."
They returned to the open air, and looked about anxiously for signs of
a movement toward the hut; but the irregular street was silent. Here
and there, from the opening in the roof of some low building of bark
and logs, rose a light smoke.
"They are all at the dance," said Menard. His memory supplied the
picture: the great fire, now sunk to heaps of gray ashes, spread over
the ground by the feet of those younger braves who had wished to show
their hardihood by treading barefoot on the embers; the circle of
grunting figures, leaning forward, hatchet and musket in hand, moving
slowly around the fire with a shuffling, hopping step; the outer
circle of sitting or lying figures, men, women, and children, drunken,
wanton, quarrelsome, dreaming of the blood that should be let before
the sun had gone; and at one side the little group of old men, beating
their drums of wood and skin with a rhythm that never slackened.
The song grew louder, and broke at short intervals into shouts and
cries, punctuated with musket-shots.
"They are coming, M'sieu."
The head of the line, still stepping in the slow movement of the
dance, appeared at some distance up the path. The Long Arrow was in
front, in full war-paint, and wearing the collar of wampum beads.
Beside him was the Beaver. The line advanced, two and two, steadily
toward the lodge of the white men.
Menard leaned against the door-post and watched them. His figure was
relaxed, his face composed.
"Here are the doctors, Father."
A group of medicine men, wildly clad in skins of beasts and reptiles,
with the heads of animals on their shoulders, came running along
beside the line, leaping high in the air, and howling.
Menard turned to the priest. "Father, which shall it be,--shall we
fight?"
"I do not know, M'sieu. We have no weapons, and it may be, yet, that
the Big Throat--"
"Yes, I know."
"And there is the maid, M'sieu."
For the first time since the sunrise the quiet expression left the
Captain's face. He was silent for a moment. Then he said:--
"I will go, Father. You must protect her. If anything--if they should
dare to touch her, you will--?"
"I will fight them, M'sieu."
"Thank you." Menard held out his hand. They gripped in silence, and
turned again toward the Indians, who were now but a hundred yards
away.
"They will stop in a moment," said Menard, "and form for the gantlet.
Yes,--see, the Long Arrow holds up his hands." He stood irresolute,
looking at the fantastic picture; then he stepped back into the hut.
The maid lay in her blanket on the bench. He stood over her, looking
at the peaceful face that rested on her outstretched arm. He took her
hand, and said gently:--
"Mademoiselle."
She stirred, and slowly opened her eyes; she did not seem surprised
that he should be there clasping tightly her slender hand. He wondered
if he had been in her dreams.
"Good-bye, Mademoiselle."
"You--you are going, M'sieu?"
"Yes."
She looked up at him with half-dazed eyes. She was not yet fully
awake.
"You must not fear," he said. "They cannot hurt you. You will soon be
safe at--at Frontenac."
She was beginning to understand. Then all at once the light came into
her eyes, and she clung to his arm, which was still wet with the dew.
"You are not going? They will not take you? Oh, M'sieu, I cannot--you
must not!"
She would have said more, but he bent down and kissed her forehead.
Then, with his free hand he unclasped her fingers and went away. At
the door he turned. She was sitting on the bench, gazing after him
with a look that he never forgot. For all of the unhappiness, the
agony, that came to him from those eyes, it was with a lighter heart
that he faced the warriors who rushed to seize him.
Every brave, woman, and child that the village could supply was in the
double line that stretched away from a point on the path not a hundred
yards distant to the long council house, which stood on a slight rise
of ground. They were armed with muskets, clubs, knives,--with any
instrument which could bruise or, mutilate the soldier as he passed,
and yet leave life in him for the harder trials to follow. Five
warriors, muskets in hand, had come to the hut. They sprang at Menard
as he stepped out through the doorway, striking him roughly and
holding his elbows behind his back.
A shout went up from the waiting lines, and muskets and clubs were
waved in the air. The Captain stepped forward briskly with head erect,
scorning to glance at the braves who walked on either side. He knew
that they would not kill him in the gantlet; they would save him for
the fire. He had passed through this once, he could do it again,
conscious that every moment brought nearer the chance of a rescue by
the Big Throat. Perhaps twenty paces had been covered, and his
guardians were prodding him and trying to force him into a run, when
he heard a shout from the priest, and then the sounds of a struggle at
the hut. He turned his head, but a rude hand knocked it back. Again he
heard the priest's voice, and this time, with it, a woman's scream.
The Captain hesitated for a second. The warriors prodded him again,
and before they could raise their arms he had jerked loose, snatched a
musket from one, and swinging it around his head, sent the two to the
ground, one with a cracked skull. Before those in the lines could
fairly see what had happened, he was running toward the hut with two
captured muskets and a knife. In front of the hut the three other
Indians were struggling with Father Claude, who was fighting in a
frenzy, and the maid. She was hanging back, and one redskin had
crushed her two wrists together in his hand and was dragging her.
Menard was on them with a leap. They did not see him until a musket
whirled about their ears, and one man fell, rolling, at the maid's
feet.
"Back into the hut!" he said roughly, and she obeyed. As he turned to
aid the priest he called after her, "Pile up the logs, quick!"
She understood, and with the strength that came with the moment, she
dragged the logs to the door.
Menard crushed down the two remaining Indians as he would have crushed
wild beasts, without a glance toward the mob that was running at him,
without a thought for the gash in his arm, made first by an arrow at
La Gallette and now reopened by a knife thrust. The Father, too, was
wounded, but still he could fight. There was but a second more. The
Captain threw the four muskets into the hut, and after them the
powder-horns and bullet-pouches which he had barely time to strip from
the dead men. Then he crowded the priest through the opening above the
logs, and came tumbling after. Another second saw the logs piled close
against the door, while a shower of bullets and arrows rattled against
them.
"Take a musket, Father. Now, fire together! Quick, the others! Can you
load these, Mademoiselle?"
"Yes." She reached for them, and poured the powder down the barrels.
"Not too much, Mademoiselle. We may run short."
"Yes, M'sieu."
To miss a mark in that solid mob would have been difficult. The first
four shots brought down three men, and sent another limping away with
a bleeding foot.
"Keep it up, Father! Don't wait an instant. Fast, Mademoiselle, fast!
Ah, there's one more. See, they are falling back. Take the other wall,
Father. See that they do not come from the rear."
The priest ran about the hut, peering through the chinks.
"I see nothing," he called.
"You had better stay there, then. Keep a close watch."
The maid laid two loaded muskets at the Captain's side.
"Can we hold them off, M'sieu?"
His eye was pressed to an opening, and he did not turn.
"I fear not, Mademoiselle. A few minutes more may settle it. But we
can give them a fight."
"If they come again, will you let me shoot, M'sieu?"
He turned in surprise, and looked at her slight figure.
"You, Mademoiselle?"
"Yes; I can help. I have shot before."
He laughed, with the excitement of the moment, and nodded. Then they
were silent. She knelt by his side and looked through another opening.
The women and children had retreated well up the path. The warriors
were crowded together, just out of range, talking and shouting
excitedly. A moment later a number of these slipped to the rear and
ran off between the huts.
"What does that mean, M'sieu? Will they come around behind?"
"Yes. Watch out, Father. You will hear from them soon."
"Very well, M'sieu. It will be hard. There are trees and bushes here
for cover."
Menard shrugged his shoulders, and made no reply. Time was all he
wished.
"If the Big Throat started with the first light, he should be here
before another hour," he said to the maid, who was watching the
Indians.
"Yes," she replied.
"Is there any corn in the basket, Mademoiselle?"
"I think so. I had forgotten."
"We shall need it. Wait; I will look."
He got the basket, and brought it to her.
"There is no time for cooking, but you had better eat what you can.
And keep a close watch."
"Here, M'sieu." She spread her skirt, and he poured out half of the
corn.
"You give me too much. You must not."
He laughed, and crossed to the priest, saying over his shoulder:--
"Mademoiselle is our new recruit. And the recruit must not complain of
her food. I cannot allow it."
The moments passed with no sign of action along the line of redskins
on the path. They were quieter since the flanking party had started.
To Menard it was evident that a plan had been settled upon. In a like
position, a dozen Frenchmen would have stormed the hut, knowing that
only two or three could fall before they were under the shelter of the
walls; but even a large force of Indians was unwilling to take the
chance.
"Father," called the Captain, "it may be better for you to take the
doorway. Mademoiselle and I will watch the forest."
"Very well, M'sieu."
The exchange was made rapidly.
"Will you look out at the sides, as well?" Menard said to her. "Keep
moving about, and using all the openings. There are too many chances
for approach here."
"If I see one, shall I shoot, M'sieu?"
He smiled. "You had better tell me first."
She stepped briskly about, peering through the chinks with an alert
eye. Menard found it hard to keep his own watch, so eager were his
eyes to watch her. But he turned resolutely toward the woods.
"M'sieu!" she whispered. They had been silent for a long time. "To the
left in the bushes! It looks like a head."
"Can you make sure?"
"Yes. It is a head. May I shoot?"
Menard nodded without looking. She rested her musket in the opening
between two logs, and fired quickly.
"Did you hit him?"
"Yes, I think so."
She was breathless with excitement, but she reloaded at once. A moment
later Menard fired, and then the priest.
"On all sides, eh?" the Captain muttered. He called to the others:
"Waste no powder. Shoot only when you are sure of hitting. They will
fall back again. Two dead Indians will discourage the wildest
charge."
The firing went on at intervals, but still the warriors kept at it,
creeping up from bush to bush and tree to tree. Menard's face grew
more serious as the time went by. He began to realize that the Long
Arrow was desperate, that he was determined on vengeance before the
other chiefs could come. It had been a typical savage thought that had
led him to bring Menard to this village, where he had once lived,
rather than to the one in which the chief held greater permanent
authority; the scheme was too complete and too near its end for delay
or failure to be considered. Still the attacking party drew nearer,
swelled every moment by a new group. Then Menard saw their object.
They would soon be near enough to dash in close to the wall, where
their very nearness would disable the white men's muskets.
"Work fast!" he said suddenly. "They must not get nearer!"
"Yes," panted the maid. Her shoulder was bruised by the heavy musket,
her arms ached with the quick ramming and lifting, but she loaded and
fired as rapidly as she could.
"Father," called the Captain. "Quick! come here. They are too many for
me!"
The priest ran across the floor, half blinded by the smoke, cocking
his musket as he came. "Where, M'sieu?"
"There--at the oak! They are preparing for a rush!"
He fired, at the last word, and one warrior sprawled on his face. The
priest followed.
"That will check them. Now back to the door!"
Father Claude turned. The light was dim and the smoke heavy. His eyes
smarted and blurred, so that he heard, rather than saw, the logs come
crashing back into the hut. Menard heard it also; and together the two
men dashed forward. They met the rush of Indians with blows that could
not be stayed, but there was a score pushing behind the few who had
entered. Slowly, the two backed across the hut. The stock of Menard's
musket broke short off against the head of the Beaver. His foot struck
another, and he snatched it up and fought on.
"Mademoiselle," he called, "where are you?"
"Here, M'sieu!"
The voice was behind him. Then he felt a weight on his shoulder. The
wearied maid, for want of another rest for her musket, fired past his
face straight into the dark mass of Indians. She tried to reload, but
Menard was swept back against her. With one arm he caught and held her
tight against him, swinging the musket with his free hand. She clung
to him, hardly breathing. They reached the rear wall. One tall warrior
bounded forward and struck the musket from his hand. That was the end
of the struggle. They were torn apart, and dragged roughly out into
the blinding sunlight.
Among the Iroquois, the torture was a religious rite, which nothing,
once it was begun, could hasten. It may have been that the younger
warriors would have rushed upon the captives to kill them; but if so,
their elders held them back. The long lines formed again, and the
doctors ran about the little group before the hut door, leaping and
singing. Menard lay on his face, held down by three warriors. He tried
to turn his head to see what had been done with the maid, but could
not. He would have called to her, but to make a sound now would be to
his captors an admission of weakness.
A great clamour came from the lines. Menard wondered at the delay. He
heard a movement a few yards away. Warriors were grunting, and feet
shuffled on the ground. He heard the priest say, in a calm voice,
"Courage, Mademoiselle"; and for a moment he struggled desperately.
Then, realizing his mistake, he lay quiet. When at last he was jerked
to his feet, he saw that the priest and the maid had been forced to
take the two first places in the line. The maid was struggling in the
grasp of two braves, one of whom made her hold a war club by closing
his own hand over hers. Menard understood; his friends were to strike
the first blows.
The guards tried to drag him forward, but he went firmly with them,
smiling scornfully. There was a delay, as the line was reached, for
the maid could not be made to hold the club. Another man dropped out
of the line to aid the two who held her.
"Strike me, Mademoiselle," said Menard. "It is best."
She shook her head. Father Claude spoke:--
"M'sieu is right."
It was then that she first looked at the Captain. When she saw the
straight figure and the set face, a sense of her own weakness came to
her, and she, too, straightened. Menard stepped forward; and raising
the club she let it fall lightly on his shoulders. A shout went up.
"Hard, Mademoiselle, hard," he said. "You must."
She pressed her lips together, closed her eyes, and swung the club
with all her strength. Then her muscles gave way, and she sank to the
ground, not daring to look after the Captain as he passed on between
the two rows of savages. She heard the shouts and the wild cries, but
dimly, as if they came from far away. The confusion grew worse, and
then died down. From screaming the voices dropped into excited
argument. She did not know what it meant,--not until Father Claude
bent over her and spoke gently.
"What is it?" she whispered, not looking up. "What have they done?"
"Nothing. The Big Throat has come."
She raised her eyes helplessly.
"He has come?"
"Yes. I must go back. Take heart, Mademoiselle."
He hurried away and slipped through the crowd that had gathered about
Menard and the chief. She sat in a little heap on the ground, not
daring to feel relieved, wondering what would come next. She could not
see the Captain, but as the other voices dropped lower and lower, she
could catch now and then a note of his voice. In a few moments, the
warriors who were pressing close on the outskirts of the crowd were
pushed aside, and he came out. She looked at him, then at the ground,
shuddering, for there was blood on his forehead. Even when he stood
over her she could not look up or speak.
"There is hope now, Mademoiselle. He is here."
"Yes--Father Claude told me. Is--are you to be released?"
"Hardly that, but we shall at least have a little time. And I hope to
get a hearing at the council."
"He will let you?"
"I have not asked him yet." He sat beside her, wearily. "There will be
time for that. He is talking now with the Long Arrow and the old
warriors. He is not fond of the Long Arrow." In the excitement he had
not seen that she was limp and exhausted, but now he spoke quickly,
"They have hurt you, Mademoiselle?"
"No, I am not hurt. But you--your head--"
"Only a bruise." He drew his sleeve across his forehead. "I had rather
a bad one in the arm."
He rolled up his sleeve in a matter-of-fact way. Her eyes filled.
"Oh, M'sieu, you did not tell me. I can help you. Wait, I will be
back."
She rose, and started toward the spring, but he sprang to her side.
"You must not trouble. It is not bad. There will be time for this."
"No. Come with me if you will."
She ran with nervous steps; and he strode after. At the side of the
bubbling pool she knelt, and looked up impatiently.
"It will not do to let this go, M'sieu. Can you roll your sleeve
higher?"
He tried, but the heavy cloth was stiff.
"If you will take off the coat--"
He unlaced it at the breast, and drew it off. She took his wrist, and
plunged his arm into the pool, washing it with quick, gentle fingers,
drying it on his coat. Then she leaned back, half perplexed, and
looked around.
"What is it?"
"A cloth. No,"--as he reached for his coat;--"that is too rough. Here,
M'sieu,--" she tore a strip from her skirt, and wrapped it around the
forearm. "Hold it with your other hand, just a moment."
She hurried to the hut, and returning with needle and thread, stitched
the bandage. Then she helped him on with his coat, and they walked
slowly to the hut.
"Where is Father Claude?" she asked.
He pointed to a thicket beyond the hut. There, kneeling by the body of
a dying Indian, was the priest, praying silently. He had baptized the
warrior with dew from the leaves at his side, and now was claiming his
soul for the greater King in whose service his own life had been
spent.
The Captain sat beside the maid, their backs to the logs, and watched
the shifting groups of warriors. He told her of the arrival of the Big
Throat, and of the confusion that resulted. Then for a time they were
silent, waiting for the impromptu council to reach a conclusion. The
warriors finally began to drift away, though the younger and more
curious ones still hung about. A group of braves came slowly toward
the hut.
"That is the Big Throat in front," said Menard. "The broad-shouldered
warrior beside him is the Talking Eagle, the best-known chief of the
clan of the Bear. They are almost here. We had better stand. Are you
too tired?"
"No, indeed."
Father Claude had seen the group approaching, and he joined Menard.
The Big Throat stood motionless and looked at the Captain.
"My brother, the Big Buffalo, has asked to speak with the Big Throat,"
he said at length.
Menard bowed, but did not reply.
"He asks for his release,--and for the holy man and the squaw?"
"The Big Buffalo asks nothing save what the chiefs of the Onondagas
would give to a chief taken in battle. The Long Arrow has lied to the
Big Buffalo. He has soiled his hands with the blood of women and holy
Fathers. The Big Buffalo was told by Onontio, whom all must obey, to
come to the Onondagas and give them his word. The Long Arrow was
impatient. He would not let him journey in peace. He wished to injure
him; to let his blood. Now the Big Buffalo is here. He asks that he
may be heard at the council, to give the chief the word of Onontio.
That is all."
The Big Throat's face was inscrutable. He looked at Menard without a
word until the silence grew tense, and the maid caught her breath.
Then he said, with the cool, diplomatic tone that concealed whatever
kindness or justice may have prompted the words:--
"The Big Buffalo shall be heard at the council to-night. The chiefs of
the Onondagas never are deaf to the words of Onontio."
CHAPTER XII.
THE LONG HOUSE.
The council-house was a hundred paces or more in length. The frame was
of tall hickory saplings planted in the ground in two rows, with the
tops bent over and lashed together in the form of an arch. The
building was not more than fifteen yards wide. The lower part of the
outer wall was of logs, the upper part and the roof of bark. Instead
of a chimney there was a narrow opening in the roof, extending the
length of the building.
A row of smouldering fires reached nearly from end to end of the
house. The smoke struggled upward, but failing, for the greater part,
to find the outlet overhead, remained inside to clog the air and dim
the eyes. The chiefs sat in a long ellipse in the central part of the
house, some sitting erect with legs crossed, others half reclining,
while a few lay sprawling, their chins resting on their hands. The Big
Throat sat with the powerful chiefs of the nation at one end. The
lesser sachems, including the Long Arrow, sat each before his own band
of followers. The second circle was made up of the older and
better-known warriors. Behind these, pressing close to catch every
word of the argument, were braves, youths, women, and children, mixed
together indiscriminately. A low platform extended the length of the
building against the wall on each side, and this held another
crowding, elbowing, whispering mass of redskins. Every chief and
warrior, as well as most of the women, held each a pipe between his
teeth, and puffed out clouds of smoke into the thick air.
The maid's eyes smarted and blurred in the smoke. It reached her
throat, and she coughed.
"Lie down, Mademoiselle," said Menard. "Breathe close to the ground
and it will not be so bad."
She hesitated, looking at the Big Throat, who sat with arms folded,
proud and dignified. Then she smiled, and lay almost flat on the
ground, breathing in the current of less impure air that passed
beneath the smoke. They had been placed in the inner circle, next to
the chiefs of the nations, where Menard's words would have the weight
that, to the mind of the Big Throat, was due to a representative of
the French Governor, even in time of war. Father Claude, sitting on
the left of the maid, was looking quietly into the fire. He had
committed the case into the hands of Providence, and he was certain
that the right words would be given to the Captain.
It was nearing the close of the afternoon. A beam of sunlight slipped
in at one end of the roof-opening, and slanted downward, clearing a
shining way through the smoke. A Cayuga chief was speaking.
"The corn is ripening in the fields about the Onondaga village. As I
came down the hills of the west to-day I saw the green tops waving in
the wind, and I was glad, for I knew that my brothers would feast in
plenty, that their Manitous have been kind. The Cayugas, too, have
great fields of corn, and the Senecas. Their women have worked
faithfully that the land might be plentiful.
"But a storm is breaking over the cornfields of the Senecas. It is a
great cloud that has come down from the north, with the flash of fire
and the roar of thunder, and with hailstones of lead that will leave
no stalk standing. My brothers know the strength of the north wind.
They have not forgotten other storms that would have laid waste the
villages of the Senecas and the Mohawks. And they have not forgotten
their Manitous, who have whispered to them when the clouds appeared in
the northern sky, 'Rise up, Mohawks and Oneidas and Onondagas and
Cayugas and Senecas, and stand firmly against this storm, and your
homes and your fields shall not be destroyed.'"
The house was silent with interest. The maid raised her head and
watched the stolid faces of the chiefs in the inner circle. Not an
expression changed from beginning to end of the speech. Beyond, she
could see other, younger faces, some eager, some bitter, some defiant,
some smiling, and all showing the flush of excitement,--but these grim
old chiefs had long schooled their faces to hide their thoughts. They
held their blankets close, and puffed deliberately at their pipes with
hardly a movement of the lips.
The Cayuga went on:--
"Messengers have come to the Cayugas from their brothers, the Senecas,
telling of the storm that is rushing on them. The Cayugas know the
hearts of the Five Nations. When the Mohawks have risen to defend
their homes, the hearts of the Cayugas have been warm, and they have
taken up the hatchet with their brothers. When the Onondagas have gone
on the war-path, Senecas and Cayugas have gone with them, and the
trouble of one has been the trouble of all."
"The good White Father is no longer the war chief of the white men.
The Great Mountain, who knew the voice of the forest, who spoke
with the tongue of the redman, has been called back to his
Great-Chief-Across-the-Water. His word was the word of kindness, and
when he spoke our hearts were warm. But another mountain is now the
war chief, a mountain that spits fire and lead, that speaks with a
double tongue. The Five Nations have never turned from a foe. The
enemy of the Senecas has been the enemy of the Mohawks. If the storm
strikes the fields of the Senecas, their brothers will not turn
away and stop their ears and say they do not hear the thunder, for
they remember the storms of other seasons, and they know that the
hail that destroys one field will destroy other fields. And so this is
the word of the Cayugas:--Let all the warriors of the Five Nations
take up the hatchet; let them go on the war-path to tell this
white chief with the double tongue that the Five Nations are one
nation; that they are bolder than thunder, swifter than fire,
stronger than lead."
The maid found it hard, with her imperfect knowledge of the language,
to follow his metaphors. She had partly risen, heedless of the smoke,
and was leaning forward with her eyes fixed on the stern face of the
speaker. Menard bent down, and half smiled at her excitement.
"What is it?" she whispered. "He is for war?"
"Yes; he naturally would be." There was a stir about the house, as the
speech ended, and they could speak softly without drawing notice. "The
Cayugas are nearer to the Senecas than the other nations, and they
fear that they too may suffer."
"Then you do not think they all feel with him?"
"No; the Oneidas and Mohawks, and even the Onondagas, are too far to
the east to feel in danger. They know how hard it would be for the
Governor to move far from his base in this country. It may be that the
younger warriors will be for fighting, but the older heads will think
of the corn."
"Will the Big Throat speak?"
"Yes; but not like these others. He talks simply and forcibly. That is
the way when a chief's reputation is made. The Big Throat won his
name, as a younger brave, by his wonderful oratory."
"And you, M'sieu,--you will be heard?"
"Yes; I think so. We must not talk any more now. They will not like
it."
The Cayuga was followed by a wrinkled old chief of the Oneidas, called
the Hundred Skins. He stepped forward and stood near the fire, his
blanket drawn close about his shoulders, where the red light could
play on his face. A whisper ran around the outer circle, for it was
known that he stood for peace.
"My Cayuga brother has spoken wisely," he began, in a low but distinct
voice. He looked slowly about the house to command attention. "The
Oneidas have not forgotten the storms of other seasons; they have not
forgotten the times of starving, when neither the Manitous of the
redman nor the God of the white man came to help. The grain stood
brown in the fields; the leaves hung dead from the trees; there was no
wind to cool the fever that carried away old men and young men, squaws
and children. And when the wind came, and the cold and snow of the
winter, there was no food in the lodges of the Five Nations. My
brothers have heard that the corn is rising to a man's height--they
have seen it to-day in the fields of the Onondagas. They know that
this corn must be cared for like the children of their lodges, if they
wish food to eat when the winter comes and the fields are dead. They
know what it will cost them to take the war-path.
"Twelve moons have not gone since the chiefs of the Senecas rose in
this house and called on the warriors of the Five Nations to take up
the hatchet against the white men of the north. The skins of the
beaver were talking in their ears. They saw great canoes on the white
man's rivers loaded with skins, and their hands itched and their
hearts turned inward. Then the wise chiefs of the Oneidas and Cayugas
and Onondagas and Mohawks spoke well. They were not on the war-path;
the hatchet was deep in the ground, and young trees were growing over
it. Then the Oneidas said that the White Chief would not forget if the
Senecas heeded their itching hands and listened to the bad medicine of
the beaver skins in their ears. But the Senecas were not wise, and
they took up the hatchet.
"This is the word of the Oneidas to the chiefs of the Long House:--The
Seneca has put his foot in the trap. Then shall the Oneida and
Onondaga and Cayuga and Mohawk rush after, that they too may put in
their feet where they can get away only by gnawing off the bone? Shall
the wise chiefs of the Long House run into fight like the dogs of
their village? The Oneidas say no! The Senecas took up the hatchet;
let them bury it where they can. And when the winter comes, the
Oneidas will send them corn that they may not have another time of
starving."
Menard was watching the Oneida with eyes that fairly snapped. The low
voice stopped, and another murmur ran around the outer circles. The
Hundred Skins had spoken boldly, and the Cayuga young men looked
stern. The chief stepped slowly back and resumed his seat, and then,
not before, did Menard's face relax. He looked about cautiously to see
if he was observed, then settled back and gazed stolidly into the
fire. The old Oneida had played directly into his hand; by letting
slip the motive for the Seneca raid of the winter before, he had
strengthened the one weak point in the speech Menard meant to make.
The next speaker was one of the younger war chiefs of the Onondagas.
He made an effort to speak with the calmness of the older men, but
there was now and then a flash in his eye and an ill-controlled vigour
in his voice that told Menard and the priest how strong was the war
party of this village. The Onondaga plunged into his speech without
the customary deliberation.
"Our brothers, the Senecas, have sent to us for aid. We have been
called to the Long House to hear the voice of the Senecas,--not from
the lips of their chiefs, for they have fields and villages to guard
against the white man, and they are not here to stand before the
council and ask what an Iroquois never refuses. The Cayuga has spoken
with the voice of the Seneca. Shall the chiefs and warriors of the
Long House say to the Cayuga, 'Go back to your village and send
messengers to the Senecas to tell them that their brothers of the Long
House have corn and squaws and children that are more to them than the
battles of their brothers--tell the Senecas that the Oneidas must eat
and cannot fight'? There is corn in the fields of the Oneidas. But
there is food for all the Five Nations in the great house on the
Lake."
The speaker paused to let his words sink in. Menard whispered to the
maid, in reply to an inquiring look. "He means the Governor's base of
supplies at La Famine."
The Onondaga's voice began to rise.
"When the Oneida thinks of his corn, is he afraid to leave it to his
squaws? Does he hesitate because he thinks the white warriors are
strong enough to turn on him and drive him from his villages? This is
not the speech that young warriors are taught to expect from the Long
House. When has the Long House been guided by fear? No. If the Oneida
is hungry, let him eat from the stores of the white man, at the house
on the Lake. The Cayugas and Onondagas will draw their belts tighter,
that the Oneida may be filled."
The young chief looked defiantly around. There was a murmur from the
outer circle, but the chiefs were grave and silent. The Hundred Skins
gazed meditatively into the fire as if he had not heard, slowly
puffing at his pipe. The taunt of cowardice had sprung out in the heat
of youth; his dignity demanded that he ignore it. The speech had its
effect on the Cayugas and the young men, but the older heads were
steady.
Other chiefs rose, talked, and resumed their places, giving all views
of the situation and of the relations between the Iroquois and the
French,--but still little expression showed on the inner circle of
faces. The maid after a time grew more accustomed to the smoke, and
sat up. She was puzzled by the conflicting arguments and the lack of
enthusiasm. Fully two hours had passed, and there was no sign of an
agreement. The eager spectators, in the outer rows, gradually settled
down.
During a lull between two speeches, Menard spoke to the maid, who was
beginning to show traces of weariness.
"It may be a long sitting, Mademoiselle. We must make the best of
it."
"Yes." She smiled. "I am a little tired. It has been a hard day."
"Too hard, poor child. But I hope to see you safe very soon now. I am
relying on the Big Throat. He, with a few of the older chiefs, sees
farther than these hot-heads. He knows that France must conquer in the
end, and is wise enough to make terms whenever he can."
"But can he, M'sieu? Will they obey him?"
"Not obey, exactly; he will not command them. Indians have no
discipline such as ours. The chiefs rely on their judgment and
influence. But they have followed the guidance of the Big Throat for
too many years to leave it now."
Another chief rose to speak. The sun had gone, and the long building
was growing dark rapidly. A number of squaws came through the circle,
throwing wood on the fires. The new flames shot up, and threw a
flickering light on the copper faces, many of which still wore the
paint of the morning. The smoke lay over them in wavering films, now
and again half hiding some sullen face until it seemed to fade away
into the darkness.
At last the whole situation lay clear before the council. Some
speakers were for war, some for peace, others for aiding the Senecas
as a matter of principle. The house was divided.
There was a silence, and the pipes glowed in the dusk; then the Long
Arrow rose. The listless spectators stirred and leaned forward. The
maid, too, was moved, feeling that at last the moment of decision was
near. She was surprised to see that he had none of the savage
excitement of the morning. He was as quiet and tactful in speech as
the Big Throat himself.
Slowly the Long Arrow drew his blanket close about him and began to
speak. The house grew very still, for the whole tribe knew that he
had, in his anger of the morning, disputed the authority of the Big
Throat. There had been hot words, and the great chief had rebuked him
contemptuously within the hearing of half a hundred warriors. Now he
was to stand before the council, and not a man in that wide circle but
wondered how much he would dare to say.
He seemed not to observe the curious glances. Simply and quietly he
began the narrative of the capture of the hunting party at Fort
Frontenac. At the first words Menard turned to Father Claude with a
meaning look. The maid saw it, and her lips framed a question.
"It is better than I hoped," Menard whispered. "He is bringing it up
himself."
"Not two moons have waned," the Long Arrow was saying, "since five
score brave young warriors left our village for the hunt. They left
the hatchet buried under the trees. They took no war-paint. The Great
Mountain had said that there was peace between the redman and the
white man; he had asked the Onondagas to hunt on the banks of the
Great River; he had told them that his white sons at the Stone House
would take them as brothers into their lodges. When the Great Mountain
said this, through the mouths of the holy Fathers, he lied."
The words came out in the same low, even tone in which he had begun
speaking, but they sank deep. The house was hushed; even the stirring
of the children on the benches died away.
"The Great Mountain has lied to his children,"--Menard's keen ears
caught the bitter, if covered, sarcasm in the last two words; they
had been Governor Frontenac's favourite term in addressing the
Iroquois--"and his children know his voice no longer. There is corn
in the fields? Let it grow or rot. There are squaws and children
in our lodges? Let them live or die. It is not the Senecas who ask
our aid; it is the voice of a hundred sons and brothers and youths
and squaws calling from far beyond the great water,--calling from
chains, calling from fever, calling from the Happy Hunting Ground,
where they have gone without guns or corn or blankets, where they
lie with nothing to comfort them." The Long Arrow stood erect, with
head thrown back and eyes fixed on the opposite wall. "Our sons and
brothers went like children to the Stone House of the white man.
Their hands were stretched before them, their muskets hung empty
from their shoulders, their bowstrings were loosened; the calumet was
in their hands. But the sons of Onontio lied as their fathers had
taught them. They took the calumet; they called the Onondagas into
their great lodge; and in the sleep of the white man's fire-water
they chained them. Five score Onondagas have gone to be slaves to
the Great-Chief-Across-the-Water, who loves his children and is kind
to them, and would take them all under his arm where no storm can
harm them. My brothers of the Long House have heard the promises of
Onontio, and they have seen the fork in his tongue. And so they
choose this time to speak of corn and squaws and children." The
keen, closely set eyes slowly lowered and swept around the circle.
"Is this the time to speak of corn? Our Manitou has sent this
Great Mountain into our country. He has placed him in our hands so
that we may strike, so that we may tell the white man with our
muskets that our Manitou is stern and just, and that no Iroquois
will listen to the idle words of a double tongue."
He paused, readjusted his blanket, and then stood motionless, that all
might digest his words. Then, after a long wait, he went on:--
"There are children to-day in our lodges who can remember the Big
Buffalo, who can remember our adopted son who shared our fires and
food, who shared our hunts, who lived with us as freely as an
Onondaga. We saw him every day, and we forgot that his heart was as
white as his skin, for his tongue was the tongue of an Onondaga. We
forgot that the white man has two tongues. It has not been long, my
brothers,--not long enough for an Onondaga to forget. But the Big
Buffalo is a mangy dog. He forgot the brothers of his lodge. He it was
who took the Onondaga hunters and carried them away to be slaves. But
the Manitou did not forget. He has put this Big Buffalo into our
hands, that we may give him what should be given to the dog who
forgets his master."
Again the Long Arrow paused.
"No; this is not the time to speak of corn. It is not the Senecas who
call us, it is our brothers and their squaws and children. The
Iroquois have been the greatest warriors of the world. They have
driven the Hurons to the far northern forests; the Illinois to the
Father of Waters, two moons' travel to the west; the Delawares to the
waters of the south. They have told the white man to stay within his
boundaries, and he has stayed. They have been kind to the white man;
they have welcomed the holy Fathers into their villages. But now the
Great Mountain makes slaves of the Onondagas. He brings his warriors
across the Great Lake to punish the Senecas and destroy their lodges.
Shall the Long House of the Five Nations turn a white face to this
Great Mountain? Shall the Long House call out in a shaking voice,
'See, Onontio, there are no heads on our arrows, no flints in our
muskets! our hatchets are dull, our knives nicked and rusted! come,
Onontio, and strike us, that we may know you are our master and our
father'?"
The Long Arrow's voice had risen only slightly, but now it dropped; he
went on, in a tone that was keen as a knife, but so low that those at
the farther end of the house leaned forward and sat motionless.
"It has been said to-day to the Long House that we shall close our
ears to the thunder of the Great Mountain, that we should think of our
corn and our squaws, and leave the Senecas to fight their own battles.
But the Long House will not do this. The Long House will not give up
the liberty that has been the pride of the Iroquois since first the
rivers ran to the lake, and the moss grew on the trees, and the wind
waved the tops of the long grass. The Great Mountain has come to take
this liberty. He shall not have it. No; he shall lose his own--we will
leave his bones to dry where the Seneca dogs run loose. The Big
Buffalo shall die to tell the white man that the Iroquois never
forgets; the Great Mountain shall die to tell the white man that the
Iroquois is free."
CHAPTER XIII.
THE VOICE OF THE GREAT MOUNTAIN.
There was no lack of interest now in the council. The weariness left
the maid's eyes as she followed the speeches that came in rapid
succession. There was still the disagreement, the confusion of a dozen
different views and demands; but the speech of the Long Arrow had
pointed the discussion, it had set up an opinion to be either defended
or attacked.
"Will the Big Throat speak now?" asked Mademoiselle, leaning close to
Menard.
"I hardly think so. I don't know what will come next."
"When will you speak, M'sieu?"
"Not until word from the Big Throat. It would be a breach of
courtesy."
One warrior, a member of the Beaver family, and probably a blood
relative of the Beaver who had been killed in the fight of the
morning, took advantage of the pause to speak savagely for war and
vengeance. He counted those who had fallen since the sun rose, and
appealed to their families to destroy the man who had killed them. He
was not a chief, but his fiery speech aroused a murmur of approval
from scattered groups of the spectators. This sympathy from those
about him, with the anger which was steadily fed by his own hot words,
gradually drove from his mind the observance of etiquette which was so
large a part of an important council. Still speaking, he left his
place, and walking slowly between two of the fires and across the
circle, paused before Menard.
"The dog whom we fed and grew has turned against its masters, as the
dogs of your own lodges, my brothers, will bite the hand that pats
their heads. It has hung about outside of the Great Lodge to kill the
hunter who sees no danger ahead. And now, when this dog is caught, and
tied at your door, would not my brothers bring him to the end of all
evil beasts?" As he finished, he made a gesture of bitter contempt and
kicked Menard.
A shout went up, and voices clamoured, protesting, denouncing,
exulting. The Captain's eyes flashed fire. It was not for a second
that he hesitated. Weakness, to an Indian, is the last, the greatest
fault. If he should take this insult, it would end forever not only
his own chance of escape, with the maid and the priest, but all hope
of safety for the Governor's column. He sprang to his feet before the
Indian, whose arm was still stretched out in the gesture, and with two
quick blows knocked him clear of his feet, and then kicked him into
the fire.
A dozen hands dragged the warrior from the fire and stamped out a
blaze that had started in the fringe of one legging. Every man in the
house was on his feet, shouting and screaming. Menard stood with his
hands at his side, smiling, with the same look of scorn he had worn in
the morning when they led him to the torture. Father Claude drew
closer to the maid, and the two sat without moving. Then above the
uproar rose the voice of the Big Throat; and slowly the noise died
away. The chief stepped to the centre of the circle, but before he
could speak Menard had reached his side, and motioned to him to be
silent.
"My brothers," he said, looking straight at the fallen warrior, who
was scrambling to his feet,--"my brothers, the Big Buffalo is sorry
that the Onondagas have among them a fool who thinks himself a
warrior. The Big Buffalo is not here to fight fools. He is here to
talk to chiefs. He is glad that the fool speaks only for himself and
not for the brave men of the Long House." He walked deliberately back
and resumed his seat by the maid.
[Illustration: "Menard stood ... smiling with the same look of scorn he
had worn ... when they led him to the torture."]
"Courage, Mademoiselle," he said close to her ear. "It is all right."
"What will they do, M'sieu?"
"Nothing. I have won. Wait--the Big Throat is speaking."
One by one the warriors fell back to their seats. Some were muttering,
some were smiling; but all were subdued. The Big Throat's voice was
calm and firm.
"The Big Buffalo has spoken well. The word of a fool is not the word
of the Long House. The White Chief comes to give us the voice of
Onontio, and we will listen."
He turned toward Menard, and then resumed his seat.
The Captain rose, and looked about the circle. The chiefs were
motionless. Even the Long Arrow, now that his outburst was past,
closed his lips over the stem of his pipe and gazed at the smoke.
Father Claude drew forward the bundle and opened it, the maid helping.
Some of the boys behind them crowded closer to see the presents.
Menard spoke slowly and quietly. The rustling and whispering in the
outer circle died away, so that every word was distinct.
"When the Five Nations have given their word to another nation, it has
not been necessary to sign a paper; it has not been necessary to keep
a record. The Long Arrow has said that the Iroquois do not forget. He
is right. The words that have gone out from the councils have never
been forgotten. I see here, in this council, the faces of warriors who
have grown old in serving their people, of chiefs who are bent and
wrinkled with the cares of many generations. I see in the eyes of my
brothers that they have not forgotten the Onontio, who went away to
his greater chief only five seasons ago. They have seen this Onontio
in war and peace. They have listened to his silver tongue in the
council. They have called themselves his children, and have known that
he was a wise and kind father. They remember the promises they made
him. But the Senecas did not remember. The Seneca has no ears; he has
a hole in his head, and the words of his father have passed through.
The Senecas promised Onontio that they would not take the white man's
beaver. But when the English came to their lodges and whispered in
their ears, the hole was stopped. The English whispered of brandy and
guns and powder and hatchets and knives. They told the Senecas that
these things should be given to them if they would steal the beaver.
The English are cowards--they sent the Senecas to do what they were
afraid to do. And then the hole in the Seneca's head was stopped--the
Seneca who had forgotten the words of Onontio remembered the words of
the English.
"My brothers of the Long House had not forgotten the promises they had
given Onontio. When the Seneca chiefs called for aid in stealing the
beaver, my brothers were wise and said no. The Onondagas and Cayugas
and Oneidas and Mohawks were loyal--they kept their promise, and
Onontio has not forgotten; he will not forget.
"This is what the Great Mountain would say to you, my brothers: You
have been faithful to your word, and he is pleased. He knows that the
Onondagas are his children. And he knows why the Senecas left their
villages and fields to plunder his white children. It was for the
skins of the beaver, which the white braves had taken from their own
forests and would bring in their canoes down the Ottawa to trade at
the white man's villages. He knows, my brothers, that the Senecas had
tired of their promises, and now would steal the beaver and sell it to
the English. What comes to the boy when he climbs the tree to steal
the honey which the bees have gathered and taken to their home? Is he
not stung and bitten until he cries that he will not disturb the bees
again? The Senecas have tried to take that which is to the white man
as the honey is to the bee; and they too must be stung and bitten
until they have learned that the Great Mountain will always protect
those who deserve his aid. He has sent you a comb from the shell of
the great sea-tortoise, more precious than a thousand wampum shells,
to tell you that as the sea-monster pursues its enemies, so will he
pursue those who cannot keep their promises--who lie to him."
Father Claude handed him the comb, and he laid it before the Big
Throat. It was evident that he had been closely followed, and he
started on his second word with more vigour.
"Your chiefs have spoken to-day of the storm cloud that has swept down
from the north; your runners have told you that it is not a cloud, but
an army, that has come up the great river and across the lake of
Frontenac to the country of the Senecas. Do my brothers know what a
great army follows their White Father when he sets out to punish his
children? More than twenty score of trained warriors are in this war
party, and every warrior carries a musket; to-night they are marching
on the Seneca villages. They will destroy those villages as a brave
would destroy a nest of hornets in his lodge. Not one lodge will be
left standing, not one stalk of corn.
"The Oneidas and Onondagas and Cayugas talk of their cornfields. But
even the Cayugas need have no fear. For Onontio is a wise and just
father; he punishes only those that offend him. The Senecas have
broken their promises, and the Senecas must be punished, but the other
nations are still the children of the Great Mountain, and his hand is
over them. The Big Buffalo has come from the Great Mountain to tell
you that he will not harm the Cayugas; their fields and lodges are
safe."
There was a stir at this, and then quiet, as the spectators settled
back to hear the rest of Menard's speech. Here was a captive who spoke
as boldly as their own chiefs, who commanded their attention as a
present bearer from the White Chief. And they knew, all of them, from
the way in which he was choosing his words, coolly ignoring the more
important subjects until he should be ready to deal with them, that he
spoke with authority. He knew his auditors, and he let them see that
he knew them.
"The Senecas have listened to the English. What do they expect from
them? Do they think that the English wish to help them? Do they look
for wealth and support from the English? My brothers of the Long House
know better. They have seen the English hide from the anger of the
Great Mountain. They have seen the iron hand of New France reach out
across the northern country, and along the shores of the great lakes,
and down the Father of Waters in the far west, while the English were
clinging to their little strip of land on the edge of the sea. My
brothers know who is strong and who is weak. Never have the fields of
the Five Nations been so rich and so large. No wars have disturbed
them. They have grown and prospered. Do the Senecas think it is the
English who have made them great? No--the Senecas are not fools. They
know that the Great Mountain has driven away their enemies and given
them peace and plenty. My brothers of the Long House remembered this
when the Senecas came to them and asked for aid in stealing the
beaver. They stopped their ears; they knew that Onontio was their
father, and that they must be faithful to him if they wished to have
plenty in their lodges.
"Onontio is a patient father. Let the Senecas repent, and he will
forgive them. Let them bury the hatchet, and he will forgive them. Let
them be satisfied with peace and honest trade, and he will buy their
furs, and give them fair payment. And then their cornfields shall grow
so large that a fleet runner cannot pass around them in half a moon.
They shall have no more famine. Their pouches shall be full of powder,
their muskets new and bright. Their women shall have warm clothing and
many beads. Nowhere shall there be such prosperous nations as here
among the Iroquois. If the Senecas have broken their pledges and have
not repented, they must be punished. But the Cayugas and Onondagas and
Oneidas and Mohawks have not broken their pledges. The Great Mountain
has sent the Big Buffalo to tell them that he has seen that they are
loyal, and he is pleased. He knows that they are wise. If the
Onondagas have a grievance, he will not forget it, and if they ask for
vengeance he will hear them. The Great Mountain knows that the
Onondagas are his children, that they will not make war upon their
father. He sends this coat of seal fur that the hearts of the Cayugas
and Onondagas and Oneidas and Mohawks may be kept warm, and to tell
them that he loves them and will protect them."
The maid's eyes sparkled with excitement.
"I wish they would speak, or laugh, or do something," she whispered to
Father Claude, "Are they not interested? They hardly seem to hear
him."
The priest looked at her gravely.
"Yes," he replied, "they are listening."
The time had come to speak of La Grange. The Captain had been steadily
leading up to this moment. He had tried to show the Indians that they
had no complaint, no cause for war, unless it was the one incident at
Fort Frontenac. He knew that the chiefs not only understood his
argument, but that they were quietly waiting for him to approach this
real cause of trouble, and were probably curious to see how he would
meet it. The mind of the Iroquois, when in the council, separated from
the heat and emotion of the dance, the hunt, the war-path, was
remarkably keen. Menard felt sure that if he could present his case
logically and firmly, it would appeal to most of the chief and older
warriors. Then the maid came into his thoughts, and he knew, though he
did not look down, that she was gazing up at him and waiting. He
hesitated for a moment longer. The chiefs, too, were waiting. The Long
House was hushed:--three hundred faces were looking at him through the
twisting, curling smoke that blurred the scene into an unreal picture.
Yes, the time had come to speak of La Grange; and he spoke the first
words hurriedly, stepping half-unconsciously farther from the maid.
There was a part of the true story of the capture which he did not
tell,--the Governor's part. For the rest, it was all there, every word
about La Grange and his treacherous act coming out almost brutally.
"Your speakers have told you of the hunting party that was taken into
the stone house, and put into chains, and sent away to be slaves to
the Chief-Across-the-Water. There is a chief at the stone house whom
you have seen fighting bravely in many a battle. He is a bold warrior;
none is so quick or so tireless as Captain la Grange. But he has a
devil in his heart. The bad medicine of white man and redman, the
fire-water, is always close to him, ready to whisper to him and guide
him. It was not the father at Quebec that broke the faith with the
Onondagas. It was not the Big Buffalo. If the Big Buffalo could so
forget his brothers of the Onondaga lodges, he would not have come
back to the Long House to tell them of the sorrow of the Great
Mountain. My brothers have seen the Big Buffalo in war and peace--they
know that he would not do this.
"The devil was in Captain la Grange's heart. He captured my brothers.
He told the Great Mountain that it was a war party, that he had taken
them prisoners fairly. He lied to the Great Mountain. When the Great
Mountain asked the Big Buffalo to bring the prisoners to his great
village on the river, the Big Buffalo could not say, 'No, I am no
longer your son!' When the Great Mountain commands, the Big Buffalo
obeys. With sorrow in his heart he did as his father told him."
Menard was struggling to put the maid out of his thoughts, to keep in
view only the safety of the column and the welfare of New France. And
as the words came rapidly to his lips and fell upon the ears of that
silent audience, he began to feel that they believed him.
"My brothers," he said, with more feeling than they knew, "it is five
seasons since I left your village for the land of the white man. In
that time you have had no thought that I was not indeed your brother,
the son of your chief. You have known other Frenchmen. Father Claude,
who sits by my side; Father Jean de Lamberville, who has given his
many years to save you for the great white man's Manitou; Major
d'Orvilliers, who has never failed to give food and shelter to the
starving hunter at his great stone house,--I could name a hundred
others. You know that these are honest, that what they promise will be
done. But in every village is a fool, in every family is one who is
weak and cannot earn a name on the hunt. You have a warrior in this
house who to-day raised his hand against a visitor in the great
council. My brothers,--it is with sadness that I say it,--not all the
white men are true warriors. You are wise chiefs and brave warriors;
you know that because one man is a dog, it is not so with all his
nation. The Great Mountain sends me to you, and I speak in his voice.
I tell you that Captain la Grange is a dog, that he has broken the
faith of the white man and the redman, that the father at Quebec and
the Great-Chief-Across-the-Water, who are so quick to punish their red
children, will also punish the white. The white men are good. They
love the Onondagas. And if any white man breaks the faith, he shall be
punished."
His voice had risen, and he was speaking in a glow that seemed to drop
a spark into each listening heart. He knew now that they believed. He
turned abruptly for the present. Father Claude was so absorbed in
following the speech, and in watching the maid, who sat with flushed
cheeks and lowered eyes, that he was not ready, and Menard stooped and
took the book. He could not avoid seeing the maid, when he looked
down; and the priest felt a sudden pain in his own heart to see the
look of utter weariness that came into the Captain's eyes.
Menard turned the leaves of the book for a moment, as if to collect
himself, and then held it open so that the Indians could see the
bright pictures. There was a craning of necks in the outer circles.
"In these picture writings is told the story of the 'Ceremonies of the
Mass applied to the Passion of Our Lord,'" he said slowly. "And our
Lord is your Great Spirit. It brings you a message; it tells you that
the white man is a good man, who punishes his own son as sternly as
his red child."
The present pleased the Big Throat. He would not let his curiosity
appear in the council, but he dropped the book so that it fell open,
seemingly by accident, and his eyes strayed to it now and then during
the last word of the speech. Menard did not hesitate again.
"I have told my Onondaga brothers that this white dog shall be
punished," he said. "When this word is given in your council in the
voice of Onontio, it is a word that cannot be broken. Wind is not
strong enough, thunder is not loud enough, waves are not fierce
enough, snows are not cold enough, powder is not swift enough to break
it." The words came swiftly from his lips. Calm old chiefs leaned
forward that they might catch every syllable. Eyes were brighter with
interest. The Long Arrow, thinking of his son and fearing lest the man
who killed him should slip from his grasp, grew troubled and more
stern. At last Menard turned, and taking the portrait from the
priest's hands held it up, slowly turning it so that all could see it
in the uncertain firelight. At first they were puzzled and surprised;
then a murmur of recognition ran from lip to lip.
"You know this maid," Menard was saying, "this maid who to all who
love the Iroquois, to all who love the church, the Great Spirit, is a
saint. Her spirit has been for many moons in the happy hunting ground.
The snow has lain cold and heavy on her grave. The night bird has sung
her beauty in the empty forest. Catherine Outasoren has come back from
the land where the corn is always growing, where the snows can never
fall; she has come back to bear you the word of the Great Mountain.
She has come to tell you that the dog who broke the oath of the white
man to the Onondagas must suffer. This is the pledge of the Great
Mountain."
He stopped abruptly, and stood looking with flashing eyes at the
circle of chiefs. There was silence for a moment, then a murmur that
rapidly rose and swelled into the loud chatter of many voices. Menard
laid the portrait at the feet of the Big Throat, and took his seat at
the side of the maid,--but he did not look at her nor she at him.
Father Claude sat patiently waiting.
There was low talk among the chiefs. Then a warrior came and led the
captives out of doors, through a long passage that opened between two
rows of crowding Indians. The night was clear, and the air was sweet
to their nostrils. They walked slowly down the path. A group of young
braves kept within a few rods.
"It must be late," said Menard, in a weak effort to break the
silence.
"Yes," replied Father Claude.
"I suppose we had better go back to our hut?"
"Yes," said the priest again. But the maid was silent.
They sat on the grass plot before the door, none of them having any
words that fitted the moment. Menard brought out a blanket and spread
it on the ground, that the maid need not touch the dew-laden grass.
CHAPTER XIV.
WHERE THE DEAD SIT.
"They need not starve us," said Menard, trying to speak lightly. "I am
hungry."
The others made no reply.
"I will see what chance we have for a supper."
He got up and walked along the path looking for the guards. In a short
time he returned.
"They will bring us something. The sentiment is not so strong against
us now, I think."
"They change quickly," said Father Claude.
"Yes. It is the Big Throat."
"And yourself, M'sieu," the maid said impulsively. "You have done it,
too."
"I cannot tell. We do not know what the council may decide. It may be
morning before they will come to an agreement. The Long Arrow will
fight to the last."
"And the other, M'sieu,--the one who attacked you,--he too will
fight?"
"He is nothing. When an Iroquois shows himself a coward his influence
is gone forever. It may be even that they will give him a new name
because of this."
"There are times when a small accident or a careless word will change
the mind of a nation," said Father Claude. "When we left the council
they were not unfriendly to us. But in an hour it may be that they
will renew the torture. Until their hearts have been touched by the
Faith there are but two motives behind the most of their actions,
expediency and revenge. But I think we may hope. Brother de
Lamberville has told of many cases of torture where the right appeal
has brought a complete change."
So they talked on, none having anything to say, and yet each dreading
the silences that came so easily and hung over them so heavily. They
could see the council-house some distance up the path. Its outlines
were lost in the shadows of the trees, but through the crevices in the
bark and logs came thin lines of light, and a glow shone through the
long roof opening upon the smoke that hung in the still air above it.
Sometimes they could hear indistinctly the voice of a speaker; but the
words could not be distinguished. At other times there was a low buzz
of voices. The children and women who had not been able to get into
the building could be seen moving about outside shutting off a strip
of light here and there.
Two braves came with some corn and smoked meat. Menard set it down on
a corner of the blanket.
"You will eat, Mademoiselle?"
She shook her head. "I am not hungry. Thank you, M'sieu."
"If I may ask it,--if I may insist,--it is really necessary,
Mademoiselle."
She reached out, with a weary little gesture, and took some of the
corn.
"And you too, Father."
They ate in silence, and later went together to the spring for a cool
drink.
"We ought to make an effort to sleep," Menard said; and added, "if we
can. Father, you had better lie down. In a few hours, if there is no
word, I will wake you."
"You will not forget, M'sieu? You will not let me sleep too long."
"No." The Captain smiled. "No, Father; you shall take your turn at
guard duty."
The priest said good-night, and went to a knoll not far from the door.
The maid had settled back against the logs of the hut, and was gazing
at the trees. Menard sat in silence for a few moments.
"Mademoiselle," he said at length, "I know that it will be hard for
you to rest until we have heard; but--" he hesitated, but she did not
help him, and he had to go on,--"I wish you would try."
"It would be of no use, M'sieu."
"I know,--I know. But we have much to keep in mind. It has been very
hard. Any one of us is likely to break. And you have not been so used
to this life as the Father and I."
"I know it," she said, still looking at the elm branches that bent
almost to the ground before them, "but when I lie down, and close my
eyes, and let my mind go, it seems as if I could not stand it. It is
not bad now; I can be very cool now. You see, M'sieu?" She turned
toward him with the trace of a smile. "But when I let go--perhaps you
do not know how it is; the thoughts that come, and the dreams,--when I
am awake and yet not awake,--and the feeling that it is not worth
while, this struggle, even to what it may bring if we succeed. It
makes the night a torture, and the dread of another day is even worse.
It is better to stay awake; it is better even to break. Anything is
better."
Menard looked down between his knees at the ground. He did not
understand what it was that lay behind her words. He started to speak,
then stopped. After a little he found himself saying words that came
to his lips with no effort; in fact, he did not seem able to check
them.
"It is not right that I should be here near you. I gave up that right
to-night. I gave it up yesterday. I have been proud, during these
years of fighting, that I was a soldier. I had thought, too, that I
was a man. It was hardly a week ago that I rebuked that poor boy for
what I have since done myself. I promised Major Provost that I would
take you safely to Frontenac. That I have failed is only a little
thing. I have said to you--no, you must not stop me. We have gone
already beyond that point. We understand now. I have tried to be to
you more than--than I had a right to be while you were in my care.
Danton did not know; Father Claude does not know. You know, because I
have told you. I have shown you in a hundred ways."
"No," she said, in a choking voice. "It is my fault. I allowed you."
He shook his head.
"That is nothing. It is not what you have done. It is not even what
you think. It is what I shall think and know all my life,--that I have
done the wrong thing. There are some of us, Mademoiselle, who have no
home, no ties of family, no love, except for the work in which we are
slowly building up a good name and a firm place. That is what I was.
Do you know what it is that makes up the life of such a man? It is the
little things, the acts of every day and every week; and they must be
honest and loyal, or he will fail. I might have stayed in Paris, I
might even have found a place in Quebec where I could wear a bright
uniform, and be close in the Governor's favour. I chose the other
course. I have given a dozen years to the harder work, only to fall
within the week from all that I had hoped,--had thought myself to be.
And now, as I speak to you, I know that I have lost; that if you
should smile at me, should put your hand in mine, everything that I
have been working for would be nothing to me. You would be the only
thing in the world."
She sat motionless. He did not go on, and yet each moment seemed to
bring them closer in understanding. After a little while she said
huskily:--
"You cared--you cared like that?"
She was not looking toward him, and she could not see him slowly bow
his head; but there was an answer in his silence.
"You cared--when you made the speech--"
"Yes."
She looked at the stalwart, bowed figure. She was beginning to
understand what he had done, that in his pledge to the chiefs he had
triumphed over a love greater than she had supposed a man could bear
for a woman.
"A soldier cannot always choose his way," he was saying. "I have never
chosen mine. It was the orders of my superior that brought us here,
that brought this suffering to you. If it were not for these orders,
the Onondagas would be my friends, and because of that, your friends.
It has always been like this; I have built up that others might tear
down. I thought for a few hours that something else was to come to me.
I should have known better. It was when you took the daisy--" she
raised her hand and touched the withered flower. "I did not reason. I
knew I was breaking my trust, and I did not care. After all, perhaps
even that was the best thing. It gave me strength and hope to carry on
the fight. It was you, then,--not New France. Now the dream is over,
and again it is New France. It must be that."
"Yes," she said, "it must be."
"I have had wild thoughts. I have meant to ask you to let me hope,
once this is over and you safe at Frontenac. I could not believe that
what comes so easily to other men is never to come to me. I cannot ask
that now."
She looked at him, and a sudden glow came into her eyes.
"Why not?" she whispered, as if frightened.
"Why not," he repeated, for an instant meeting her gaze. Then he rose
and stood before her. "Because I have given an oath to bring Captain
la Grange to punishment. You heard me. But you did not hear what I
promised to Father Claude. I have sworn that what the Governor may
refuse to do, I shall do myself. I have set my hand against your
family."
"You could not help it, M'sieu,--you could not help it," she said. But
the light was going out of her eyes. It had been a moment of weakness
for both of them. She looked up at him, standing erect in the faint
light, and the sight of his square, broad shoulders seemed to give her
strength. He was the strong one; he had always been the strong one.
She rose and leaned back against the logs. She found that she could
face him bravely.
"He is your cousin," he had just said in a dry voice.
"Yes, he is my cousin."
Menard was steadily recovering himself.
"We will not give all up. You know that I love you,--I hope that you
love me." He hesitated for an instant, but she gave no sign. "We will
keep the two flowers. We will always think of this day, and yesterday.
I have no duty now but to get you safe to Frontenac; until you are
there I must not speak again. As for the rest of it, we can only wait,
and trust that some day there may be some light."
She looked at him sadly.
"You do not know? Father Claude has not told you?"
Something in her voice brought him a step nearer.
"You know that Captain la Grange is my cousin?"
"Yes."
"You did not know that I am to be his wife?"
They stood face to face, looking deep into each other's eyes, while a
long minute dragged by, and the rustling night sounds and the call of
the crickets came to their ears.
"No," he said, "I did not know. May I keep the flower, Mademoiselle?"
She bowed her head. She could not speak.
"Good-night."
"Good-night."
He walked away. She saw him stop at the knoll where the priest lay
asleep on a bed of boughs, and stand for a moment gazing down at him.
Then he went into the shadows. From the crackling of the twigs she
knew that he was walking about among the trees. She sank to the ground
and listened to the crickets. A frog bellowed in the valley; perhaps
he had been calling before--she did not know.
She fell asleep, with her cheek resting against a mossy log. She did
not know when Menard came back and stood for a long time looking at
her. He did not awaken Father Claude until long after the time for
changing the watch.
When he did, he walked up and down on the path, holding the priest's
arm, and trying to speak. They had rounded the large maple three times
before he said:--
"You did not tell me, Father."
"What, my son?"
The Captain stopped, and drawing the priest around, pointed toward the
maid as she slept.
"You did not tell me--why we are taking her to Frontenac."
"No. She asked it. We spoke of it only once, that night on the river.
She was confused, and she asked me not to speak. She does not know
him. She has not seen him since she was a child."
Menard said nothing. He was gripping the priest's arm, and gazing at
the sleeping maid.
"It was her father," added Father Claude.
Menard's hand relaxed.
"Good-night, Father." He walked slowly toward the bed on the knoll.
And Father Claude called softly after him:--
"Good-night, M'sieu. Good-night."
Menard lay awake. He could see the priest sitting by the door. He
wondered if the maid were sleeping. A late breeze came across the
valley, arousing the leaves and carrying a soft whisper from tree to
tree, until all the forest voices were joined. Lying on his side he
could see indistinctly the council-house. There were still the lighted
cracks; the Long House was still in session. Their decision did not
now seem so vital a matter. The thought of the maid--that he was
taking her to be the wife of another, and that other La Grange--had
taken the place of all other thoughts.
Later still came the buzz of many voices. Dark forms were moving about
the council-house. Menard raised himself to his elbow, and waited
until he saw a group approaching on the path, then he joined Father
Claude.
The Big Throat led the little band of chiefs to the hut. They stood,
half a score of them, in a semicircle, their blankets drawn close,
their faces, so far as could be seen in the dim light, stern and
impassive. Menard and the priest stood erect and waited.
"It has pleased the Great Mountain that his voice should be heard in
the Long House of the Iroquois," said the Big Throat, in a low, calm
voice. "His voice is gentle as the breeze and yet as strong as the
wind. The Great Mountain has before promised many things to the
Iroquois. Some of the promises he has broken, some he has kept. But
the Onondagas know that there is no man who keeps all his promises.
They once thought they knew such a man, but they were mistaken. White
men, Indians,--all speak at night with a strong voice, in the morning
with a weak voice. Each draws his words sometimes off the top of his
mind, where the truth and the strong words do not lie. The Onondagas
are not children. They know the friend from the enemy. And they know,
though he may sometimes fail them, that the Great Mountain is their
friend, their father."
Menard bowed slowly, facing the chief with self-control as firm as his
own.
"They know," the Big Throat continued, "that the Indian has not always
kept the faith with the white man. And then it is that the Great
Mountain has been a kind father. If he thinks it right that our
brothers, the Senecas, should meet with punishment for breaking the
peace promised to the white man by the Long House, the Onondagas are
not the children to say to their father, 'We care not if our brother
has done wrong; we will cut off the hand that holds the whip of
punishment.' The Onondagas are men. They say to the father, 'We care
not who it is that has done wrong. Though he be our next of blood, let
him be punished.' This is the word of the council to the Big Buffalo
who speaks with his father's voice."
Well as he knew the Iroquois temperament, Menard could not keep an
expression of admiration from his eyes. He knew what this speech
meant,--that the Big Throat alone saw far into the future, saw that in
the conflict between red and white, the redman must inevitably lose
unless he crept close under the arm that was raised to strike him. It
was no sense of justice that prompted the Big Throat's words; it was
the vision of one of the shrewdest statesmen, white or red, who had
yet played a part in the struggles for possession of the New World.
Greatest of all, only a master could have convinced that hot-blooded
council that peace was the safest course. The chief went on:--
"The Big Buffalo has spoken well to the council. He has told the
chiefs that he has not been a traitor to the brothers who have for so
long believed that his words were true words. The Big Buffalo is a
pine tree that took root in the lands of the Onondagas many winters
ago. From these lands and these waters, and the sun and winds that
give life to the corn and the trees of the Onondagas, he drew his sap
and his strength. Can we then believe that this pine tree which we
planted and which has grown tall and mighty before our eyes, is not a
pine tree at all? When a quick-tongued young brave, who has not known
the young tree as we have, comes to the council and says that this Big
Buffalo, this pine tree, is not a pine but an elm with slippery bark,
are we to believe him? Are we to drop from our minds what our hearts
and eyes have long known, to forget what we have believed? My brothers
of the Long House say no. They know that the pine tree is a pine tree.
It may be that in the haze of the distance pine and elm look alike to
young eyes; but what a chief has seen, he has seen; what he has known,
he has known. The Big Buffalo speaks the truth to his Onondaga
brothers, and with another sun he shall be free to go to his white
brothers."
"The Big Throat has a faithful heart," said Menard, quietly. "He knows
that the voice of Onontio is the voice of right and strength."
"The chiefs of the Onondagas and Cayugas will sit quietly before their
houses with their eyes turned toward the lands beyond the great lake,
waiting for the whisper that shall come with the speed of the winds
over forests and waters to tell them that the white man has kept his
promise. When the dog who robbed our villages of a hundred brave
warriors has been slain, then shall they know that the Big Buffalo is
what they have believed him to be, their brother."
"And the maid and the holy Father?"
"They are free. The chiefs are sorry that a foolish brave has captured
the white man's squaw."
Menard and Father Claude bowed again, and the chiefs turned and strode
away. The priest smiled gently after them.
"And now, M'sieu, we may rest quietly."
"Yes. You lie down, Father; it will not be necessary to watch now, and
anyway I am not likely to sleep much." He walked back to the bed on
the knoll, leaving the priest to stretch out across the doorway.
The elder bushes and briers crowded close to the little clearing
behind the hut, and Menard, lying on his side with his face close to
the ground, watched the clusters of leaves as they gently rustled. He
rolled half over and stared up at the bits of sky that showed through
the trees. It seemed as if the great world were a new thing, as if
these trees and bushes and reaches of tufted grass were a part of a
new life. Before, they had played their part in his rugged life
without asking for recognition; but to-night they came into his
thoughts with their sympathy, and he wondered that all this great
world of summer green and winter white, and of blue and green and
lead-coloured water could for so long have influenced him without
consciousness on his part. But his life had left little time for such
thoughts; to-night he was unstrung.
Over the noise of the leaves and the trickle of the spring sounded a
rustle. It was not loud, but it was a new sound, and his eyes sought
the bushes. The noise came, and stopped; came, and stopped. Evidently
someone was creeping slowly toward the hut; but the sound was on the
farther side of him, so that he could reach the maid's side before
whoever was approaching could cross the clearing.
For a time the noise died altogether. Then, after a space, his eyes,
sweeping back and forth along the edge of the brush, rested on a
bright bit of metal that for an instant caught the light of the sky,
probably a weapon or a head ornament. Menard was motionless. Finally
an Indian stepped softly out and stood beside a tree. When he began to
move forward the Captain recognized Tegakwita, and he spoke his name.
The Indian came rapidly over the grass with his finger at his lips.
"Do not speak loud," he whispered. "Do not wake the holy Father."
"Why do you come creeping upon my house at night, like a robber?"
"Tegakwita is sad for his sister. His heart will not let him go among
men about the village; it will not let his feet walk on the common
path."
"Why do you come?"
"Tegakwita seeks the Big Buffalo."
"It cannot be for an honest reason. You lay behind the bush. You saw
me here and thought me asleep, but you did not approach honestly. You
crept through the shadows like a Huron."
"Tegakwita's night eyes are not his day eyes. He could not see who the
sleeping man was. When he heard the voice, he came quickly."
Menard looked at the musket that rested in the Indian's hand, at the
hatchet and knife that hung from his belt.
"You are heavily armed, Tegakwita. Is it for the war-path or the hunt?
Do Onondaga warriors carry their weapons from house to house in their
own village?"
The Indian made a little gesture of impatience.
"Tegakwita has no house. His house has been dishonoured. He lives
under the trees, and carries his house with him. All that he has is in
his hand or his belt. The Big Buffalo speaks strangely."
Menard said nothing for a moment. He looked up, with a keen gaze, at
the erect figure of the Indian. Finally he said:--
"Sit down, Tegakwita. Tell me why you came."
"No. Tegakwita cannot rest himself until his sister has reached the
Happy Hunting-Ground."
"Very well, do as you like. But waste no more time. What is it?"
"The Big Buffalo has been an Onondaga. He knows the city in the valley
where the dead sit in their graves. It is there that my sister lies,
by an open grave, waiting for the farewell word of him who alone is
left to say farewell to her. Tegakwita's Onondaga brothers will not
gather at the grave of a girl who has given up her nation for a white
dog. But he can ask the Big Buffalo, who brought the white dog to our
village, to come to the side of the grave."
"Your memory is bad, Tegakwita. It was not I who brought the white
brave. It was you who brought him, his two hands tied with thongs."
The Indian stood, without replying, looking down at him with
brilliant, staring eyes.
Menard spoke again.
"You want me to go with you. You slip through the bushes like a snake,
with your musket and your knife and your hatchet, to ask me to go with
you to the grave of your sister. Do I speak rightly, Tegakwita?"
"The Big Buffalo has understood."
Menard slowly rose and looked into the Indian's eyes.
"I have no weapons, Tegakwita. The chiefs who have set me free have
not yet returned the musket which was taken from me. It is dangerous
to go at night through the forest without a weapon. Give me your
hatchet and I will go with you."
Tegakwita's lip curled almost imperceptibly.
"The White Chief is afraid of the night?"
Menard, too, looked scornful. He coolly waited.
"The Big Buffalo cannot face the dead without a hatchet in his hand?"
said Tegakwita.
Menard suddenly sprang forward and snatched the hatchet from the
Indian's belt. It was a surprise, and the struggle was brief.
Tegakwita was thrown a step backward. He hesitated between struggling
for the hatchet and striking with the musket; before he had fully
recovered and dropped the musket, Menard had leaped back and stood
facing him with the hatchet in his right hand.
"Now I will go with you to the city of the dead, Tegakwita."
The Indian's breath was coming quickly, and he stood with clenched
fists, taken aback by the Captain's quickness.
"Come, I am ready. Pick up your musket."
As Tegakwita stooped, Menard glanced toward the hut. The priest lay
asleep before the door. It was better to get this madman away than to
leave him free to prowl about the hut.
CHAPTER XV.
THE BAD DOCTOR.
At the edge of the thicket they stopped and stood face to face, each
waiting for the other to pass ahead. Tegakwita slightly bowed, with an
unconscious imitation of the Frenchmen he had seen at Fort Frontenac
and Montreal.
"Pass on," said Menard, sternly. "You know the trail, Tegakwita; I do
not. It is you who must lead the way."
The Indian was sullen, but he yielded, plunging forward between the
bushes, and now and then, in the shadow of some tree, glancing
furtively over his shoulder. His manner, the suspicion that showed
plainly in the nervous movements of his head, in every motion as he
glided through thicket, glade, or strip of forest, told Menard that he
had chosen well to take the second place. His fingers closed firmly
about the handle of the hatchet. That he could throw at twenty paces
to the centre of a sapling, no one knew better than Tegakwita.
The city of the dead lay in a hollow at ten minutes' walk from the
village. Generations ago the trees had been cleared, and no bush or
sapling had been allowed a foothold on this ground. The elms and oaks
and maples threw their shadows across the broad circle, and each
breath of wind set them dancing over the mounds where many an hundred
skeletons crouched side by side, under the grass-grown heaps of earth,
their rusted knives and hatchets and their mouldy blankets by their
sides. No man came here, save when a new heap of yellow earth lay
fresh-turned in the sun, and a long line of dancing, wailing redmen,
led by their howling doctors, followed some body that had come to
claim its seat among the skeletons.
Tegakwita paused at the edge of the clearing, and looked around with
that furtive quickness. Menard came slowly to his side.
"You will take your weapons to the grave?" asked Menard, very quietly,
but with a suggestion that the other understood.
"Yes. Tegakwita has no place for his weapons. He must carry them where
he goes."
"We can leave them here. The leaves will hide them. I will put the
hatchet under this log." He made a motion of dropping the hatchet,
closely watching the Indian; then he straightened, for Tegakwita's
right hand held the musket, and his left rested lightly on his belt,
not a span from his long knife.
"The White Chief knows the danger of leaving weapons to tempt the
young braves. He finds it easy to take the chance with Tegakwita's
hatchet."
"Very well," said Menard, sternly. "Lead the way."
They walked slowly between the mounds. Menard looked carefully about,
but in the uncertain light he could see no sign of a new opening in
any of them. When they had passed the centre he stopped, and said
quietly:--
"Tegakwita."
The Indian turned.
"Where is the grave?"
"It is beyond, close to the great oak."
"Ah!"
They went on. The great oak was in a dense, deep-shadowed place, at
the edge of the circle. A little to one side, close to the crowding
thicket, was a small, new mound. Looking now at Tegakwita, Menard
could see that his front was stained with the soil. Probably he had
spent the day working on the mound for his sister. While Menard stood
at one side, he went to a bush that encroached a yard on the sacred
ground and drew out a number of presents, with necessary articles and
provisions to stay the soul on its long journey to the Happy
Hunting-Ground. It was at the end of Menard's tongue to repeat
Tegakwita's remark about hiding the weapons, but he held back and
stood silently waiting.
"Come," said the Indian.
He parted the bushes, drew away a heavy covering of boughs, and there,
wrapped in Tegakwita's finest blanket, lay the body of the Indian
girl. Menard stood over it, looking down with a sense of pity he had
never before felt for an Indian. He could not see her face, for it was
pressed to the ground, but the clotted scalp showed indistinctly in
the shadow. He suddenly raised, his eyes to Tegakwita, who stood
opposite.
"What have you done with the white brave?" he said in fierce, low
tones. "What have you done with him?"
Tegakwita raised one arm and swept it about in a quarter circle.
"Ask the vultures that come when a man falls, ask the beasts that wait
for everyone, ask the dogs of the village. They can tell you, not I."
Menard's hands closed tightly, and a wild desire came to him to step
across the body and choke the man who had killed Danton; but in a
moment he was himself. He had nothing to gain by violence. And after
all, the Indian had done no more than was, in his eyes, right. He bent
down; and together they carried the body to the grave, close at hand.
Tegakwita placed her sitting upright in the hole he had dug. By her
side he placed the pots and dishes and knives which she had used in
preparing the food they two had eaten. He set the provisions before
her and in her lap; and drawing a twist of tobacco from his bosom, he
laid it at her feet to win her the favour and kindness of his own
Manitou on her journey. After each gift he stood erect, looking up at
the sky with his arms stretched out above his head; and at these
moments his simple dignity impressed Menard. But there were other
moments, when, in stooping, Tegakwita would glance about with nervous,
shifting eyes, as if fearing some interruption. His musket was always
in his hand or by his side. Menard took it that he still feared the
hatchet.
Then at last the ceremony was done, and the Indian with his bare hands
threw the earth over the hole in the mound. Still looking nervously
from bush to bush, his hands began to move more slowly; then he
paused, and sat by the mound, looking up with a hesitancy that
recognized the need of an explanation for the delay.
"Tegakwita's arms are weary."
"Are they?" said Menard, dryly.
"Tegakwita has not slept for many suns."
"Neither have I."
The Indian started as a rustle came from the forest. Menard watched
him curiously. The whole proceeding was too unusual to be easily
understood. Tegakwita's nervous manner, his request that the Captain
accompany him to the mound, the weapons that never left his
side,--these might be the signs of a mind driven to madness by his
sister's act; but Menard did not recollect, from his own observation
of the Iroquois character, that love for a sister was a marked trait
among the able-bodied braves. Perhaps it was delay that he sought. At
this thought Menard quietly moved farther from the undergrowth.
Tegakwita's quick eyes followed the movement.
"Come," said the Captain, "the night is nearly gone. I cannot wait
longer."
"Tegakwita has worked hard. His heart is sick, his body lame. Will the
Big Buffalo help his Onondaga brother?"
"Yes."
The Indian rose with too prompt relief.
"Your muscles need only the promise of help to give them back their
spring, Tegakwita."
"The White Chief speaks with a biting tongue."
"You have been speaking with a lying tongue. You think I do not know
why you have brought me here; you think I do not understand the evil
thoughts that fill your mind. You are a coward, Tegakwita. But you
will not succeed to-night."
The ill-concealed fright that came into the Indian's face and manner
told Menard that he was not wide of the mark. He began to understand.
Tegakwita wished to get him at work and off his guard,--the rest would
be simple. And as Menard well knew, more than one brave of the
Onondagas, who had known him both as friend and enemy, would shrink
when the moment came to attack the Big Buffalo single-handed, even
though taking him at a disadvantage. Now Tegakwita was hesitating, and
struggling to keep his eyes from the thicket.
"Yes, I will help you. We will close this matter now, and go back to
the village where your cowardly hands will be tied by fear of your
chiefs. Drop your musket."
"The Big Buffalo speaks in anger. Does he think to disarm Tegakwita
that he may kill him?"
"Lay your musket on the ground before us. Then I will drop the
hatchet."
Tegakwita stepped around the grave, and leaning the musket across a
stone stood by it. Menard's voice was full of contempt.
"You need not fear. The Big Buffalo keeps his word." He tossed the
hatchet over the grave, and stood unarmed. "Drop your knife."
Tegakwita hesitated. Menard took a step forward, and the knife fell to
the ground.
"Come. We will work side by side." He was surprised at Tegakwita's
slinking manner. He wondered if this Indian could by some strange
accident have been given a temperament so fine that sorrow could unman
him. To the Iroquois, gifted as they were with reasoning power, life
held little sentiment. Curiously enough, as Menard stood in the light
of the young moon watching the warrior come slowly around the grave,
which still showed above the earth the head and shoulders of the dead
girl, he found himself calling up the rare instances he had known of a
real affection between Indians.
Tegakwita stood by him, and without a word they stooped and set to
work, side by side, scraping the earth with their fingers over the
body. Tegakwita found a dozen little ways to delay. Menard steadily
lost patience.
"Tegakwita has forgotten," said the Indian, standing up; "he has not
offered the present to his sister's Oki."
"Well?" said Menard, roughly.
Tegakwita's voice trembled, as if he knew that he was pressing the
white man too far.
"The grave must be opened. It will not take long."
It came to Menard in a flash. The many delays, the anxious glances
toward the thicket,--these meant that others were coming. Something
delayed them; Tegakwita must hold the Big Buffalo till they arrived.
With never a word Menard sprang over the grave; but the Indian was
quicker, and his hand was the first on the musket. Then they fought,
each struggling to free his hands from the other's grasp, rolling over
and over,--now half erect, tramping on the soft mound, now wrestling
on the harder ground below. At last Menard, as they whirled and
tumbled past the weapons, snatched the knife. Tegakwita caught his
wrist, and then it was nigh to stabbing his own thigh as they fought
for it. Once he twisted his hand and savagely buried the blade in the
Indian's side. Tegakwita caught his breath and rallied, and the blood
of the one was on them both. At last a quick wrench bent the Indian's
wrist back until it almost snapped,--Menard thought that it had,--and
the stained blade went home once, and again, and again, until the arms
that had clung madly about the white man slipped off, and lay weakly
on the ground.
Menard was exhausted. The dirt and blood were in his hair and eyes and
ears. He was rising stiffly to his knees when the rush of Indians came
from the bushes. He could not see them clearly,--could hardly hear
them,--though he fought until a musket-stock swung against his head
and stretched him on the ground.
When he recovered they were standing about him, half a score of them,
waiting to see if he still had life. He raised a bruised arm to wipe
his eyes, but a rough hand caught it and drew a thong tightly about
his wrists. Slowly his senses awakened, and he could see indistinctly
the silent forms,--some standing motionless, others walking slowly
about. It was strange. His aching head had not the wit to meet with
the situation. Then they jerked him to his feet, and with a stout
brave at each elbow and others crowding about on every side, he was
dragged off through the bushes.
For a long time the silent party pushed forward. They were soon clear
of the forest, passing through rich wild meadows that lifted the scent
of clover, the fresher for the dew that lay wet underfoot. There were
other thickets and other forests, and many a reach of meadow, all
rolling up and down over the gentle hills. Menard tried to gather his
wits, but his head reeled; and the struggle to keep his feet moving
steadily onward was enough to hold his mind. He knew that he should
watch the trail closely, to know where they were taking him, but he
was not equal to the effort. At last the dawn came, gray and
depressing, creeping with deadly slowness on the trail of the
retreating night. The sky was dull and heavy, and a mist clung about
the party, leaving little beads of moisture on deerskin coats and
fringed leggings and long, brown musket barrels. The branches drooped
from the trees, blurred by the mist and the half dark into strange
shapes along the trail.
The day was broad awake when Menard gave way. His muscles had been
tried to the limit of his endurance during these many desperate days
and sleepless nights that he had thought to be over. He fell loosely
forward. For a space they dragged him, but the burden was heavy, and
the chief ordered a rest. The band of warriors scattered about to
sleep under the trees, leaving a young brave to watch the Big Buffalo,
who slept motionless where they had dropped him in the long grass
close at hand. On every side were hills, shielding them from the view
of any chance straggler from the Onondaga villages, unless he should
clamber down the short slopes and search for them in the mist. A
stream tumbled by, not a dozen yards from Menard and his yawning
guardian.
When he awoke, the mist had thinned, but the sky showed no blue.
Beneath the gray stretch that reached from hill crest to hill crest,
light foaming clouds scudded across from east to west, though there
was little wind near the ground. The Captain listened for a time to
the noise of the stream before looking about. He changed his position,
and rheumatic pains shot through his joints. For the second time in
his life he realized that he was growing old; and with this thought
came another. What sort of a soldier was he if he could not pass
through such an experience without paying the old man's penalty. To be
sure his head was battered and bruised, and scattered over his
shoulders and arms and hips were a dozen small wounds to draw in the
damp from the grass, but he did not think of these. In his weak,
half-awake state, he was discouraged, with the feeling that the best
of his life was past. And the thought that he, a worn old soldier,
could have dreamed what he had dreamed of the maid and her love sank
down on his heart like a weight. But this thought served another
purpose: to think of the maid was to think of her danger; and this was
to be the alert soldier again, with a plan for every difficulty as
long as he had life in his body. And so, before the mood could drag
him down, he was himself again.
Most of the Indians were asleep, sprawling about under the trees near
the water. The warrior guarding Menard appeared to be little more than
a youth. He sat with his knees drawn up and his head bowed, his
blanket pulled close around him, and his oily black hair tangled about
his eyes. Menard lay on his back looking at the Indian through
half-closed eyes.
"Well," he said in a low, distinct voice, "you have me now, haven't
you?"
The Indian gave him a quick glance, but made no reply.
"It is all right, my brother. Do not turn your eyes to me, and nothing
will be seen. I can speak quietly. A nod of your head will tell me if
anyone comes near. Do you understand?"
Again the little eyes squinted through the hanging locks of hair.
"You do understand? Very well. You know who I am? I am the Big
Buffalo. I killed half a score of your bravest warriors in their own
village. Do you think these thongs can hold the Big Buffalo, who never
has been held by thongs, who is the hardest fighter and the boldest
hunter of all the lands from the Mohawk to the Great River of the
Illinois? Listen, I will tell you how many canoes of furs the Big
Buffalo has in the north country; I will tell you--"
The Indian's head nodded almost imperceptibly. A yawning brave was
walking slowly along the bank of the stream, gathering wood for a
fire. He passed to a point a few rods below the prisoner, then came
back and disappeared among the trees.
"I will tell you," said Menard, keeping his voice at such a low pitch
that the guard had to bend his head slightly toward him, "of the great
bales of beaver that are held safe in the stores of the Big Buffalo.
Does my brother understand? Does he see that these bales are for him,
that he will be as rich as the greatest chief among all the chiefs of
the Long House? No brave shall have such a musket,--with a long,
straight barrel that will send a ball to the shoulder of a buffalo
farther than the flight of three arrows. His blanket shall be the
brightest in Onondaga; his many clothes, his knives, his hatchets, his
collars of wampum shall have no equal. He can buy the prettiest wives
in the nation. Does my brother understand?"
The fire had been lighted, and a row of wild hens turned slowly on
wooden spits over the flames. One by one the warriors were rousing and
stirring about among the trees. There were shouts and calls, and the
grumbling talk of the cooks as they held the long spits and turned
their faces away from the smoke, which rose but slowly in the damp,
heavy air. Menard lay with his eyes closed, as if asleep; even his
lips hardly moved as he talked.
"My brother must think quickly, for the time is short. All that I
promise he will have, if he will be a friend to the Big Buffalo. And
every Onondaga knows that the word of the Big Buffalo is a word that
has never been broken. My brother will be a friend. He will watch
close, and to-night, when the dark has come, he will let his knife
touch the thongs that hold the White Chief captive."
The Indian's face was without expression. Menard watched him closely,
but could not tell whether his offer was taking effect. What he had no
means of knowing was that since the battle at the hut, and the short
fight in the council-house, the younger braves had centred their
superstitions on him. It was thought that his body was occupied by
some bad spirit that gave him the strength of five men, and that he
had been sent to their village by a devil to lure the warriors into
the hands of the French. These were not the open views that would have
been heard at a council; they were the fears of the untried warriors,
who had not the vision to understand the diplomacy of the chiefs, nor
the position in the village to give them a public hearing. They had
talked together in low tones, feeding the common fear, until a few
words from the Long Arrow had aroused them into action. And so this
guard was between two emotions: the one a lust for wealth and position
in the tribe, common to every Indian and in most cases a stronger
motive than any of the nobler sentiments; the other an unreasoning
fear of this "bad doctor," the fear that to aid him or to accept furs
from him would poison the ears of his own Oki, and destroy his chance
of a name and wealth during his life, and of a long, glorious hunt
after death.
"My brother shall come with me to the land of the white men, where
there is no trouble,--where he shall have a great lodge like the white
chiefs, with coloured pictures in gold frames, and slaves to prepare
his food. He shall be a great chief among white men and redmen, and
his stores shall be filled to the doors with furs of beaver and
seal."
Menard's voice was so low and deliberate that the Indian did not
question his statements. He was tempted more strongly than he had ever
been tempted before, but with the desire grew the fear of the
consequences. As for the Captain, he was clutching desperately at this
slender chance that lay to his hand.
"I have given my brother his choice of greater power than was ever
before offered to a youth who has yet to win his name. The stroke of a
knife will do it. No one shall know, for the Big Buffalo can be
trusted. My brother has it before him to be a red chief or a white
chief, as he may wish. The warriors are near,--the day grows bright;
he must speak quickly."
There was a call from the group by the fire, and the young Indian gave
a little start, and slowly rising, walked away, yielding his place as
guard to an older man. Menard rolled over and pressed his face to the
ground as if weary; he could then watch the youth through the grass as
he moved to the fire, but in a moment he lost sight of him. The new
guard was a stern-faced brave, and his appearance promised no help; so
the Captain, having done all that could be done at the moment, tried
to get another sleep, struggling to put thoughts of the maid from his
mind. Perhaps, after all, she was safe at the village.
Meantime the youth, after a long struggle with the temptings of the
bad doctor, yielded to his superstition, and sought the Long Arrow,
who lay on the green bank of the stream. In a few moments the story
was told, and the chief, with a calm face but with twinkling eyes,
came to the prisoner and stood looking down at him.
"The White Chief is glad to be with his Onondaga brothers?" he said in
his quiet voice.
Menard slowly raised his eyes, and looked coolly at the chief without
replying.
"The tongue of the Big Buffalo is weary perhaps? It has moved so many
times to tell the Onondaga what is not true, that now it asks for
rest. The Long Arrow is kind. He will not seek to move it again. For
another sleep it shall lie at rest; then it may be that our braves
shall find a way to stir it."
Menard rolled over, with an expression of contempt, and closed his
eyes.
"The Long Arrow was sorry that his white brother was disappointed at
the torture. Perhaps he will have better fortune after he has slept
again. Already have the fires been lighted that shall warm the heart
of the White Chief. And he shall have friends to brighten him. His
squaw, too, shall feel the glow of the roaring fire, and the gentle
hands of the Onondaga warriors, who do not forget the deaths of their
own blood."
Menard lay still.
"Another sleep, my brother, and the great White Chief who speaks with
the voice of Onontio shall be with his friends. He shall hear the
sweet voice of his young squaw through the smoke that shall be her
garment. He shall hear the prayers of his holy Father by his side, and
shall know that his spirit is safe with the Great Spirit who is not
strong enough to give him his life when the Long Arrow takes it
away."
There was still a mad hope that the chief spoke lies, that the maid
and Father Claude were safe. True or false, the Long Arrow would
surely talk thus; for the Iroquois were as skilled in the torments of
the mind as of the body. He was conscious that the keen voice was
going on, but he did not follow what it said. Again he was going over
and over in his mind all the chances of escape. It might be that the
youth had been moved by his offer. But at that moment he heard the
Long Arrow saying:--
" ... Even before his death the Big Buffalo must lie as he has always
lied. His tongue knows not the truth. He thinks to deceive our young
braves with talk of his furs and his lodges and his power in the land
of the white men. But our warriors know the truth. They know that the
Big Buffalo has no store of furs, no great lodges,--that he lives in
the woods with only a stolen musket, where he can by his lies capture
the peaceful hunters of the Onondagas to make them the slaves of his
Chief-Across-the-Water."
CHAPTER XVI.
AT THE LONG LAKE.
Menard again dropped to sleep. When the day had nearly reached its
middle, he was aroused by two warriors, who pulled him roughly to his
feet. The band had evidently been astir for some moments. A few braves
were extinguishing the fire with clumps of sod, while the others
packed in their blankets what had been left from the morning meal, or
looked to the spots of rust which the damp had brought to knives and
muskets. The Long Arrow came over to inspect the thongs that held
Menard's wrists; he had not forgotten his attack on his guards on the
morning of the torture. And with a precaution that brought a half
smile to the prisoner's face, he posted a stout warrior on each side,
in addition to those before and behind. Then they set out over the
hills, wading through a great tumbling meadow where their feet sank
deep into the green and yellow and white that June had spread over the
open lands of the Iroquois. Overhead the sky, though still clouded,
was breaking, giving little glimpses of clear blue.
As they neared the crest of the first hill, the Captain looked back
over his shoulder. The sun had at last broken through to the earth,
and a great band of yellow light was moving swiftly across the valley.
Before it, all the ground was sombre in its dark green and its heavy
moisture; behind lay a stretch of golden sunshine, rounding over the
farther hills in great billows of grass and flowers and clustering
trees, glistening with dew and glowing with the young health of the
summer. Up the hillside came the sunlight; and then in a moment it had
passed them, and the air was warm and sweet.
Menard looked at the sun and then back across the valley to get his
direction. He saw that the party was moving a little to the south of
west. This line of march should take them through the Cayuga
country,--a natural move on the part of the Long Arrow, for the
Cayugas were closer to the scene of the fighting than the Onondagas,
and therefore would be less likely to interfere with the persecution
of a Frenchman, particularly before their chiefs should return from
the council.
Late in the afternoon they came to a slow-moving stream, the outlet of
an inland lake. By the basin-shape of the end of the lake, he
recognized it as one that lay directly between Onondaga and the Long
Lake of the Cayugas. On the bank of the little river, under the matted
foliage, the chief signalled a halt, and the warriors threw themselves
on the ground. Menard lay at the foot of a beech whose roots dipped in
the water, and for the hundredth time since the sun had risen he cast
about for some chance at escape. The thongs about his wrists were tied
by skilful hands. He tried to reach the knot with his fingers, but
could not. His guards were alert to every motion; they lay on either
side, and he could not lift his eyes without meeting the sullen glance
of one or the other. He was about ready to submit, trusting to his
wits to seize the first opportunity that should come; for after all,
to worry would strain his nerves, and now, if at any time, his nerves
and his strength were needed. When at last he reached this point of
view, he lay back on the weed-grown earth and went to sleep.
An hour later he was aroused for another start. Night came while they
were on the way, but they pushed steadily forward, and within a few
hours they reached the Long Lake. Instead of stopping, however, the
Long Arrow headed to the south along the bank of the lake. For a space
it was hard going through the interwoven bushes and briers that tore
even Menard's tough skin. The moon was in the sky, and here and there
he caught glimpses of the lake lying still and bright. They saw no
signs of life save for the flitting bats, and the owls that called
weirdly through the reaches of the forest. After another hour they
found a trail which led them down close to the water, and at last to a
half-cleared space, rank and wild with weed and thistle, and with
rotting heaps where lay the trunks of trees, felled a generation
earlier. Scattered about the outer edge of the clearing, close to the
circle of trees, were a few bark huts, with roofs sagging and doors
agape. One or two were rivalled in height by the weeds that choked
their windows. As Menard stood between his guards under the last tree
on the trail, looking at the deserted village where the frightened
bats rose and wheeled, and the moonlight streamed on broken roofs, he
began to understand. The Long Arrow had found a place where he could
carry out his vengeance undisturbed.
Other forms had risen from the weeds to greet the party. Looking more
closely, Menard saw that a group of Indians were dragging logs for a
fire. Evidently this was a rendezvous for two or more bands. He tried
to count the dim forms, and found them somewhat less than a score in
all. Perhaps the Long Arrow had found it not easy to raise a large
party to defy the will of the council concerning the White Chief; but
he had enough, and already the brandy was beginning to flow,--the
first stage of the orgie which should take up the rest of the night,
and perhaps the day to follow. The Long Arrow and his party at once
joined in the drinking. Confident that they would not this time be
interrupted, they would probably use all deliberation in preparing for
the torture.
A rough meal was soon ready, and all fell to. Nothing was set apart
for the prisoner; though had he been weak they would have fed him to
stay him for the torture. One of his guardians, in mock pity, threw
him a bone to which a little meat clung. He asked that his hands be
loosed, or at least tied in front of his body, but his request brought
jeers from the little group about him. Seeing that there was no hope
of aid, he rolled over and gnawed the bone where it lay on the ground.
The warriors laughed again, and one kicked it away; but Menard crawled
after it, and this time was not disturbed. A little later, two other
Indians came from the fire, and after a talk with his guards, ordered
him to his feet and led him to one of the huts. The door was of rude
boards, hung on wooden hinges, and now held in place by a short log.
One brave kicked away the log, and Menard was thrown inside with such
force that he fell headlong.
Through an opening in the roof came a wide beam of moonlight. He
looked up, and at first thought he was alone; then he saw two figures
crouching against the rear wall. His own face and head were so covered
with dust and blood that he could not have been recognized for a white
man.
"Who are you?" he said in Iroquois.
"Captain!" came in a startled voice that he knew for Father Claude's;
and a little gasp of relief from the other figure brought a thrill of
joy. He tried to raise himself, but in an instant they had come to him
and were laughing and sobbing and speaking his name. While Father
Claude seized his shoulders to lift him, the maid fell on her knees,
and with her teeth tried to cut the thongs.
"Wait, Father," she said in a mumbled voice, without pausing in her
work; "wait a moment."
Menard could feel her warm tears dropping on his hands.
"You must not, Mademoiselle," said the priest. "You must let me."
She shook her head, and worked faster, until the thongs fell away and
she could rub with her own torn hands the Captain's wrists.
"Now he may arise, Father. See--see what they have done to him."
Menard laughed. All the weight that had pressed on his heart had
lifted at the sound of her voice and the touch of her hands. The laugh
lingered until he was on his feet, and the three stood close together
in the patch of moonlight and looked each into the other's eyes--not
speaking, because there was no word so complete as the relief that had
come to them all; a relief so great, and a bond so strong that during
all the time they should live thereafter, through other days and other
times, even across the seas in lands where much should be about them
to draw a mist over the past, the moment would always be close in
their memories,--it would stand out above all other deeds and other
moments. Then the Captain held out his hands, and they each took one
in a long clasp that told them all to hope, that stirred a new, daring
thought in each heart. Father Claude at last turned away with shining
eyes. The maid stood looking up at this soldier whom she trusted, and
a little sigh passed her lips. Then she too turned, and to cover her
thoughts she hummed a gay air that Menard had heard the trumpeters
play at Quebec.
"Tell us, M'sieu," she said abruptly, "what is it? How did it
happen?"
"It is the Long Arrow."
"So we thought," said Father Claude; "but he was not with the party
that brought us here, and we could not know. They came while we were
sleeping, and bound our mouths so that we could not scream. I was at
fault, I--"
"No, Father. You cannot say that. I left you. I should have been at
your side."
"Will you tell us about it, M'sieu?" asked the maid. She was leaning
against the bark wall, looking at the two men.
Menard dropped to the ground, and in a quiet voice gave them the story
of his capture. The priest rested near him on the broken-down bench
that slanted against one wall. As the story grew, the maid came over
and sat at the Captain's feet where she could watch his face as he
talked. When he reached the account of the fight at the grave, he
paused and looked at her upturned face. Then he went on, but he did
not take up the tale where he had dropped it. He could not tell her of
Tegakwita's end. As he went on to the fight with the Long Arrow's band
and the flight through the hill country, he thought that she had
missed nothing; but when he had finished she said:--
"And Tegakwita, M'sieu? Did he come with them?"
"No," Menard replied; "he did not come. I killed him."
He had not meant to let the words come out so brutally. And now, as he
saw the frightened look, almost of horror, come into her eyes, he
suffered in a way that would not have been possible before he had
known this maid. He read her thoughts,--that she herself was the cause
of a double tragedy,--and it for the moment unmanned him. When he
could look at her again, she was more nearly herself.
"Go on, M'sieu. There is more?"
"No. There is no more, except that I am here with you. But of
yourselves? You have told me nothing."
"We have told you all there is to tell," said Father Claude. "We were
taken while we slept. They have come rapidly, but otherwise they have
not been unkind."
"You have had food?"
"Yes."
"We must think now," Menard said abruptly; "we must put our wits
together. It is late in the night, and we should be free before dawn.
Have you thought of any way?"
"Yes," replied the priest, slowly, "we have thought of one. Teganouan
is with our party. At the first he tried to keep out of sight, but of
course he could not, once we were on the way. He was a long time at
the Mission of St. Francis, and I at one time hoped that he would
prove a true believer. It was drink that led him away from us,--an old
weakness with him. This morning, when he passed me, I knew that he was
ashamed. I dared not speak to him; but since then, whenever my eyes
have met his, I have seen that look of understanding."
"I fear you will not see it to-night," said the Captain. "They are
drinking."
"Ah, but he is not. He is guarding the hut. Come, M'sieu, it may be
that we can see him now."
Menard rose, and with the priest peered through the cracks at the rear
of the hut. After a moment they saw him, standing in the shadow of a
tree.
"You are sure it is he, Father?"
"Ah, M'sieu, I should know him."
Menard rested his hand on a strip of rotting bark in the wall. The
priest saw the movement.
"Yes," he said cautiously, "it would be very simple. But you will be
cautious, M'sieu. Of course, I do not know--I cannot tell surely--and
yet it must be that Teganouan still has a warm heart. It cannot be
that he has forgotten the many months of my kindness."
While they stood there, hesitating between a dozen hasty plans, a
light step sounded, and in an instant their eyes were at the opening.
A second Indian had joined the guard, and was talking with him in a
low voice. Father Claude gripped the Captain's arm.
"See, M'sieu,--the wampum collar,--it is the Long Arrow."
Menard laid his finger on his lips. The two Indians were not a dozen
yards away. The chief swayed unsteadily as he talked, and once his
voice rose. He carried a bottle, and paused now and then to drink from
it.
"Teganouan is holding back," whispered Menard. "See, the Long Arrow
has taken his arm--they are coming--is the door fast?"
"We cannot make it fast, M'sieu. It opens outward."
Menard sprang across to the door and ran his hands over it, but found
no projection that could be used to hold it closed. He stood for a
moment, puzzling; then his face hardened, and he fell back to where
the priest and the maid stood side by side.
"They will get in, M'sieu?"
"Yes. It is better."
They did not speak again. The moccasined feet made no noise on the
cleared ground, and it seemed a long time before they could hear the
log fall from the door. There were voices outside. At last the door
swung open, and the Long Arrow, bottle in hand, came clumsily into the
hut and stood unsteadily in the square of moonlight. He looked about
as if he could not see them. Teganouan had come in behind him; and the
door swung to, creaking.
"The White Chief is the brother of the Long Arrow," said the chief,
speaking slowly and with an effort to make his words distinct. "He
loves the Onondagas. Deep in his mind are the thoughts of the young
white brave who lived in our villages and hunted with our braves and
called the mighty Big Throat his father. He never forgets what the
Onondagas have done for him. He has a grateful heart." The effort of
speaking was confusing to the chief. He paused, as if to collect his
ideas, and looked stupidly at the three silent figures before him.
"... grateful heart," he repeated. "The Long Arrow has a grateful
heart, too. He remembers the kind words of the white men who come to
his village and tell him of the love of the Great Mountain. He never
forgets that the Big Buffalo is his brother--he never forgets. When
the Big Buffalo took his son from the hunting party of the Onondagas
he did not forget."
Menard did not listen further. He was looking about the hut with
quick, shifting eyes, now at the chief in the moonlight, now at
Teganouan, who stood at one side in the shadow, now at the door. Could
Teganouan be trusted to help them? He glanced sharply at the warrior,
who was looking at his chief with an alert, cunning expression. His
musket lay carelessly in the hollow of his arm, his knife and hatchet
hung at his waist. The chief had only his knife; in his hand was the
bottle, which he held loosely, now and then spilling a few drops of
the liquor.
"The Long Arrow nev'r f'rgets,"--the chief's tongue was getting the
better of him. "His house is lonely, where the fire burns alone and
the young warr'r who once laid 's blanket,--laid 's blanket by the
fire, no long'r 's there to warm the heart of the Long Arrow. But now
his loneliness is gone. Now when he comes from the hunt to 's house
he'll find a new fire, a bright fire, and a new squaw to warm 's
heart--warm 's heart." He swayed a little as he spoke, and Teganouan
took a short step forward; but the chief drew himself up and came
slowly across the patch of moonlight. His eyes were unnaturally
bright, and they rolled uncertainly from one to another of the little
group before him. His coarse black hair was matted and tangled, and
the eagle feathers that at the council had stood erect from his head
now drooped, straggling, to one side.
The maid had understood. The two men drew close to her on each side,
and her hand rested, trembling, on Menard's arm. All three were
thinking fast. One scream, the sound of a struggle or even of loud
voices, would bring upon them the whole drunken band. As the chief
approached, the maid could feel the muscles harden on the Captain's
arm.
"Long Arrow's lonely--his fire's not bright when he comes from hunt--"
Here and there in his talk a few words were distinguishable as he
stood lurching before them. He reached out in a maudlin effort to
touch the maid's white face. She drew in her breath quickly and
stepped back; then Menard had sprung forward, and she covered her eyes
with her hands.
There was a light scuffle, but no other sound. A strong smell of
brandy filled the hut. Slowly she lifted her head, and let her hands
drop to her sides. The Long Arrow lay sprawling at her feet, his head
gashed and bleeding, and covered with broken glass and dripping
liquor. The priest had kneeled beside him, and over his bowed head she
saw Teganouan, startled, defiant, his musket halfway to his shoulder,
his eyes fixed on the door. Her eyes followed his gaze. There stood
the Captain, his back to the door, the broken neck of the bottle
firmly gripped in his hand.
She stepped forward, too struck with horror to remain silent.
"Oh, M'sieu!" she said brokenly, stretching out her hands.
He motioned to her to be quiet, and she sank down on the bench.
"Father," he said.
The priest looked up questioningly. There was a long moment of
silence, and the shouts and calls of the half-drunken revellers
without sounded strangely loud. Then, as the priest gazed at the set,
hard face of the Captain, and at the motionless Indian, he understood
of a sudden all the wild plan that was forming in the Captain's mind.
He rose slowly to his feet, and stood facing Teganouan, with the light
streaming down upon his gentle face.
"The sun has gone to sleep many times, Teganouan, since you left the
great white house of the church at St. Francis. You have heard the
counsel of evil men, who think only of the knife and the hatchet and
the musket, who have no dream but to slay their brothers." He was
speaking slowly and in a kindly voice, as a father might speak to a
son who has wandered from the right. "Have you forgotten the talk of
the holy Fathers, when they told you the words of the Book of the
Great Spirit, who is to all your Manitous and Okis as the sun is to
the stars. Have you forgotten the many moons that passed while you
lived in the great white house,--when you gave your promise, the
promise of an Onondaga, that you would be a friend to the white man,
that you would believe the words of the Great Spirit and live a
peaceful life? Have you forgotten, Teganouan, the evil days when your
enemy, the fire-water, took possession of your heart and led you away
from the white house into the lodges of them that do wrong,--how when
the good spirit returned to you and you came back to the arms of the
Faith, you were received as a son and a brother? The holy Fathers did
not say, 'This warrior has done that which he should not do. Let him
be punished. We have no place for the wrongdoer.' No; they did not say
this. They said, 'The lost is found. He that wandered from the fold
has returned.' And they welcomed the lost one, and bade him repent and
lead a right life. Have you forgotten, Teganouan?"
The Indian had slowly lowered his musket.
"Teganouan has not forgotten," he replied. "He has a grateful heart
toward the holy Fathers of the great white house. When he was sick,
they brought him their good doctor and told him to live. He believed
that the white men were his brothers, that they would do to him as the
Fathers had promised. But when Teganouan came to the white men, and
asked to be made like they were, he left behind in his village a
brother and a sister and a father who said that he was a traitor, who
said that he was false to the trust of his blood and his nation, that
he was not of their blood."
"And did he believe them? Did he not know, better than they could,
that the faith of the white man is also the faith of the redman; that
the love of the white man includes all who breathe and speak and hunt
and trade and move upon the earth?"
"Teganouan has not forgotten. He heard the words of the Fathers, and
he believed that they were true; but when the white Captain took from
the Onondagas five score of their bravest warriors and called them
slaves, when he took the brother of Teganouan, borne by the same
mother and fed by the same hand, to be a slave of the mighty
Chief-Across-the-Water, could he remember what the holy Fathers had
said,--that all men were brothers?"
"Teganouan has heard what the White Chief, the Big Buffalo, has said,
that the evil man who was treacherous to the Onondagas shall be
punished?"
"Teganouan understands. But the evil man is far from the vengeance of
the white man. The White Chief is here in our lodges."
Menard left the door and came to the priest's side. The jagged piece
of glass, his only weapon, he threw to the ground.
"Teganouan," he said slowly and firmly, looking into the Indian's
eyes, "you heard the great council at the Long House of the Five
Nations. You heard the decision of the chiefs and warriors, that they
whom Onontio had sent to bring a message of peace should be set free.
You have broken the pledge made by your council. You have attacked us
and made us prisoners, and brought us here where we may be tortured
and killed and none may know. But when the Great Mountain finds that
the Big Buffalo has not come back, when he sends his white soldier to
the villages of the Onondagas and asks what they have done to him who
brought his voice, what will you say? When the chiefs say, 'We set him
free,' and look about to find the warrior who has dared to disobey the
Long House, what will you say? When the young boys and the drunkards
with loose tongues have told the story of the death of the Long Arrow,
what will you say? Then you will be glad to flee to the white house of
the holy Fathers, knowing that they will protect you and save you when
the braves of your own blood shall pursue you."
Teganouan's eyelids had drooped, and now he was looking at the ground,
where the chief lay.
"You will come with me, Teganouan. You will fly with us over the Long
Lake, and through the forests and down the mighty rivers and over the
inland sea, and there you shall be safe; and you shall see with your
own eyes the punishment that the Great Mountain will give to the evil
man who has been false to the Onondagas."
He held out his hand, and silently waited. The priest's head was
raised, and his lips moved slowly in prayer. The maid sat rigid, her
hands tightly gripping the edge of the bench. Though he knew that
every moment brought nearer the chance of discovery, that the lives of
them all hung on a thread as slender as a hair, the Captain stood
without the twitching of a muscle, without a sign of fear or haste in
his grave, worn face.
The Indian's eyes wavered. He looked at the fallen chief, at the
priest, at Menard; then he took the offered hand. No further word was
needed. Menard did not know the thought that lay behind the cunning
face; it was enough that the Indian had given his word.
"Quick, we must hide him," said the Captain, looking swiftly about the
hut. "We must disturb you, Mademoiselle--"
In a moment the three men had lifted the body of the Long Arrow and
laid it away under the low bench. Teganouan scraped a few handfuls of
earth from a corner and spread it over the spot where the chief had
been.
"How far is it to the lake, Teganouan?"
"But a few rods."
"And the forest is thick?"
"Yes."
"We must cross the lake. Is there a canoe here?"
The Indian shook his head. Menard stood thinking for an instant.
"If you are thinking of me, M'sieu, I think I can swim with you," said
the maid, timidly.
"There is no other way, Mademoiselle. I am sorry. But we will make it
as easy as we can."
He stepped to the rear wall, and with a blow of his fist would have
broken an opening through the rotted bank, but the Indian caught his
arm.
"It is not necessary. See." He set rapidly to work, and in a few
silent moments he had unlaced the thread-like root that held the sheet
of bark in place, and lowered it to the ground. He raised himself by
the cross-pole that marked the top of the wall, and slipped through
the opening. A few quick glances through the trees, and he turned and
beckoned. Menard followed, with the knife of the Long Arrow between
his teeth; and with Father Claude's help the maid got through to where
he could catch her and lower her to the ground.
The Indian made a cautious gesture and crept slowly through the
yielding bushes. One by one they followed, the Captain lingering until
the maid was close to him and he could whisper to her to keep her
courage. They paused at the bank of the lake. The water lay sparkling
in the moonlight. Menard looked grimly out; this light added to the
danger. He found a short log close at hand and carried it to the
water.
"Come, Mademoiselle," he whispered, "and Father Claude. This will
support you. Teganouan and I will swim. Keep low in the water, and do
not splash or speak. The slightest noise will travel far across the
lake."
Slowly they waded out, dropping into the water before it was waist
deep. Teganouan's powder-horn and musket lay on the log, and the maid
herself steadied it so that they should not be lost.
CHAPTER XVII.
NORTHWARD.
Weak and chilled from the long swim through the cold water they
dragged themselves across the narrow beach to the bushes that hung
over the bank. Menard and Father Claude supported the maid, who was
trembling and clinging to them. At the bank she sank to the ground.
"It is hard, Mademoiselle, but we must not stop. It is better to be
weary than to rest in this condition. It would mean sickness."
"Yes," she said; "I know. In a moment I can go on." She looked up and
tried to smile. "It is so cold, M'sieu."
Menard turned to Teganouan.
"How far is it to the villages of the Cayugas?"
"Not far. Half a sleep."
"Is there a trail?"
"The trail is far. It passes the end of the Long Lake." He raised his
head and looked at the stars, then pointed to the southwest. "The
nearest village lies there. If we go through the forest toward the
setting sun, we shall meet the trail."
"You think it will be wise to go to the Cayugas, M'sieu?" asked Father
Claude.
"I think so. The chiefs must have returned before this time, or at
least by the morrow." He dropped into the Iroquois tongue. "Is not
this so, Teganouan? Would the chiefs of the Cayugas linger among the
Onondagas after the close of the council?"
"The Cayuga warriors await the word of the Long House. They know that
their chiefs would hasten to bring it back to them."
"Yes. It must be so, Father. And we can trust them to aid us. Perhaps
they will give us a canoe. Teganouan must tell them he is our guide,
sent by the Big Throat and the chiefs of the Onondagas to take us
safely to Frontenac."
The maid was struggling to keep awake, but her lids were heavy. Menard
came to her and stood, hesitating. She knew that he was there; she
could hear the rustle of his wet clothes, and his heavy breathing, but
she did not look up.
"Come," he said, lightly touching her shoulder, "we cannot wait here.
We must go."
She did not reply, and he hesitated again. Then he stooped and lifted
her in his arms.
"You will go ahead, Teganouan," he said, "and you, too, if you will,
Father Claude. Choose an easy trail if you can, and be careful that no
twig flies back."
They set out slowly through the forest. The priest and the Indian
laboriously broke a way, and Menard followed, holding the maid
tenderly, and now and then, in some lighter spot where a beam of
moonlight fell through the foliage, looking down at her gentle, weary
face. She was sleeping; and he prayed that no sad dreams might come to
steal her rest. His arms ached and his knees gave under him, but he
had hardly a thought for himself. At last, after a long, silent march,
the priest stopped, and said, supporting himself with one thin hand
against a tree:--
"You are weary, M'sieu. You must let me take Mademoiselle."
"No, Father, no. I have been thinking. I am afraid it is not right
that she should sleep now. Even though she fail in the effort,
exercise of her muscles is all that will prevent sickness. And yet I
cannot,"--he looked again at her face as it rested against his
shoulder,--"I cannot awaken her now."
The Father saw the sorrow in the Captain's eyes, and understood.
"I will take her, M'sieu."
Carefully Menard placed her in Father Claude's arms and turned away.
"Teganouan," he said, trying to recover his self-possession, "should
we not be near the trail?"
"Yes, more than half the way."
"Can we reach it more quickly by heading a little to the north?"
"We would reach the trail, yes; but the way would be longer."
"Never mind; once on the trail it will be easier than in this forest.
Turn to the north, Teganouan."
He could hear the maid's voice, protesting sleepily, and Father Claude
talking quietly to her. He looked around. The priest said in a low
tone:--
"Come, M'sieu, it is hard to awaken her."
"We must frighten her, then."
He caught her shoulders and shook her roughly. Slowly her eyes opened,
and then the two men dragged her forward. At first she thought herself
back among the Onondagas, and she begged them not to take her away,
hanging back and forcing them almost to carry her. It cut Menard to
the heart, but he pushed steadily forward. Later she yielded, and with
a dazed expression obeyed. Once or twice she stumbled, and would have
fallen but for the strong hands that held her. Father Claude rested
his hand on her forehead as they walked, and Menard gave him an
anxious, questioning glance. The priest shook his head.
"No," he said, "there is no fever. I trust that it is nothing worse
than exhaustion."
Menard went on with relief in his eyes.
In less than half an hour after reaching the trail, they came upon the
outlying huts of the village. Over the hills to the east the dawn was
breaking, and all the sleeping birds and beasts and creeping things of
the forest were stirring into life and movement. Teganouan went ahead
of the party and soon roused a member of the Cayuga branch of his
clan, the family of the Bear. Through the yawning services of this
warrior they were guided to an unused hut. Teganouan searched farther,
and returned with a heap of blankets for the maid, who had dropped to
the ground before the hut. Menard carried her within and made her as
comfortable as possible, then withdrew and closed the door.
"Have the chiefs returned from the council at the village of the
Onondagas?" he asked of the warrior, who stood at one side watching
them with curiosity in his gaze.
The Cayuga bowed.
"Will my brother carry a message from the White Chief, the Big
Buffalo, to his chiefs? Will he tell them, as soon as the sun has
risen, that the Big Buffalo has come to talk with them?"
The warrior bowed and walked away.
"We are safe now, I think, Father. We must get what little sleep we
can between now and sunrise."
"Should not one of us watch, M'sieu?"
"We are not fit for it. We have hard work before us, and many a chance
yet to run."
"Teganouan will watch," said the Indian.
Menard's face showed surprise, but Father Claude whispered, "He has
learned at the mission to understand our language."
They lay on the ground before the hut, in their wet clothes, and in a
moment were asleep. Teganouan built a fire close at hand, and sat by
it without a motion, excepting the alert shifting glances of his
bead-like eyes, until, when the colours in the east had faded into
blue and the sun was well above the trees, he saw the chiefs of the
village coming slowly toward him between the huts, a crowd of young
men following behind them, and a snarling pack of dogs running before.
He aroused Menard and Father Claude.
The chiefs sat in a circle about the fire, the two white men among
them. The other Indians sat and stood in a wider circle, just within
earshot, and waited inquisitively for the White Chief to state his
errand.
"My brothers, the white men, have asked to speak with the chiefs of
the Cayugas," said the spokesman, a wrinkled old warrior, whom Menard
recognized as one of the speakers at the Long House.
"The Big Buffalo is on his way to the stone house of Onontio. He is
far from the trail. His muskets and his knives and hatchets were taken
from him by the Onondagas and were not returned to him. He asks that
the chiefs of the Cayugas permit him to use one of their many canoes,
that he may hasten to carry to Onontio the word of the Long House."
"The White Chief comes to the Cayugas, who live two sleeps away from
their brothers, the Onondagas, to ask for aid. Have the Onondagas then
refused him? Why is my brother so far from the trail?"
"The chiefs of the Cayugas sat in the Long House; they heard the words
of the great council, that the Big Buffalo and the holy Father and the
white maiden should be set free. They know that what is decided in the
council is the law of the nation, that no warrior shall break it."
The little circle was silent with attention, but none of the chiefs
replied.
"It was still in the dark of the night when the Big Throat came to the
lodge of the Big Buffalo, and gave him the pledge of the council that
he should be free with the next sun. The Big Buffalo once learned to
believe the pledge of the Iroquois. When the mighty Big Throat said
that he was free, he believed. He did not set a guard to sit with
wakeful eyes through the night in fear that the pledge was not true.
No, the Big Buffalo is a warrior and a chief; he is not a woman. He
trusted his red brothers, and rested his head to sleep. Then in the
dark came a chief, a dog of a traitor, and took away his white brother
and his white sister while their eyes were still heavy with sleep, and
carried them far over the hills to the lake of the Cayugas. Here they
hid like serpents in the long grass, and thought that they would kill
them. But the Big Buffalo is a warrior. Without a knife or a musket or
a hatchet he killed the Long Arrow and came across the Long Lake. He
knew that the Cayugas were his brothers, that they would not break the
pledge of the Long House."
The grave faces of the Indians showed no surprise, save for a slight
movement of the eyes on the part of one or two of the younger men,
when the Long Arrow was mentioned. Most of them had lighted their
pipes before sitting down, and now they puffed in silence.
"The White Chief speaks strangely," the spokesman said at last. "He
tells the Cayugas that their brothers, the Onondagas, have broken the
pledge of the council."
"Yes."
"He asks for aid?"
"No," said Menard, "he does not ask for aid. He asks that the Iroquois
nation restore to him what the dogs of the Long Arrow have taken away.
He has spoken to the Long House in the voice of the Great Mountain. He
has the right of a free man, of a chief honoured by the council, to go
freely and in peace. What if those who do not respect the law of the
council shall rob him of his rights? Must he go on his knees to the
chiefs? Must he ask that he be allowed to live? Must he go far back on
his trail to seek aid of the Onondagas, because the Cayugas will not
hold to the law?"
One of the great lessons learned during Menard's work under Governor
Frontenac had been that the man who once permits himself to be lowered
in the eyes of the Indians has forever lost his prestige. Now he sat
before the chiefs of a great village, weak from the strain of the long
days and nights of distress and wakefulness and hunger, his clothing
still wet and bedraggled, with no weapon but a knife, no canoe, not to
speak of presents,--with none of the equipment which to the Indian
mind suggested authority,--and yet made his demands in the stern voice
of a conqueror. He knew that these Indians cared not at all whether
the word of the council to him had been broken or kept, unless he
could so impress them with his authority that they would fear
punishment for the offence.
"The Big Buffalo is a mighty warrior," said the spokesman. "His hard
hands are greater than the muskets and hatchets of the Cayugas. He
fights with the strength of the winter wind; no man can stand where
his hand falls. He speaks wisely to the Cayugas. They are sorry that
their brothers, the Onondagas, have so soon forgotten the word of the
great council, Let the Big Buffalo rest his arms. The warriors of the
Cayugas shall be proud to offer him food."
They all rose, and after a few grunted words of friendship, filed away
to go over the matter in private council. Menard saw that they were
puzzled; perhaps they did not believe that he had killed the Long
Arrow. He turned to Teganouan, who had been sitting a few yards away.
"Teganouan, will you go among the braves of the village and tell them
that the Big Buffalo is a strong fighter, that he killed the Long
Arrow with his hands? It may be that they have not believed."
This was the kind of strategy Teganouan understood. He walked slowly
away, puffing at his pipe, to mingle among the people of the village
and boast in bold metaphors the prowess of his White Chief.
"They will give us a canoe," said Father Claude.
"Yes, they must. Now, let us sleep again."
They dropped to the ground, and Menard looked warningly at the circle
of young boys who came as close as they dared to see this strange
white man, and to hear him talk in the unpronounceable language.
Father Claude's eyes were first to close. The Captain was about to
join him in slumber when a low voice came from the door.
"M'sieu."
He started up and saw the maid holding the door ajar and leaning
against it, her pale face, framed in a tangle of soft hair, showing
traces of the wearing troubles of the days just passed.
"Ah, Mademoiselle, you must not waken. You must sleep long, and rest,
and grow bright and young again."
She smiled, and looked at him timidly.
"I have been dreaming, M'sieu," she said, and her eyes dropped, "such
an unpleasant dream. It was after we had crossed the lake--We did
cross it, M'sieu, did we not? That, too, was not a dream? No--see, my
hair is wet."
"No," he said, "that was not a dream."
"We were on the land, and I was so tired, and you talked to
me--something good--I cannot remember what it was, but I know that you
were good. And I thought that I--that I said words that hurt you,
unkind words. And when I wished and tried to speak as I felt, only the
other words would come. That was a dream, M'sieu, was it not? It has
been troubling me. You have been so kind, and I could not sleep
thinking that--that--"
"Yes," he said, "that was a dream."
She looked at him with relief, but as she looked she seemed to become
more fully awake to what they were saying. Her eyes lowered again, and
the red came over her face.
"I am glad," she said, so low that he hardly heard.
"And now you will rest, Mademoiselle?"
She smiled softly, and drew back within the hut, closing the heavy
door. And Menard turned away, unmindful of the wide-eyed boys who were
staring from a safe distance at him and at the door where the strange
woman had appeared. He sat with his back against the logs of the hut,
and looked at the ants that hurried about over the trampled ground.
The sun was high when he was aroused by Teganouan, who had spent the
greater part of the morning among the people of the village.
"Have you any word, Teganouan?"
"Yes. The warriors have learned of the strength of the Big Buffalo,
and his name frightens them. They bow to the great chief who has
killed the Long Arrow without a hatchet. They say that the Onondagas
should be punished for their treachery."
"Good."
"Teganouan has been talking long with a runner of the Seneca nation."
"Ah, he brings word of the fight?"
"Yes. The Senecas have suffered under the iron hand of the Great
Mountain. A great army takes up the hatchet when he goes on the
war-path, more than all the Senecas and Cayugas and Onondagas together
when every brave who can hold in his hand a bow or a musket has come
to fight with his brothers. There were white warriors so many that the
runner could not have counted them with all the sticks in the Long
House. There were men of the woods in the skins and beads of the
redmen; there were Hurons and Ottawas and Nipissings, and even the
cowardly Illinois and the Kaskaskias and the Miamis from the land
where the Great River flows past the Rock Demons. The Senecas fought
with the strength of the she-bear, but their warriors were killed,
their corn was trampled and cut, their lodges were burned."
"Did the Great Mountain pursue them?"
"He has gone back to his stone house across the great lake, leaving
the land black and smoking. The Senecas have come to the western
villages of the Cayugas."
"There are none in this village?"
"No. But the chiefs have sent blankets to their brothers, and as much
corn as a hundred braves could carry over the trail. They have taken
from their own houses to give to the Senecas."
A few moments later two young men came with baskets of sagamity and
smoked meat. Menard received it, and rising, knocked gently at the
door.
"Yes, M'sieu,--I am not sleeping."
He hesitated, and she came to the door and opened it.
"Ah, you have food, M'sieu! I am glad. I have been so hungry."
"Come, Father," said the Captain, and they entered and sat on the long
bench, eating the smoky, greasy meat as eagerly as if it had been
cooked for the Governor's table. Their spirits rose as the baskets
emptied, and they found that they could laugh and joke about their
ravenous hunger.
The chiefs returned shortly after, and came stooping into the hut in
the free Indian fashion. The old chief spoke:--
"The Big Buffalo has honoured the lodges of the Cayugas; he has made
the village proud to offer him their corn and meat. It would make
their hearts glad if he would linger about their fires, with the holy
Father and the squaw, that they might tell their brothers of the great
warrior who dwelt in their village. But the White Chief bears the word
of the Long House. He goes to the stone house to tell his white
brothers, who fight with the thunder, that the Cayugas and the
Onondagas are friends of the white men, that they have given a pledge
which binds them as close as could the stoutest ropes of deerskin. And
so with sad hearts they come to say farewell to the Big Buffalo, and
to wish that no dog may howl while he sleeps, that no wind may blow
against his canoe, that no rains may fall until he rests with his
brothers at the great stone house beyond the lake."
"The Big Buffalo thanks the mighty chiefs of the Cayugas," replied
Menard. "He is glad that they are his friends. And when his mouth is
close to the ear of the Great Mountain, he will tell him that his
Cayuga sons are loyal to their Father."
The chief had lighted a long pipe. After two deliberate puffs, the
first upward toward the roof of the hut, the second toward the ground,
he handed it to Menard, who followed his example, and passed it to the
chief next in importance. As it went slowly from hand to hand about
the circle, the Captain turned to the maid, who sat at his side.
"Do they mean it, M'sieu?" she whispered.
For an instant a twinkle came into his eye; she saw it, and smiled.
"Careful," he whispered.
Before she could check the smile, a bronze hand reached across to her
with the pipe. She started back and looked down at it.
"You must smoke it," Menard whispered. "It is a great honour. They
have admitted you to their council."
"Oh, M'sieu--I can't--" she took the pipe and held it awkwardly; then,
with an effort, raised it to her mouth. It made her cough, and she
gave it quickly to the Captain.
The Indians rose gravely and filed out of the hut.
"Come, Mademoiselle, we are to go."
The smoke had brought tears to her eyes, and she was hesitating,
laughing in spite of herself.
"Oh, M'sieu, will--will it make me sick?"
He smiled, with a touch of the old light humour.
"I think not. We must go, or they will wonder."
They found the chiefs waiting before the hut, Father Claude and
Teganouan among them. As soon as they had appeared, the whole party
set out through the village and over a trail through the woods to the
eastward. The ill-kept dogs played about them, and plunged, barking,
through the brush on either side. Behind, at a little distance, came
the children and hangers-on of the village, jostling one another to
keep at the head where they could see the white strangers.
When they reached the bank of the lake, they found two canoes drawn up
on the narrow strip of gravel, and a half-dozen well-armed braves
waiting close at hand. The chief paused and pointed toward the
canoes.
"The Cayugas are proud that the White Chief will sail in their canoes
to the land of the white men. The bravest warriors of a mighty village
will go with them to see that no Onondaga arrow flies into their camp
by night."
He signalled to a brave, who brought forward a musket and laid it,
with powder-horn and bullet-pouch, at the Captain's feet.
"This musket is to tell the Big Buffalo that no wild beast shall
disturb his feast, and that meat in plenty shall hang from the
smoking-pole in his lodge."
The canoes were carried into the water and they embarked,--Menard, the
maid, and two braves in one, Father Claude and four braves in the
other. They swung out into the lake, the wiry arms and shoulders of
the canoemen knotting with each stroke of the paddles; and the crowd
of Indians stood on the shore gazing after until they had passed from
view beyond a wooded point.
A few hours should take them to the head of the lake. They had reached
perhaps half the distance, when Menard saw that two of his canoemen
had exchanged glances and were looking toward the shore. He glanced
along the fringe of trees and bushes, a few hundred yards distant,
until his eyes rested on three empty canoes. He called to Father
Claude's canoe, and both, at his order, headed for the shore. As they
drew near, half a score of Indians came from the brush.
"Why," said the maid, "there are some of the men who brought us to the
lake."
"Yes," replied Menard, "it is the Long Arrow's band."
He leaped out of the canoe before it touched the beach, and walked
sternly up to the group of warriors. He knew why they were there. It
was what he had expected. When they had discovered the death of the
Long Arrow there had been rage and consternation. Disputes had
followed, the band had divided, and a part had crossed the lake to
hunt the trail of the Big Buffalo. He folded his arms and gave them a
long, contemptuous look.
"Why do the Onondagas seek the trail of the Big Buffalo? Do they think
to overtake him? Do they think that all their hands together are
strong enough to hold him? Did they think that they could lie to the
White Chief, could play the traitor, and go unpunished?"
Only one or two of the Onondagas had their muskets in their hands.
They all showed fright, and one was edging toward the wood. The
Cayugas in the canoes, at a word from Father Claude, had raised their
muskets. Menard saw the movement from the corner of his eye, and for
the moment doubted the wisdom of the action. It was a question whether
the Cayugas could actually be brought to fire on their Onondaga
brothers. Still, this band had defied the law of the council, and
might, in the eyes of the Indians, bring down another war upon the
nation by their act. While he spoke, the Captain had been deciding on
a course. He now walked boldly up to the man who was nearest the
bushes, and snatched away his musket. There was a stir and a murmur,
but without heeding, he took also the only other musket in the party,
and stepped between the Indians and the forest.
"Stand where you are, or I will kill you. One man"--he pointed to a
youth--"will go into the forest and bring your muskets to the
canoes."
They hesitated, but Menard held his piece ready to fire, and the
Cayugas did the same. At last the youth went sullenly into the bushes
and brought out an armful of muskets.
"Count them, Father," Menard called in French.
The priest did so, and then ran his eye over the party on the beach.
"There are two missing, M'sieu."
Menard turned to the youth, who, though he had not understood the
words, caught their spirit and hurried back for the missing weapons.
Then the Captain walked coolly past them, and took his place in the
canoe. For a long time, as they paddled up the lake, they could see
the Onondagas moving about the beach, and could hear their angry
voices.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE ONLY WAY.
When at last the canoe slipped from the confines of river and hills
and forest out upon the great Lake Ontario, where the green water
stretched flat, east and north and west to the horizon, the Cayuga
warriors said farewell and turned again to their own lands. It was at
noon of a bright day. The water lay close to the white beach, with
hardly a ripple to mar the long black scallops of weed and drift which
the last storm had left on the sand. The sky was fair and the air
sweet.
In the one canoe which the Cayugas had left to them, the little party
headed to the east, now skimming close to the silent beach, now
cutting a straight path across some bay from point to point, out over
the depths where lay the sturgeon and the pickerel and trout and
whitefish. The gulls swooped at them; then, frightened, soared away in
wide, rushing circles, dropping here and there for an overbold minnow.
The afternoon went by with hardly the passing of a word. Each of them,
the Captain, the maid, the priest, looked over the burnished water,
now a fair green or blue sheet, now a space of striped yellow and
green and purple, newly marked by every phase of sun and cloud; and to
each it meant that the journey was done. Here was solitude, with none
of the stir of the forest to bring companionship; but as they looked
out to the cloud-puffs that dipped behind the water at the world's
end, they knew that far yonder were other men whose skins were white,
for all of beard and tan, whose tongue was the tongue of Montreal, of
Quebec, of Paris,--and neither tree nor rock nor mountain lay between.
The water that bore them onward was the water that washed the beach at
Frontenac. Days might pass and find them still on the road; but they
would be glorious days, with the sun overhead and the breeze at their
backs, and at evening the wonder of the western sky to make the water
golden with promise. As they swung their paddles, the maid with them,
their eyes were full of dreams,--all save Teganouan. His eyes were
keen and cunning, and when they looked to the north it was not with
thoughts of home. It may be that he was dreaming of the deed which
might yet win back his lost name as an Onondaga warrior.
The sun hung over the lake when at last the canoe touched the beach.
They ate their simple meal almost in silence, and then sat near the
fire watching the afterglow that did not fade from the west until the
night was dark and the moon high over the dim line that marked the
eastern end of the lake. The sense of relief that had come to them
with the first sight of the lake was fading now. They were thinking of
Frontenac, and of what might await them there,--the priest soberly,
the maid bravely, the Captain grimly. Later, when the maid had said
good-night, and Father Claude had wandered down the beach to the
water's edge, Menard dragged a new log to the fire and threw it on,
sending up the flame and sparks high above the willows of the bank. He
stretched out and looked into the flames.
Teganouan, who had been lying on the sand, heard a rustle far off in
the forest and raised his head. He heard it again, and rose, standing
motionless; then he took his musket and came toward the fire. The
Captain lay at full length, his chin on his hands. He was awake, for
his eyes were open, but he did not look up. The Indian hesitated, and
stood a few yards away looking at the silent figure, as if uncertain
whether to speak. Finally he stepped back and disappeared among the
willows.
Half an hour went by. Father Claude came up the beach, walking
slowly.
"It is growing late, M'sieu, for travellers."
Menard glanced up, but did not reply. The priest was looking about the
camp.
"Where is Teganouan, M'sieu? Did you give him permission to go away?"
"No; he is here,--he was here." Menard rose. "You are right, he has
gone. Has he taken his musket?"
"I think so. I do not see it."
"He left it leaning against the log. No; it is not there. Wait,--do
you hear?"
They stood listening; and both caught the faint sound of a body moving
between the bushes that grew on the higher ground, close to the line
of willows. Menard took up his musket and held it ready, for they had
not left the country of the Iroquois.
"Here he comes," whispered Father Claude. "Yes, it is Teganouan."
The Indian was running toward them. He dropped his musket, and began
rapidly to throw great handfuls of sand upon the fire. The two white
men sprang to aid him, without asking an explanation. In a moment the
beach was lighted only by the moon. Then Menard said:--
"What is it, Teganouan?"
"Teganouan heard a step in the forest. He went nearer, and there were
more. They are on the war-path, for they come cautiously and slowly."
"Father, will you keep by the maid? We must not disturb her now. You
had better heap up the sand about the canoe so that no stray ball can
reach her."
The priest hurried down the beach, and Menard and the Indian slipped
into the willows, Menard toward the east, Teganouan toward the west,
where they could watch the forest and the beach on all sides. The
sound of an approaching party was now more distinct. There would be a
long silence, then the crackle of a twig or the rustle of dead leaves;
and Menard knew that the sound was made by moccasined feet. He was
surprised that the invaders took so little caution; either they were
confident of finding the camp asleep, or they were in such force as to
have no fear. While he lay behind a scrub willow conjecturing, Father
Claude came creeping up behind him.
"I will watch with you, M'sieu. It will make our line longer."
"Is she safe?"
"Yes. I have heaped the sand high around the canoe, even on the side
toward the water."
"Good. You had better move off a little nearer the lake, and keep a
sharp eye out. It may be that they are coming by water as well, though
I doubt it. The lake is very light. I will take the centre. You have
no musket?"
"No; but my eyes are good."
"If you need me, I shall be close to the bushes, a dozen yards farther
inland."
They separated, and Menard took up his new position. Apparently the
movement had stopped. For a long time no sound came, and then, as
Menard was on the point of moving forward, a branch cracked sharply
not twenty rods away. He called in French:--
"Who are you?"
For a moment there was silence, then a rush of feet in his direction.
He could hear a number of men bounding through the bushes. He cocked
his gun and levelled it, shouting this time in Iroquois:--
"Stand, or I will fire!"
"I know that voice! Drop your musket!" came in a merry French voice,
and in another moment a sturdy figure, half in uniform and half in
buckskin, bearded beyond recognition, had come crashing down the
slope, throwing his arms around the Captain's neck so wildly that the
two went down and rolled on the sand. Before Menard could struggle to
his feet, three soldiers had followed, and stood laughing, forgetting
all discipline, and one was saying over and over to the other:--
"It is Captain Menard! Don't you know him? It is Captain Menard!"
"You don't know me, Menard, I can see that. I wish I could take the
beard off, but I can't. What have you done with my men?"
Now Menard knew; it was Du Peron.
"I left them at La Gallette," he said.
"I haven't seen them--oh, killed?"
Menard nodded.
"Come down the beach and tell me about it. What condition are you in?
Have you anybody with you?" Before Menard could answer, he said to one
of the soldiers:--
"Go back and tell the sergeant to bring up the canoes."
They walked down the beach, and the other soldiers set about building
a new fire.
"Perhaps I'd better begin on you," Menard said. "What are you doing
here? And what in the devil do you mean by coming up through the woods
like a Mohawk on the war-path?"
The Lieutenant laughed.
"My story isn't a long one. I'm cleaning up our base of supplies at La
Famine. We've got a small guard there. The main part of the rear-guard
is back at Frontenac."
"Where is the column?"
"Gone to Niagara, Denonville and all, to build a fort. They'll give it
to De Troyes, I imagine. It's a sort of triumphal procession through
the enemy's country, after rooting up the Seneca villages and fields
and stockades until you can't find an able-bodied redskin this side of
the Cayugas. Oh, I didn't answer your other question. What do you
think of these?" He held out a foot, shod in a moccasin. "You'd never
know the King's troops now, Menard. We're wearing anything we can pick
up. I've got a dozen canoes a quarter of a league down the lake. I saw
your fire, and thought it best to reconnoitre before bringing the
canoes past." He read the question in Menard's glance. "We are not
taking out much time for sleep, I can tell you. It's all day and all
night until we get La Famine cleared up. There is only a handful of
men there, and we're expecting every day that the Cayugas and
Onondagas will sweep down on them."
"They won't bother you," said Menard.
"Maybe not, but we must be careful. For my part, I look for trouble.
The nations stand pretty closely by each other, you know."
"They won't bother you now."
"How do you know?"
"What did I come down here for?"
"They didn't tell me. Oh, you had a mission to the other nations? But
that can't be,--you were captured."
Menard lay on his side, and watched the flames go roaring upward as
the soldiers piled up the logs.
"I could tell you some things, Du Peron," he said slowly. "I suppose
you didn't know,--for that matter you couldn't know,--but when the
column was marching on the Senecas, and our rear-guard of four hundred
men--"
"Four hundred and forty."
"The same thing. You can't expect the Cayugas to count so sharply as
that. At that time the Cayugas and Onondagas held a council to discuss
the question of sending a thousand warriors to cut off the rear-guard
and the Governor's communications."
The Lieutenant slowly whistled.
"How did they know so much about it, Menard?"
"How could they help it? Our good Governor had posted his plans on
every tree. You can see what would have happened."
"Why, with the Senecas on his front it would have been--" He paused,
and whistled again.
"Well,--you see. But they didn't do it."
"Why not?"
"Because I spoke at that council."
"You spoke--but you were a prisoner, weren't you?"
"Yes."
The Lieutenant sat staring into the fire. Slowly it came to him what
it was that the Captain had accomplished.
"Why, Menard," he said, "New France won't be able to hold you, when
this gets out. How you must have gone at them. You'll be a major in a
week. You're the luckiest man this side of Versailles."
"No, I'm not. And I won't be a major. I'm not on the Governor's pocket
list. But I don't care about that. That isn't the reason I did it."
"Why did you do it then?"
"I--That's the question I've been asking myself for several days, Du
Peron."
The Lieutenant was too thoroughly aroused to note the change in the
Captain's tone.
"You don't see it right now, Menard. Wait till you've reached the
city, and got into some clothes and a good bed, and can shake hands
with d'Orvilliers and Provost and the general staff,--maybe with the
Governor himself. Then you'll feel different. You're down now. I know
how it feels. You're all tired out, and you've got the Onondaga dirt
rubbed on so thick that you're lost in it. You wait a few weeks."
"Did the Governor have much trouble with the Senecas?"
"Oh, he had to fight for it. He was--My God, Menard, what about the
girl? I was so shaken up at meeting you like this that it got away
from me. The column had hardly got to the fort on their way up from
Montreal before everyone was asking for you. La Grange had a letter
from her father saying that she was with you, and he's been in a bad
way. He says that he was to have married her, and that you've got away
with her. It serves him right, the beast. One night, at La Famine, he
was drunk, and he came around to all of us reading that letter at the
top of his voice and swearing to kill you the moment he sees you. He's
been talking a good deal about that."
"She is here, asleep."
"Thank God."
"Where is La Grange now?"
"He's over at Frontenac. He got into trouble before we left La Famine.
He's drinking hard now, you know. He had command of a company that was
working on the stockades, and he made such a muss of it that his
sergeant had to take hold and handle it to get the work done at all.
You can imagine what bad feeling that made in his company. Played the
devil with his discipline. Well, he took it like a child. But that
night, when he got a little loose on his legs, he hunted up the
sergeant and made him fight. The fellow wouldn't until La Grange came
at him with his sword, but then he cracked his head with a musket."
"Hurt him?"
"Yes. They took him up to Frontenac. He's in the hospital now, but
it's pretty generally understood that d'Orvilliers won't let him go
out until the Governor gets back from Niagara. He's well enough
already, they say. It's hard on the sergeant, too; no one blames
him."
Du Peron looked around and saw Teganouan lying near.
"Who's this Indian?" he asked in a low tone.
"He is with me. A mission Indian."
"Does he know French? Has he understood us?"
"I don't know. I suppose so. Here is Father Claude de Casson. You
remember him, don't you?"
"Yes, indeed."
The Lieutenant rose to greet the priest, and then the three sat
together.
"You asked me about the fight, didn't you, Menard? I don't seem able
to hold to a subject very long to-night. We struck out from La Famine
on the morning of the twelfth of July. You know the trail that leads
south from La Famine? We followed that."
Menard smiled at the leaping fire.
"Don't laugh, Menard; that was no worse than what we've done from the
start. The Governor never thought but what we'd surprise them as
much on that road as on another. And after all, we won, though it did
look bad for a while. There was a time, at the beginning of the
fight,--well, I'm getting ahead of myself again. We were in fairly
good order. Callières had the advance with the Montreal troops. He
threw out La Durantaye, with Tonty and Du Luth,--the _coureurs de
bois_, you know,--to feel the way. La Durantaye had the mission
Indians, from Sault St. Louis and the Montreal Mountain, on his left,
and the Ottawas and Mackinac tribes on his right."
"How did the Ottawas behave?"
"Wretchedly. They ran at the first fire. I'll come to that. The others
weren't so bad, but there was no holding them. They spread through the
forest, away out of reach. Perrot had the command, but he could only
follow after and knock one down now and then."
"The Governor took command of the main force?"
"Yes. And he carried his bale like the worst of us; I'll say that for
him. It was hot, and we all drooped a bit before night. And he made a
good fight, too, if you can forgive him that bungling march. When we
bivouacked, some of Du Luth's boys scouted ahead. They got in by
sunrise. They'd been to the main village of the Senecas on the hill
beyond the marsh,--you know it, don't you?"
"Yes."
"And they saw nothing but a few women and a pack of dogs. The Governor
was up early,--he's not used to sleeping out doors in the mosquito
country,--sitting on a log at the side of the trail, talking with
Granville and Berthier. I wasn't five yards behind them, trying to
scrape the mud off my boots--you know how that mud sticks, Menard.
Well, when the scouts came in with their story, the Governor stood up.
'Take my order to La Durantaye,' he said, 'that he is to move on with
all caution, that the surprise may be complete. He will push forward,
following the trail. You,' he said, to a few aides who stood by, 'will
see that the command is aroused as silently as possible.' Well, I
didn't know whether to laugh at the Governor or pity myself and the
boys. Any man but the crowd of seigniors that he had about him would
have foreseen what was coming. I knew that the devils were waiting for
us, probably at one of the ravines where the trail runs through that
group of hills just this side of the marsh. You know the place,--every
one of us knows it. But what could we say? I'd have given a month's
pay to have been within ear-shot of La Durantaye when he got the
order. La Valterie told me about it afterward. 'What's this?' he says,
'follow the trail? I'll go to the devil first. There's a better place
for my bones than this pest-ridden country.' He calls to Du Luth:
'Hear this, Du Luth. We're to "push forward, following the trail."' I
can fairly hear him say it, with his eyes looking right through the
young aide. 'Not I,' says Du Luth, 'I'm going around the hills and
come into the village over the long oak ridge!' 'You can't do it. I
have the Governor's order.' And then Du Luth drew himself up, La
Valterie says, and looked the aide (who wasn't used to this kind of a
soldier, and wished himself back under the Governor's petticoats) up
and down till the fellow got red as a Lower Town girl. 'Tell your
commanding officer,' says Du Luth, in his big voice, 'that the advance
will "push forward, following the trail,"--and may God have mercy on
our poor souls!'
"Well, Menard, they did it, nine hundred of them. And we came on, a
quarter of a league after, with sixteen hundred more. We got into the
first defile, and through it, with never a sound. Then I was sure of
trouble in the second, but long after the advance had had time to get
through, everything was still. There was still the third defile, just
before you reach the marsh, and my head was spinning, waiting for the
first shot and wondering where we were to catch it and how many of us
were to get out alive. And then, all at once it came. You see the
Senecas, three hundred of them at least, were in the brush up on the
right slope of the third defile; and as many more were in the elder
thickets and swamp grass ahead and to the left. They let the whole
advance get through,--fooled every man of Du Luth's scouts,--and then
came at them from all sides. We heard the noise--I never heard a
worse--and started up on the run; and then there was the strangest
mess I ever got into. They had surprised the advance, right
enough,--we could see Du Luth and Tonty running about knocking men
down and bellowing out orders to hold their force together,--but you
see the Senecas never dreamed that a larger force was coming on
behind, and we struck them like a whirlwind. Well, for nearly an hour
we didn't know what was going on. Our Indians and the Senecas were so
mixed together that we dared not shoot to kill. Our own boys, even the
regulars, lost their heads and fell into the tangle. It was all
yelling and whooping and banging and running around, with the smoke so
thick that you couldn't find the trail or the hills or the swamp. I
was crowded up to my arms in water and mud for the last part of the
time. Once the smoke lifted a little, and I saw what I thought to be a
mission Indian, not five yards away, in the same fix. I called to him
to help me, and he turned out to be a Seneca chief. Our muskets were
wet,--at least mine was, and I saw that he dropped his when he started
for me,--so we had it out with knives."
"Did he get at you?"
"Once. A rib stopped it--no harm done. Well, I was tired, but I got
out and dodged around through the smoke to find out where our boys
were, but they were mixed up worse than ever. I was just in time to
save a _coureur_ from killing one of our Indians with his own hatchet.
Most of the regulars scattered as soon as they lost sight of their
officers. And Berthier,--I found him lying under a log all gone to
pieces with fright.
"I didn't know how it was to come out until at last the firing eased a
little, and the smoke thinned out. Then we found that the devils had
slipped away, all but a few who had wandered so far into our lines--if
you could call them lines--that they couldn't get out. They carried
most of their killed, though we picked up a few on the edge of the
marsh. It took all the rest of the day to pull things together and
find out how we stood."
"Heavy loss?"
"No. I don't know how many, but beyond a hundred or so of cuts and
flesh-wounds like mine we seemed to have a full force. We went on in
the morning, after a puffed-out speech by the Governor, and before
night reached the village. The Senecas had already burned a part of
it, but we finished it, and spent close to ten days cutting their corn
and destroying the fort on the big hill, a league or more to the east.
Then we came back to La Famine, and the Governor took the whole column
to Niagara,--to complete the parade, I suppose."
The story told, they sat by the fire, silent at first, then talking as
the mood prompted, until the flames had died and the red embers were
fading to gray. Father Claude had stretched out and was sleeping.
"I must look about my camp," Du Peron said at length. "Good-night."
"Good-night," said Menard; and alone he sat there until the last spark
had left the scattered heap of charred wood.
The night was cold and clear. The lake stretched out to a misty
somewhere, touching the edge of the sky. He rose and walked toward the
water. A figure, muffled in a blanket stood on the dark, firm sand
close to the breaking ripples. He thought it was one of Du Peron's
sentries, but a doubt drew him nearer. Then the blanket was thrown
aside, and he recognized, in the moonlight, the slender figure of the
maid. She was gazing out toward the pole-star and the dim clouds that
lay motionless beneath it. The splash of the lake and the call of the
locusts and tree-toads on the bank behind them were the only sounds.
He went slowly forward and stood by her side. She looked up into his
eyes, then turned to the lake. She had dropped the blanket to the
sand, and he placed it again about her shoulders.
"I am not cold," she said.
"I am afraid, Mademoiselle. The air is chill."
They stood for a long time without speaking, while the northern clouds
sank slowly beneath the horizon, their tops gleaming white in the
moonlight. Once a sharp command rang through the night, and muskets
rattled.
"What is that?" she whispered, touching his arm.
"They are changing the guard."
"You will not need to watch to-night, M'sieu?"
"No; not again. We shall have an escort to Frontenac." He paused; then
added in uncertain voice, "but perhaps--if Mademoiselle--"
She looked up at him. He went on:
"I will watch to-night, and to-morrow night, and once again--then
there will be no need: we shall be at Frontenac. Yes, I will watch; I
will myself keep guard, that Mademoiselle may sleep safely and deep,
as she slept at the Long Lake and in the forests of the Cayugas. And
perhaps, while she is sleeping, and the lake lies still, I may dream
again as I did then--I will carry on our story to the end, and
then--"
He could not say more; he could not look at her. Even at the rustle of
her skirt, as she sank to the beach and sat gazing up at him, he did
not turn. He was looking dully at the last bright cloud tip, sinking
slowly from his sight.
"Frontenac lies there," he said. "I told them I should bring you
there. It has been a longer road than we thought,--it has been a
harder road,--and they have said that I broke my trust. Perhaps they
were not wrong--I would have broken it--once. But we shall be there in
three days. I will keep my promise to the chiefs; and we--we shall not
meet again. It will be better. But I shall keep watch, to-night and
twice again. That will be all."
He looked down, and at sight of the mute figure his face softened.
"Forgive me--I should not have spoken. It has been a mad dream--the
waking is hard. When I saw you standing here to-night, I knew that I
had no right to come--and still I came. I have called myself a
soldier"--his voice was weary--"see, this is what is done to soldiers
such as I." One frayed strip of an epaulet yet hung from his shoulder.
He tore it off and threw it out into the lake. A little splash, and it
was gone. "Good-night, Mademoiselle,--good-night."
He turned away. The maid leaned forward and called. Her voice would
not come. She called again and again. Then he heard, for he stood
motionless.
"M'sieu!"
He came back slowly, and stood waiting. She was leaning back on her
hands. Her hair had fallen over her face, and she shook it back,
gazing up and trying to speak.
"You said--you said, the end--"
He hesitated, as if he dared not meet his thoughts.
"You said--See," she fumbled hastily at her bosom, "see, I have kept
it."
She was holding something up to him. In the dim light he could not
make it out. He took it and held it up. It was the dried stem and the
crumbling blossom of a daisy. For a moment he kept it there, then,
while he looked, he reached into his pocket and drew out the other.
"Yes," he said, "yes--" His voice trembled; his hand shook. Her hair
had fallen again, and she was trying to fasten it back. He looked at
her, almost fiercely, but now her eyes were hidden. "We will go to
Frontenac;" he said; "we will go to Frontenac, you and I. But they
shall not get you." He caught the hands that were braiding her hair,
and held them in his rough grip. "It is too late. Let them break my
sword, if they will, still they shall not get you."
Her head dropped upon his hands, and for the second time since those
days at Onondaga, he felt her tears. For a moment they were
motionless; he erect, looking out to the pole-star and over the water
that stretched far away to the stone fort, she sobbing and clinging to
his scarred hands. Then a desperate look came into his eyes, and he
dropped on one knee and caught her shoulders and held her tightly,
close against him.
"See," he said, with the old mad ring in his voice, "see what a
soldier I am! See how I keep my trust! But now--but now it is too late
for them all. I am still a soldier, and I can fight, Valerie. And God
will be good to us. God grant that we are doing right. There is no
other way."
"No," she whispered after him; "there is no other way."
CHAPTER XIX.
FRONTENAC.
The sun was dropping behind the western forests. From the lodges and
cabins of the friendly Indians about the fort rose a hundred thin
columns of smoke. Long rows of bateaux and canoes lined the beach
below the log palisade; and others drew near the shore, laden with
fish. There was a stir and bustle about the square within the stone
bastions; orderlies hurried from quarters to barracks, bugles sounded,
and groups of ragged soldiers sat about, polishing muskets and belts,
and setting new flints. Men of the commissary department were carrying
boxes and bales from the fort to a cleared space on the beach.
Menard walked across the square and knocked at the door of Major
d'Orvilliers's little house. Many an eye had followed him as he
hurried by, aroused to curiosity by his tattered uniform, rusted
musket, and boot-tops rudely stitched to deerskin moccasins.
"Major d'Orvilliers is busy," said the orderly at the door.
"Tell him it is Captain Menard."
In a moment the Major himself appeared in the doorway.
"Come in, Menard. I am to start in an hour or so to meet Governor
Denonville, but there is always time for you. I'll start a little
late, if necessary."
"The Governor comes from Niagara?"
"Yes. He is two or three days' journey up the lake. I am to escort him
back."
They had reached the office in the rear of the house, and the Major
brushed a heap of documents and drawings from a chair.
"Sit down, Menard. You have a long story, I take it. You look as if
you'd been to the Illinois and back."
"You knew of my capture?"
"Yes. We had about given you up. And the girl,--Mademoiselle St.
Denis--"
"She is here."
"Here--at Frontenac?"
"Yes; in Father de Casson's care."
"Thank God! But how did you do it? How did you get her here, and
yourself?"
Menard rose and paced up and down the room. As he walked, he told the
story of the capture at La Gallette, of the days in the Onondaga
village, of the council and the escape. When he had finished, there
was a long silence, while the Major sat with contracted brows.
"You've done a big thing, Menard," he said at last, "one of the
biggest things that has been done in New France. But have you thought
of the Governor--of how he will take it?"
"Yes."
"It may not be easy. Denonville doesn't know the Iroquois as you and I
do. He is elated now about his victory,--he thinks he has settled the
question of white supremacy. If I were to tell him to-morrow that he
has only made a bitter enemy of the Senecas, and that they will not
rest until they wipe out this defeat, do you suppose he would believe
it? You have given a pledge to the Iroquois that is entirely outside
of the Governor's view of military precedent. To tell the truth,
Menard, I don't believe he will like it."
"Why not?"
"He doesn't know the strength of the Five Nations. He thinks they
would all flee before our regulars just as the Senecas did. Worse than
that, he doesn't know the Indian temperament. I'm afraid you can't
make him understand that to satisfy their hunger for revenge will
serve better than a score of orations and treaties."
"You think he won't touch La Grange?"
"I am almost certain of it."
"Then it rests with me."
"What do you mean?"
"I gave another pledge, d'Orvilliers. If the Governor won't do this--I
shall have to do it myself."
Save for a moment's hesitation Menard's voice was cool and even; but
he had stopped walking and was looking closely at the commandant.
D'Orvilliers was gazing at the floor.
"What do you mean by that?" he said slowly, and then suddenly he got
up. "My God, Menard, you don't mean that you would--"
"Yes."
"That can't be! I can't allow it."
"It may not be necessary. I hope you are mistaken about the
Governor."
"I hope I am--but no; he won't help you. He's not in the mood for
paying debts to a weakened enemy. And--Menard, sit down. I must talk
plainly to you. I can't go on covering things up now. I don't believe
you see the matter clearly. If it were a plain question of your
mission to the Onondagas--if it were--Well, I want you to tell me in
what relation you stand to Mademoiselle St. Denis."
The Captain was standing by the chair. He rested his arms on the high
back, and looked over them at d'Orvilliers.
"She is to be my wife," he said.
D'Orvilliers leaned back and slowly shook his head.
"My dear fellow," he said, "when your story goes to Quebec, when the
Château learns that you have promised the punishment of La Grange in
the name of France, and then of this,--of Mademoiselle and her
relations to yourself and to La Grange,--do you know what they will
do?"
Menard was silent.
"They will laugh--first, and then--"
"I know," said the Captain, "I have thought of all that."
"You have told all this in your report?"
"Yes."
"So you would go on with it?"
"Yes; I am going on with it. There is nothing else I can do. I
couldn't have offered to give myself up; they already had me. The
fault was La Grange's. What I did was the only thing that could have
been done to save the column; if you will think it over, you will see
that. I know what I did,--I know I was right; and if my superiors,
when I have given my report, choose to see it in another way, I have
nothing to say. If they give me my liberty, in the army or out of it,
I will find La Grange. If not, I will wait."
"Why not give that up, at least, Menard?"
"If I give that up, we shall have a war with the Iroquois that will
shake New France as she has never been shaken before."
D'Orvilliers started to speak, but checked the words. Menard slung his
musket behind his shoulders.
"Wait, Menard. I don't know what to say. I must have time to think. If
you wish, I will not give notice of your arrival to the Governor. I
will leave the matter of reporting in your hands." He rose, and
fingered the papers on the table. "You see how it will look--there is
the maid--La Grange seeks your life, you seek his--"
Menard drew himself up, his hat in his hand.
"It shall be pushed to the end, Major. You know me; you know Captain
la Grange. There will be excitement, perhaps,--you may find it hard to
avoid taking one side or the other. I must ask which side is to be
yours."
D'Orvilliers winced, and for a moment stood biting his lip; then he
stepped forward and took both Menard's hands.
"You shouldn't have asked that," he said. "God bless you, Menard! God
bless you!"
Menard paused in the door, and turned.
"Shall I need a pass to enter the hospital?"
"Oh, you can't go there. La Grange is there."
"Yes; I will report to him. He shall not say that I have left it to
hearsay."
"But he will attack you!"
"No; I will not fight him until I have an answer from the Governor."
"You can't get in now until morning."
"Very well, good-night."
"You will be careful, Menard?"
The Captain nodded and left the room. Wishing to settle his thoughts,
he passed through the palisade gate and walked down the beach. The
commissary men were loading the canoes, threescore of them, that were
to carry the garrison on its westward journey. Already the twilight
was deepening, and the lanterns of the officers were dimmed by the
glow from a hundred Indian camp-fires.
From within the fort came a long bugle-call. There was a distant
rattling of arms and shouting of commands, then the tramp of feet, and
the indistinct line came swinging through the sally-port. They halted
at the water's edge, broke ranks, and took to the canoes, paddling
easily away along the shore until they had faded into shadows. A score
of Indians stood watching them, stolidly smoking stone pipes and
holding their blankets close around them.
It was an hour later when the Captain returned to the fort and started
across the enclosure toward the hut which had been assigned to him.
Save for a few Indians and a sentry who paced before the barracks, the
fort seemed deserted. It was nearly dark now, and the lanterns at the
sally-port and in front of barrack and hospital glimmered faintly.
Menard had reached his own door, when he heard a voice calling, and
turned. A dim figure was running across the square toward the sentry.
There was a moment of breathless talk,--Menard could not catch the
words,--then the sentry shouted. It occurred to Menard that he was now
the senior officer at the fort, and he waited. A corporal led up his
guard, halted, and again there was hurried talking. Menard started
back toward them, but before he reached the spot all were running
toward the hospital, and a dozen others of the home guard had gathered
before the barracks and were talking and asking excited questions.
Menard crossed to the hospital. Two privates barred the door, and he
was forced to wait until a young Lieutenant of the regulars appeared.
The lanterns over the door threw a dim light on the Captain as he
stood on the low step.
"What is it?" asked the Lieutenant. "You wished to see me?"
"I am Captain Menard. What is the trouble?"
The Lieutenant looked doubtfully at the dingy, bearded figure, then he
motioned the soldiers aside.
"It is Captain la Grange," he said, when Menard had entered; "he has
been killed."
The Lieutenant spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, but his eyes were
shining and he was breathing rapidly. Menard looked at him for a
moment without a word, then he stepped to the door of a back room and
looked in. Three flickering candles stood on a low table, and another
on a chair at the head of the narrow bed. The light wavered over the
log and plaster walls. A surgeon was bending over the bed, his
assistant waiting at his elbow with instruments; the two shut off the
upper part of the bed from Menard's view. The Lieutenant stood behind
the Captain, looking over his shoulder; both were motionless. There
was no sound save a low word at intervals between the two surgeons,
and the creak of a bore-worm that sounded distinctly from a log in the
wall.
Menard turned away and walked back to the outer door, the Lieutenant
with him. There they stood, silent, as men are who have been brought
suddenly face to face with death. At last the Lieutenant began to
speak in a subdued voice.
"We only know that it was an Indian. He has been scalped."
"Oh!" muttered Menard.
"I think he is still breathing,--he was just before you came,--but
there is no hope for him. He was stabbed in a dozen places. It was
some time before we knew--the Indian came in by the window, and must
have found him asleep. There was no struggle."
They stood again without speaking, and again the Lieutenant broke the
silence.
"It is too bad. He was a good fellow." He paused, as if searching for
a kind word for Captain la Grange. "He was the best shot at the fort
when he--when--"
"Yes," said Menard. He too wished to speak no harsh word. "Is there
anything I can do?"
"I think not. There is a strong guard about the fort, but I think the
Indian had escaped before we learned of it. I will see you before we
take further steps."
"Very well. I shall be at my quarters. Good-night."
"Good-night."
Menard walked slowly back across the enclosure. At the door of his hut
he paused, and for a long time he stood there, looking up at the quiet
sky. His mind was scattered for the moment; he could not think
clearly.
He opened his door and stepped over the log threshold, letting the
door close after him of its own weight. The hut was dark, with but a
square of dim light at the window. He fumbled for the candle and
struck a light.
There was a low rustle from the corner. Menard whirled around and
peered into the shadows. The candle was blowing; he caught it up and
shielded it with his hand. A figure was crouching in the corner, half
hidden behind a cloak that hung there. The Captain sprang forward
holding the candle high, tore down the cloak, and discovered
Teganouan, the Onondaga, bending over feeling for his hatchet which
lay on the floor at his feet. Menard caught his shoulders, and
dragging him out of reach of the hatchet, threw him full length on the
floor. The candle dropped and rolled on the floor, but before it could
go out, Menard snatched it up.
Slowly Teganouan rose to his feet.
"Teganouan comes in a strange manner to the lodge of the white
warrior," said Menard, scornfully. "He steals in like a Huron thief,
and hides in dark corners."
The Indian looked at him defiantly, but did not answer.
"My Onondaga brother does not wish to show himself in the light.
Perhaps there is some trouble on his mind. Perhaps he is governed by
an evil Oki who loves the darkness." While Menard was speaking he was
moving quietly toward the door. The Indian saw, but beyond turning
slowly so as always to face his captor, made no movement. His face,
except for the blazing eyes, was inscrutable. In a moment Menard stood
between him and the door. "Perhaps it is best that I should call for
the warriors of the fort. They will be glad to find here the slayer of
their brother." His hand was on the latch.
"The Big Buffalo will not call to his brothers." The Indian's voice
was calm. Menard looked closely at him. "He has not thought yet. When
he has thought, he will understand."
"Teganouan speaks like a child."
"If Teganouan is a child, can the Big Buffalo tell why he came to the
white man's lodge?"
"Because he has slain a great white warrior, he must hide his face
like the outcast dog." Menard pointed to the scalp that hung at his
waist. "He has slain a great warrior while the hatchet lies buried in
the ground. He has broken the law of the white man and the redman. And
so he must hide his face."
"Why did not Teganouan run to the woods? Why did he come to the lodge
of the Big Buffalo?"
Menard looked steadily at him. He began to understand. The shrewd old
warrior had chosen the one hiding-place where no searching party would
look. Perhaps he had hoped for aid from the Captain, remembering his
pledge to bring punishment on La Grange. If so, he should learn his
mistake.
"Teganouan's words are idle." Menard moved the latch.
"The Big Buffalo will not open the door. Teganouan has not delivered
his message. He is not an enemy to the Big Buffalo. He is his friend.
He has come to this lodge, caring nothing for the safety of his life,
that he might give his message. The Big Buffalo will not open the
door. He will wait to hear the words of Teganouan; and then he may
call to his brother warriors if he still thinks it would be wise."
Menard waited.
"Speak quickly, Teganouan."
"Teganouan's words are like the wind. He has brought them many
leagues,--from the lodges of the Onondagas,--that he may speak them
now. He has brought them from the Long House of the Five Nations,
where the fires burn brightly by day and by night, where the greatest
chiefs of many thousand warriors are met to hear the Voice of the
Great Mountain, the father of white men and redmen. The Great Mountain
has a strong voice. It is louder than cannon; it wounds deeper than
the musket of the white brave. It tells the Onondagas and Cayugas and
Oneidas and Mohawks that they must not give aid to their brothers, the
Senecas, who have fallen, whose corn and forts and lodges are burned
to ashes and scattered on the winds. It tells the Onondagas that the
Great Mountain is a kind father, that he loves them like his own
children, and will punish the man who wrongs them, let him be white or
red. It tells the Onondagas that the white captain, who has robbed a
hundred Onondaga lodges of their bravest hunters, shall be struck by
the strong arm of the Great Mountain, shall be blown to pieces by the
Voice that thunders from the great water where the seal are found to
the farthest village of the Five Nations. And the chiefs hear the
Voice; they listen with ears that are always open to the counsel of
Onontio. They take his promises into their hearts and believe them.
They know that he will strike down the dog of a white captain. They
refuse aid to their dying brothers, the Senecas, because they know
that the strong arm of Onontio is over them, that it will give them
peace."
He paused, gazing with bright eyes at Menard. There was no reply, and
he continued:--
"The Great Mountain has kept his word. The Onondagas shall know, in
their council, that Onontio's promise has been kept, that the white
brave, who lied to their hunters and sent them in chains across the
big water, has gone to a hunting-ground where his musket will not help
him, where the buffalo shall trample him and tear his flesh with their
horns. Then the Onondagas shall know that the Big Buffalo spoke the
truth to the Long House. And this word shall be carried to the
Onondagas by Teganouan. He will go to the council with the scalp in
his hand telling them that the white children of Onontio are their
brothers. Teganouan sees the Big Buffalo stand with his strong hand at
the door. He knows that the Big Buffalo could call his warriors to
seize Teganouan, and bind him, and bid him stand before the white
men's muskets. But Teganouan is not a child. He sees with the eye of
the old warrior who has fought a battle for every sun in the year, who
has known the white man as well as the redman. When the Big Buffalo
stood in the Long House, Teganouan believed him; Teganouan knew that
his words were true. And now the heart of Teganouan is warm with
trust. He knows that the Big Buffalo is a wise warrior and that he has
an honest heart."
There was a pause, and Menard, his hand still on the latch, stood
motionless. He knew what the Indian meant. He had done no more than
Menard himself had promised the council, in the name of Governor
Denonville, should be done. The lodges of the allies near the fort
sheltered many an Iroquois spy; whatever might follow would be known
in every Iroquois village before the week had passed. To hold
Teganouan for trial would mean war.
There was the tramp of feet on the beaten ground without, and a clear
voice said:--
"Wait a moment, I must report to Captain Menard."
Menard raised the latch an inch, then looked sharply at Teganouan. The
Indian stood quietly, leaning a little forward, waiting for the
decision. The Captain was on the point of speaking, but no word came
from his parted lips. The voices were now just outside the door. With
a long breath Menard's fingers relaxed, and the latch slipped back
into place. Then he motioned toward the wall ladder that reached up
into the darkness of the loft.
Teganouan turned, picked up the hatchet and thrust it into his belt,
took one quick glance about the room to make sure that no telltale
article remained, and slipped up the ladder. There was a loud knock on
the door, and Menard opened it. The Lieutenant came in.
"We have no word yet, Captain," he said. "Every building in the fort
has been searched. I have so few men that I could not divide them
until this was done, but I am just now sending out searching parties
through the Indian village and the forest. None of the canoes are
missing. Have I your approval?"
"Yes."
"You--you have been here since you left the hospital?"
"Yes."
"I think, then, that he must have had time to slip out before we knew
of it. There are many Indians here who would help him; but a few of
them can be trusted, I think, to join the search. Major d'Orvilliers
left me with only a handful of men. It will be difficult to accomplish
much until he returns. I will post a sentry at the sally-port; we
shall have to leave the bastions without a guard. I think it will be
safe, for the time."
"Very well, Lieutenant."
The Lieutenant saluted and hurried away. Menard closed the door, and
turned to the table, where were scattered the sheets on which he had
been writing his report. He collected them and read the report
carefully. He removed one leaf, and rolling it up, lighted it at the
candle, and held it until it was burned to a cinder. Then he read the
other sheets again. The report now told of his capture, of a part of
the council at the Long House, and of the escape; but no word was
there concerning Captain la Grange. Another hand had disposed of that
question. Menard sighed as he laid it down, but soon the lines on his
face relaxed. It was not the first time in the history of New France
that a report had told but half the truth; and, after all, the column
had been saved.
He sharpened a quill with his sheath-knife, and began to copy the
report, making further corrections here and there. Something more than
an hour had passed before the work was finished. He rolled up the
document and tied it with a thong of deerskin.
It was still early in the evening, but the fort was as silent as at
midnight. Menard opened the door and walked out a little way. The
lamps were all burning, but no soldiers were to be seen. The barrack
windows were dark. He stepped back into the house, closed the door,
and said in a low voice:--
"Teganouan."
There was a stir in the loft. In a moment the Indian came down the
ladder and stood waiting.
"Teganouan, you heard what the Lieutenant said?"
"Teganouan has ears."
"Very well. I am going to blow out the candle."
The room was dark. The door creaked softly, and a breath of air blew
in upon the Captain as he stood by the table. He felt over the table
for his tinder-box and struck a light. The door was slowly closing;
Teganouan had gone.
* * * * *
Another sun was setting. A single drum was beating loudly as the
little garrison drew up outside the sally-port and presented arms. The
allies and the mission Indians were crowding down upon the beach,
silent, inquisitive,--puffing at their short pipes. For half a
league, from the flat, white beach out over the rose-tinted water
stretched an irregular black line of canoes and bateaux, all
bristling with muskets. The Governor had come. He could be seen
kneeling, all sunburned and ragged but with erect head, in the first
canoe. His canoemen checked their swing, for the beach was close at
hand, and then backed water. The bow scraped, and a dozen hands were
outstretched in aid, but Governor Denonville stepped briskly out into
the ankle-deep water and carried his own pack ashore. A cheer went up
from the little line at the sally-port. Du Luth's _voyageurs_ and
_coureur de bois_ caught it up, and then it swept far out over the
water and was echoed back from the forest.
In the doorway of a hut near the Recollet Chapel stood Menard and
Valérie. They watched canoe after canoe glide up and empty its load of
soldiers, not speaking as they watched, but thinking each the same
thought. At last, when the straggling line was pouring into the fort,
and the bugles were screaming, and the drum rolling, Valérie slipped
her hand through the Captain's arm and looked up into his face.
"It was you who brought them here," she said; and then, after a pause,
she laughed a breathless little laugh. "It was you," she repeated.
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