The Road to Frontenac
by Samuel Merwin · English · Gutenberg #28958 · 454,595 chars · public domain (US)
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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 throu
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