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“Ay, more than once,” replied De Artigny. “’Tis said theengagésof Père Marquette built this hut, and that it sheltered him an entire winter. Twice I have been here before, once for weeks, waiting the arrival of theGriffin, alone with Sieur de la Salle.”
“TheGriffin?”
“The ship which was to bring us provisions and men. ’Twas a year later we learned that she went down in the sea, with all aboard. How long was M. de la Durantaye on station here?” he turned to Barbeau.
“’Tis three months since we came from St. Ignace––a dreary time enough, and for what purpose I could never guess. In that time all we have seen has been Indian hunters. I cannot bear to remain even for another night. Are we ready, Madame? Shall we go?”
The Des Plaines was a narrow stream, flowing quietly through prairie land, although bordered along its shores by a thin fringe of trees. We moved down along its eastern bank for perhaps a half league, when we came to the edge of a swamp and made camp. De Artigny built a fire, and prepared my tent of boughs, while Barbeau waded out around a point in search of the wrecked canoe. He came back just at dusk towing it behind him through the shallow water, and the two men managed to drag it far enough up257the bank to enable the water to drain out. Later, aided by a flaming torch, we looked it over, and decided the canoe could be made to float again. It required two days’ work, however, before we ventured to trust ourselves to its safety.
But the dawn of the third day saw us afloat on the sluggish current, the two men plying improvised paddles to increase our speed, while I busied myself in keeping the frail craft free from water by constant use of a tin cup. This oozed in through numerous ill-fitting seams, but not fast enough to swamp us in midstream, although the amount gained steadily on me in spite of every effort, and we occasionally had to make shore to free us of the encumbrance.
Yet this voyage south along the Des Plaines was far from unpleasant, despite the labor involved and the discomfort of the leaking canoe. The men were full of cheer and hope, some of it possibly assumed to strengthen my courage, but no less effective––Barbeau telling many an anecdote of his long service in strange places, exhibiting a sense of humor which kept us in continuous laughter. He was, indeed, a typical adventurer, gay and debonair in presence of peril, and apparently without a care in the world. De Artigny caught something of the fellow’s spirit, being young enough himself to love excitement, and related in turn, to the music of the splashing paddles, numerous incidents258of his wild exploits with La Salle and De Tonty along the great rivers of the West.
It all interested me, these glimpses of rough forest life, and I questioned them both eagerly, learning many a truth the histories fail to tell. Particularly did I listen breathlessly to the story of their adventurous first voyage along the Illinois, following the trail of raiding Iroquois, amid scenes of death and destruction. The very horrors pictured fascinated me even, although the grim reality was completely beyond my power of imagination.
’Twas thus we passed the hours of daylight, struggling with the current, forcing our way past obstacles, seeking the shore to drain off water, every moment bringing to us a new vista, and a new peril, yet ever encouraged by memory of those who had toiled along this stream before us. At night, under the stars and beside the blaze of campfire, Barbeau sang rollicking soldier songs, and occasionally De Artigny joined him in the choruses. To all appearances we were absolutely alone in the desolation of the wilderness. Not once in all that distance did we perceive sign of human life, nor had we cause to feel the slightest uneasiness regarding savage enemies.
Both men believed there was peace in the valley, except for the jealousy between the white factions at Fort St. Louis, and that the various Algonquin tribes259were living quietly in their villages under protection of the Rock. De Artigny described what a wonderful sight it was, looking down from the high palisades to the broad meadows below, covered with tepees, and alive with peaceful Indians. He named the tribes which had gathered there for protection, trusting in La Salle, and believing De Tonty their friend––Illini, Shawnees, Abenakies, Miamis, Mohegans––at one time reaching a total of twenty thousand souls. There they camped, guarded by the great fort towering above them, on the same sacred spot where years before the Jesuit Marquette had preached to them the gospel of the Christ. So we had no fear of savages, and rested in peace at our night camps, singing aloud, and sleeping without guard. Every day Barbeau went ashore for an hour, with his rifle, tramping along beside us through the shadowing forest screen, seeking game, and always coming back with plenty. We would hear the sharp report of his gun breaking the silence, and turn the prow of our canoe shoreward and pick him up again.
Owing to the leaking of our canoe, and many difficulties experienced, we were three days in reaching the spot where the Illinois and the Fox rivers joined their waters, and swept forward in one broad stream. The time of our arrival at this spot was early in the afternoon, and, as De Artigny said Fort St. Louis was260situated scarce ten miles below, our long journey seemed nearly ended. We anticipated reaching there before night, and, in spite of my fear of the reception awaiting us, my heart was light with hope and expectation.
I was but a girl in years, excitement was still to me a delight, and I had listened to so many tales, romantic, wonderful, of this wilderness fortress, perched upon a rock, that my vivid imagination had weaved about it an atmosphere of marvel. The beauty of the view from its palisades, the vast concourse of Indians encamped on the plains below, and those men guarding its safety––the faithful comrades of La Salle in explorations of the unknown, De Tonty, Boisrondet, and all the others, had long since become to my mind the incarnation of romantic adventure. Wilderness born, I could comprehend and appreciate their toils and dangers, and my dreams centered about this great, lonely rock on which they had established a home. But the end was not yet. Just below the confluence of the rivers there was a village of the Tamaroas, and the prow of our canoe touched the bank, while De Artigny stepped ashore amid a tangle of low-growing bushes, that he might have speech with some of the warriors, and thus learn conditions at the fort. With his foot on the bank, he turned laughing, and held out his hand to me.
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“Come, Madame,” he said pleasantly, “you have never seen a village of our western tribes; it will interest you.”
I joined him gladly, my limbs feeling awkward under me, from long cramping in the boat, yet the climb was not difficult, and he held back the boughs to give me easy passage. Beyond the fringe of brush there was an open space, but as we reached this, both paused, stricken dumb by horror at the sight which met our view. The ground before us was strewn with dead, and mutilated bodies, and was black with ashes where the tepees had been burned, and their contents scattered broadcast.
Never before had I seen such view of devastation, of relentless, savage cruelty, and I gave utterance to a sudden sob, and shrank back against De Artigny’s arm, hiding my eyes with my hand. He stood and stared, motionless, breathing heavily, unconsciously gripping my arm.
“Mon Dieu!” he burst forth, at last. “What meaneth this? Are the wolves again loose in the valley?”
He drew me back, until we were both concealed behind a fringe of leaves, his whole manner alert, every instinct of the woodsman instantly awakened.
“Remain here hidden,” he whispered, “until I learn the truth; we may face grave peril below.”
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He left me trembling, and white-lipped, yet I made no effort to restrain him. The horror of those dead bodies gripped me, but I would not have him know the terror which held me captive. With utmost caution he crept forth, and I lay in the shadow of the covert, watching his movements. Body after body he approached seeking some victim alive, and able to tell the story. But there was none. At last he stood erect, satisfied that none beside the dead were on that awful spot, and came back to me.
“Not one lives,” he said soberly, “and there are men, women and children there. The story is one easily told––an attack at daylight from the woods yonder. There has been no fighting; a massacre of the helpless and unarmed.”
“But who did such deed of blood?”
“’Tis the work of the Iroquois; the way they scalped tells that, and besides I saw other signs.”
“The Iroquois,” I echoed incredulous, for that name was the terror of my childhood. “How came these savages so far to the westward?”
“Their war parties range to the great river,” he answered. “We followed their bloody trail when first we came to this valley. It was to gain protection from these raiders that the Algonquins gathered about the fort. We fought the fiends twice, and drove them back, yet now they are here again. Come, Adele, we263must return to the canoe, and consult with Barbeau. He has seen much of Indian war.”
The canoe rode close in under the bank, Barbeau holding it with grasp on a great root. He must have read in our faces some message of alarm, for he exclaimed before either of us could speak.
“What is it?––the Iroquois?”
“Yes; why did you guess that?”
“I have seen signs for an hour past which made me fear this might be true. That was why I held the boat so close to the bank. The village has been attacked?”
“Ay, surprised, and massacred; the ground is covered with the dead, and the tepees are burned. Madame is half crazed with the shock.”
Barbeau took no heed, his eyes scarce glancing at me, so eager was he to learn details.
“The fiends were in force then?”
“Their moccasin tracks were everywhere. I could not be sure where they entered the village, but they left by way of the Fox. I counted on the sand the imprint of ten canoes.”
“Deep and broad?”
“Ay, war boats; ’tis likely some of them would hold twenty warriors; the beasts are here in force.”
It was all so still, so peaceful about us that I felt dazed, incapable of comprehending our great danger.264The river swept past, its waters murmuring gently, and the wooded banks were cool and green. Not a sound awoke the echoes, and the horror I had just witnessed seemed almost a dream.
“Where are they now?” I questioned faintly. “Have they gone back to their own country?”
“Small hope of that,” answered De Artigny, “or we would have met with them before this, or other signs of their passage. They are below, either at the fort, or planning attack on the Indian villages beyond. What think you, Barbeau?”
“I have never been here,” he said slowly, “so cannot tell what chance the red devils might have against the white men at St. Louis. But they are below us on the river, no doubt of that, and engaged in some hell act. I know the Iroquois, and how they conduct war. ’Twill be well for us to think it all out with care before we venture farther. Come, De Artigny, tell me what you know––is the fort one to be defended against Iroquois raiders?”
“’Tis strong; built on a high rock, and approachable only at the rear. Given time they might starve the garrison, or drive them mad with thirst, for I doubt if there be men enough there to make sortie against a large war party.”
“But the Indian allies––the Algonquins?”
“One war whoop of an Iroquois would scatter them265like sheep. They are no fighters, save under white leadership, and ’tis likely enough their villages are already like this one yonder, scenes of horror. I have seen all this before, Barbeau, and this is no mere raid of a few scattered warriors, seeking adventure and scalps; ’tis an organized war party. The Iroquois have learned of the trouble in New France, of La Salle’s absence from this valley; they know of the few fighting men at the Rock, and that De Tonty is no longer in command. They are here to sweep the French out of this Illinois country, and have given no warning. They surprised the Indian villages first, killed every Algonquin they could find, and are now besieging the Rock. And what have they to oppose them? More than they thought, no doubt, for Cassion and De la Durantaye must have reached there safely, yet at the best, the white defenders will scarcely number fifty men, and quarreling among themselves like mad dogs. There is but one thing for us to do, Barbeau––reach the fort.”
“Ay, but how? There will be death now, haunting us every foot of the way.”
De Artigny turned his head, and his eyes met mine questioningly.
“There is a passage I know,” he said gravely, “below the south banks yonder, but there will be peril in it––a peril to which I dread to expose the lady.”
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I stood erect, no longer paralyzed by fear, realizing my duty.
“Do not hesitate because of me, Monsieur,” I said calmly. “French women have always done their part, and I shall not fail. Explain to us your plan.”
267CHAPTER XXIIITHE WORDS OF LOVE
His eyes brightened, and his hand sought mine.
“The spirit of the old days; the words of a soldier’s daughter, hey, Barbeau?”
“A La Chesnayne could make no other choice,” he answered loyally. “But we have no time to waste here in compliment. You know a safe passage, you say?”
“Not a safe one, yet a trail which may still remain open, for it is known to but few. Let us aboard, and cross to the opposite shore, where we will hide the canoe, and make our way through the forest. Once safely afoot yonder I will make my purpose clear.”
A dozen strokes landed us on the other bank, where the canoe was drawn up, and concealed among the bushes, while we descended a slight declivity, and found ourselves in the silence of a great wood. Here De Artigny paused to make certain his sense of direction.
“I will go forward slightly in advance,” he said, at last, evidently having determined upon his course.
“And we will move slowly, and as noiselessly as268possible. No one ever knows where the enemy are to be met with in Indian campaign, and we are without arms, except for Barbeau’s gun.”
“I retain my pistol,” I interrupted.
“Of small value since its immersion in the lake; as to myself I must trust to my knife. Madame you will follow me, but merely close enough to make sure of your course through the woods, while Barbeau will guard the rear. Are both ready?”
“Perhaps it might be well to explain more clearly what you propose,” said the soldier. “Then if we become separated we could figure out the proper direction to follow.”
“Not a bad thought that. It is a rough road ahead, heavily wooded, and across broken land. My route is almost directly west, except that we bear slightly south to keep well away from the river. Three leagues will bring us to a small stream which empties into the Illinois. There is a faint trail along its eastern bank which leads to the rear of the Rock, where it is possible for one knowing the way to attain the palisades of the fort. If we can attain this trail before dark we can make the remaining distance by night. Here, let me show you,” and he drew with a sharp stick a hasty map on the ground. “Now you understand; if we become separated, keep steadily westward until you reach a stream flowing north.”
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In this order we took up the march, and as I had nothing to bear except a blanket, which I twisted about my shoulders, I found little difficulty in following my leader. At first the underbrush was heavy, and the ground very broken, so that oftentimes I lost sight entirely of De Artigny, but as he constantly broke branches to mark his passage, and the sun served as guidance, I had small difficulty in keeping the proper direction. To our right along the river appeared masses of isolated rock, and these we skirted closely, always in the shadow and silence of great trees. Within half an hour we had emerged from the retarding underbrush, and came out into an open wood, where the walking was much easier.
I could look down the aisles of the trees for long distances, and no longer experienced any difficulty in keeping within sight of my leader. All sense of fear had passed away, we seemed so alone in the silent forest, although once I thought I heard the report of a distant gun, which brought back to mind a vision of that camp of death we had left behind. It was a wearisome tramp over the rough ground, for while De Artigny found passage through the hollows wherever possible, yet we were obliged to climb many hills, and once to pick our way cautiously through a sickly swamp, springing from hummock to hummock to keep from sinking deep in slimy ooze.
270
De Artigny came back and aided me here, speaking words of encouragement, and assuring me that the trail we sought was only a short distance beyond. I laughed at his solicitude, claiming to be good for many a mile yet, and he left me, never realizing that I already staggered from weariness.
However we must have made excellent progress, for the sun had not entirely disappeared when we emerged from the dark wood shadows into a narrow, grassy valley, through which flowed a silvery stream, not broad, but deep. Assured that this must be the water we sought, I sank to the ground, eager for a moment’s rest, but De Artigny, tireless still, moved back and forward along the edge of the forest to assure himself of the safety of our surroundings. Barbeau joined him, and questioned.
“We have reached the trail?”
“Ay, beside the shore yonder; see you anything of Indian tepees across the stream to the left?”
“Below, there are wigwams there just in the edge of the grove. You can see the outlines from here; but I make out no moving figures.”
“Deserted then; the cowards have run away. They could not have been attacked, or the tepees would have been burned.”
“An Algonquin village?”
“Miamis. I had hoped we might gain assistance271there, but they have either joined the whites in the fort, or are hiding in the woods. ’Tis evident we must save ourselves.”
“And how far is it?”
“To the fort? A league or two, and a rough climb at the farther end through the dark. We will wait here until after dusk, eat such food as we have without fire, and rest up for a bit of venture. The next trip will test us all, and Madame is weary enough already.”
“An hour will put me right,” I said, smiling at him, yet making no attempt to rise. “I have been in a boat so long I have lost all strength in my limbs.”
“We feel that, all of us,” cheerily, “but come Barbeau, unpack, and let us have what cheer we can.”
I know not when food was ever more welcome, although it was simple enough to be sure––a bit of hard cracker, and some jerked deer meat, washed down by water from the stream––yet hunger served to make these welcome. We were at the edge of the wood, already growing dark and dreary with the shadows of approaching night. The wind, what there was, was from the south, and, if there was any firing at the fort, no sound of it reached us. Once we imagined we saw a skulking figure on the opposite bank––an Indian Barbeau insisted––but it disappeared so suddenly as to make us doubt our own eyes.
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The loneliness and peril of our situation had tendency to keep us silent, although De Artigny endeavored to cheer me with kindly speech, and gave Barbeau careful description of the trail leading to the fort gate. If aught happened to him, we were to press on until we attained shelter. The way in which the words were said brought a lump into my throat, and before I knew the significance of the action, my hand clasped his. I felt the grip of his fingers, and saw his face turn toward me in the dusk. Barbeau got to his feet, gun in hand, and stood shading his eyes.
“I would like a closer view of that village yonder,” he said, “and will go down the bank a hundred yards or so.”
“’Twill do no harm,” returned De Artigny, still clasping my hand. “There is time yet before we make our venture.”
He disappeared in the shadows, leaving us alone, and I glanced aside at De Artigny’s face, my heart beating fiercely.
“You did not like to hear me speak as I did?” he questioned quietly.
“No,” I answered honestly, “the thought startled me. If––if anything happened to you, I––I should be all alone.”
He bent lower, still grasping my fingers, and seeking to compel my eyes to meet his.
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“Adele,” he whispered, “why is it necessary for us to keep up this masquerade?”
“What masquerade, Monsieur?”
“This pretense at mere friendship,” he insisted, “when we could serve each other better by a frank confession of the truth. You love me––”
“Monsieur,” and I tried to draw my hand away. “I am the wife of Francois Cassion.”
“I care nothing for that unholy alliance. You are his only by form. Do you know what that marriage has cost me? Insults, ever since we left Quebec. The coward knew I dare not lay hand upon him, because he was your husband. We would have crossed steel a hundred times, but for my memory of you. I could not kill the cur, for to do so would separate us forever. So I bore his taunts, his reviling, his curses, his orders that were insults. You think it was easy? I am a woodsman, a lieutenant of La Salle’s, and it has never before been my way to receive insult without a blow. We are not of that breed. Yet I bore it for your sake––why? Because I loved you.”
“Oh, Monsieur!”
“’Tis naught to the shame of either of us,” he continued, now speaking with a calmness which held me silent. “And I wish you to know the truth, so far as I can make it clear. This has been in my mind for weeks, and I say it to you now as solemnly as though274I knelt before a father confessor. You have been to me a memory of inspiration ever since we first met years ago at that convent in Quebec. I dreamed of you in the wilderness, in the canoe on the great river, and here at St. Louis. Never didvoyageurgo eastward but I asked him to bring me word from you, and each one, bore from me a message of greeting.”
“I received none, Monsieur.”
“I know that; even Sieur de la Salle failed to learn your dwelling place. Yet when he finally chose me as his comrade on this last journey, while I would have followed him gladly even to death, the one hope which held me to the hardships of the trail, was the chance thus given of seeking you myself.”
“It was I you sought then at the home of Hugo Chevet? not service under Francois Cassion? Yet, when we met, you knew me not.”
“Nay; I had no thought that you were there. ’Twas told me in Quebec––for what cause I cannot decide––that you had returned to France. I had given up all hope, and that very fact made me blind to your identity. Indeed, I scarce comprehended that you were really Adele la Chesnayne, until we were alone together in the palace of the Intendant. After I left you there, left you facing La Barre; left you knowing of your forced engagement to his commissaire, I reached a decision––I meant to accompany his party to Montreal,275find some excuse on the way for quarrel, and return to Quebec––and you.”
He paused, but I uttered no word, conscious that my cheeks were burning hotly, and afraid to lift my eyes to his face.
“You know the rest. I have made the whole journey; I have borne insult, the charge of crime, merely that I might remain, and serve you. Why do I say this? Because tonight––if we succeed in getting through the Indian lines––I shall be again among my old comrades, and shall be no longer a servant to Francois Cassion. I shall stand before him a man, an equal, ready to prove myself with the steel––”
“No, Monsieur,” I burst forth, “that must not be; for my sake you will not quarrel!”
“For your sake? You would have me spare him?”
“Oh, why do you put it thus, Monsieur! It is so hard for me to explain. You say you love me, and––and the words bring me joy. Ay, I confess that. But do you not see that a blow from your hand struck at Francois Cassion would separate us forever? Surely that is not the end you seek. I would not have you bear affront longer, yet no open quarrel will serve to better our affairs. Certainly no clash of swords. Perhaps it cannot be avoided, for Cassion may so insult you when he sees us together, as to let his insolence go beyond restraint. But I beg of you, Monsieur, to276hold your hand, to restrain your temper––for my sake.”
“You make it a trial, a test?”
“Yes––it is a test. But, Monsieur, there is more involved here than mere happiness. You must be cleared of the charge of crime, and I must learn the truth of what caused my marriage. Without these facts the future can hold out no hope for either of us. And there is only one way in which this end can be accomplished––a confession by Cassion. He alone knows the entire story of the conspiracy, and there is but one way in which he can be induced to talk.”
“You mean the same method you proposed to me back on the Ottawa?”
I faced him frankly, my eyes meeting his, no shade of hesitation in my voice.
“Yes, Monsieur, I mean that. You refused me before, but I see no harm, no wrong in the suggestion. If the men we fought were honorable I might hesitate––but they have shown no sense of honor. They have made me their victim, and I am fully justified in turning their own weapons against them. I have never hesitated in my purpose, and I shall not now. I shall use the weapons which God has put into my hands to wring from him the bitter truth––the weapons of a woman, love, and jealousy. Monsieur, am I to fight this fight alone?”
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At first I thought he would not answer me, although his hand grip tightened, and his eyes looked down into mine, as though he would read the very secret of my heart.
“Perhaps I did not understand before,” he said at last, “all that was involved in your decision. I must know now the truth from your own lips before I pledge myself.”
“Ask me what you please; I am not too proud to answer.”
“I think there must be back of this choice of yours something more vital than hate, more impelling than revenge.”
“There is, Monsieur.”
“May I ask you what?”
“Yes, Monsieur, and I feel no shame in answering; I love you! Is that enough?”
“Enough! my sweetheart––”
“Hush!” I interrupted, “not now––Barbeau returns yonder.”
278CHAPTER XXIVWE ATTACK THE SAVAGES
It was already so dark that the soldier was almost upon us before I perceived his shadow, but it was evident enough from his first words that he had overheard none of our conversation.
“There are no Indians in the village,” he said gruffly, leaning on his gun, and staring at us. “I got across to a small island, along the trunk of a dead tree, and had good view of the whole bank yonder. The tepees stand, but not a squaw, nor a dog is left.”
“Were there any canoes in sight along the shore?”
“Only one, broken beyond repair.”
“Then, as I read the story, the tribe fled down the stream, either to join the others on the Illinois, or the whites at the fort. They were evidently not attacked, but had news of the coming of the Iroquois, and escaped without waiting to give battle. ’Tis not likely the wolves will overlook this village long. Are we ready to go forward?”
“Ay, the venture must be made, and it is dark enough now.”
De Artigny’s hand pressed my shoulder.
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“I would that I could remain with you, Madame,” he said quietly, “but as I know the way my place is in advance. Barbeau must be your protector.”
“Nor could I ask for a braver. Do not permit any thought of me to make you less vigilant, Monsieur. You expect to gain the fort unseen?”
“’Tis merely a chance we take––the only one,” he explained briefly. “I cannot even be certain the fort is in state of siege, yet, without doubt those warriors who went down the river would be in position to prevent our approaching the rock by canoe. There is a secret path here, known only to La Salle’s officers, which, however, should give us entrance, unless some wandering Iroquois has discovered it by accident. We must approach with the utmost caution, yet I do not anticipate great peril. Barbeau, do not become separated from Madame, but let me precede you by a hundred paces––you will have no trouble following the trail.”
He disappeared in the darkness, vanishing silently, and we stood motionless waiting our turn to advance. Neither spoke, Barbeau leaning forward, his gun extended, alert and ready. The intense darkness, the quiet night, the mystery lurking amid those shadows beyond, all combined to arouse within me a sense of danger. I could feel the swift pounding of my heart, and I clasped the sleeve of the soldier’s jacket merely280to assure myself of his actual presence. The pressure of my fingers caused him to glance about.
“Do not be frightened, Madame,” he whispered encouragingly. “There would be firing yonder if the Iroquois blocked our path.”
“Fear not for me,” I answered, surprised at the steadiness of my voice. “It is the lonely silence which makes me shrink; as soon as we advance I shall have my nerve again. Have we not waited long enough?”
“Ay, come; but be careful where you place your feet.”
He led the way, walking with such slow caution, that, although I followed step by step, not a sound reached my ears. Dark as the night was, our eyes, accustomed to the gloom, were able to distinguish the marks of the trail, and follow its windings without much difficulty. Many a moccasined foot had passed that way before us, beating down a hard path through the sod, and pressing aside the low bushes which helped to conceal the passage. At first we followed rather closely the bank of the stream; then the narrow trail swerved to the right, entering a gap between two hills, ever tending to a higher altitude. We circled about large rocks, and up a ravine, through which we found barely room for passage, the walls rising steep and high on either side. It was intensely dark down there, yet impossible for us to escape the trail, and at the281end of that passage we emerged into an open space, enclosed with woods, and having a grit of sand under foot. Here the trail seemed to disappear, but Barbeau struck straight across, and in the forest shade beyond we found De Artigny waiting.
“Do not shoot,” he whispered. “I was afraid you might misjudge the way here, as the sand leaves no clear trace. The rest of the passage is through the woods, and up a steep hill. You are not greatly wearied, Madame?”
“Oh, no; I have made some false steps in the dark, but the pace has been slow. Do we approach the fort?”
“A half league beyond; a hundred yards more, and we begin the climb. There we will be in the zone of danger, although thus far I perceive no sign of Indian presence. Have you, Barbeau?”
“None except this feather of a war bonnet I picked up at the big rock below.”
“A feather! Is it Iroquois?”
“It is cut square, and no Algonquin ever does that.”
“Ay, let me see! You are right, Barbeau; ’twas dropped from a Tuscarora war bonnet. Then the wolves have been this way.”
“Could it not be possible,” I asked, “that the feather was spoil of war dropped by some Miami in flight?”
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He shook his head.
“Possible perhaps, but not probable; some white man may have passed this way with trophy, but no Illinois Indian would dare such venture. I have seen them before in Iroquois foray. I like not the sign, Barbeau, yet there is naught for us to do now, but go on. We dare not be found without the fort at daybreak. Keep within thirty paces of me, and guard the lady well.”
It was a dense woods we entered, and how Barbeau kept to the trail will ever be to me a mystery. No doubt the instinct of a woodsman guided him somewhat, and then, with his moccasined feet, he could feel the slight depression in the earth, and thus cling to the narrow path. I would have been lost in a moment, had I not clung to him, and we moved forward like two snails, scarcely venturing to breathe, our motions as silent as a wild panther stalking its prey.
Except for a faint rustling of leaves overhead no sound was distinguishable, although once we were startled by some wild thing scurrying across our path, the sudden noise it made causing me to give utterance to a half-stifled cry. I could feel how tense was every muscle in the soldier’s body, as he advanced steadily step by step, his gun flung forward, each nerve strained to the utmost.
We crossed the wood, and began to climb among283loose stones, finally finding solid rock beneath our feet, the path skirting the edge of what seemed to be a deep gash in the earth, and winding about wherever it could find passage. The way grew steeper and steeper, and more difficult to traverse, although, as we thus rose above the tree limit, the shadows became less dense, and we were able dimly to perceive objects a yard or two in advance. I strained my eyes over Barbeau’s shoulder, but could gain no glimpse of De Artigny. Then we rounded a sharp edge of rock, and met him blocking the narrow way.
“The red devils are there,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Beyond the curve in the bank. ’Twas God’s mercy I had glimpse in time, or I would have walked straight into their midst. A stone dropping into the ravine warned me, and I crept on all fours to where I could see.”
“You counted them?”
“Hardly that in this darkness; yet ’tis no small party. ’Twould be my judgment there are twenty warriors there.”
“And the fort?”
“Short rifle shot away. Once past this party, and the way is easy. Here is my thought Barbeau. There is no firing, and this party of wolves are evidently hidden in ambush. They have found the trail, and expect some party from the fort to pass this way.”
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“Or else,” said the other thoughtfully, “they lie in wait for an assault at daylight––that would be Indian war.”
“True, such might be their purpose, but in either case one thing remains true––they anticipate no attack from below. All their vigilance is in the other direction. A swift attack, a surprise will drive them into panic. ’Tis a grave risk I know, but there is no other passage to the fort.”
“If we had arms, it might be done.”
“We’ll give them no time to discover what we have––a shot, a yell, a rush forward. ’Twill all be over with before a devil among them gets his second breath. Then ’tis not likely the garrison is asleep. If we once get by there will be help in plenty to hold back pursuit. ’Tis a desperate chance I admit, but have you better to propose?”
The soldier stood silent, fingering his gun, until De Artigny asked impatiently:
“You have none?”
“I know not the passage; is there no way around?”
“No; this trail leads alone to the fort gate. I anticipated this, and thought it all out as I came along. In the surprise at the first attack, the savages will never know whether we be two or a dozen. They will have no guard in this direction, and we can creep almost upon them before attempting a rush. The two in285advance should be safely past before they recover sufficiently to make any fight. It will be all done in the dark, you know.”
“You will go first, with the lady?”
“No; that is to be your task; I will cover the rear.”
I heard these words, yet it was not my privilege to protest. Indeed, I felt that he was right, and my courage made response to his decision.
“If this be the best way possible,” I said quietly, for both men glanced questioningly at me, “then do not think of me as helpless, or a burden. I will do all I can to aid you.”
“Never have I doubted that,” exclaimed De Artigny heartily. “So then the affair is settled. Barbeau, creep forward about the bank; be a savage now, and make no noise until I give the word. You next, Madame, and keep close enough to touch your leader. The instant I yell, and Barbeau fires, the two of you leap up, and rush forward. Pay no heed to me.”
“You would have us desert you, Monsieur?”
“It will be every one for himself,” he answered shortly. “I take my chance, but shall not be far behind.”
We clasped hands, and then, as Barbeau advanced to the corner, I followed, my only thought now to do all that was required of me. I did not glance backward, yet was aware that De Artigny was close behind.286My heart beat fiercely, but I was not conscious of fear, although a moment later, I could perceive the dim figures of savages. They were but mere vague shadows in the night, and I made no attempt to count them, only realizing that they were grouped together in the trail. I could not have told how they faced, but there was a faint sound of guttural speech, which proved them unsuspicious of danger. Barbeau, lying low like a snake, crept cautiously forward, making not the slightest noise, and closely hugging the deeper shadow of the bank. I endeavored to imitate his every motion, almost dragging my body forward by gripping my fingers into the rock-strewn earth.
We advanced by inches, pausing now and then to listen breathlessly to the low murmur of the Indian voices, and endeavoring to note any change in the posture of the barely distinguishable figures. There was no alarm, no changing of places, and the success of our approach brought to us new confidence. Once a savage form, appearing grotesque in its blanket, suddenly stood erect, and we shrunk close to the ground in terror of discovery. An instant of agony followed, in which we held our breath, staring through the dark, every nerve throbbing. But the fellow merely stretched his arms lazily, uttered some guttural word, and resumed his place.
Once the gleam of a star reflected from a rifle barrel287as its owner shifted position; but nothing else occurred to halt our steady advance. We were within a very few yards of them, so close, indeed, I could distinguish the individual forms, when Barbeau paused, and, with deliberate caution, rose on one knee. Realizing instantly that he was preparing for the desperate leap, I also lifted my body, and braced myself for the effort. De Artigny touched me, and spoke, but his voice was so low it scarcely reached my ears.
“Do not hesitate; run swift, and straight. Give Barbeau the signal.”
What followed is to me a delirium of fever, and remains in memory indistinct and uncertain. I reached out, and touched Barbeau; I heard the sudden roar of De Artigny’s voice, the sharp report of the soldier’s rifle. The flame cut the dark as though it was the blade of a knife, and, in the swift red glare, I saw a savage fling up his arms and fall headlong. Then all was chaos, confusion, death. Nothing touched me, not even a gripping hand, but there were Indian shots, giving me glimpse of the hellish scene, of naked bodies, long waving hair, eyes mad with terror, and red arms brandished, the rifles they bore shining in the red glare.
I saw Barbeau grip his gun by the barrel and strike as he ran. Again and again it fell crunching against flesh. A savage hand slashed at him with a gleaming288knife, but I struck the red arm with my pistol butt, and the Indian fell flat, leaving the way open. We dashed through, but Barbeau grasped me, and thrust me ahead of him, and whirled about, with uplifted rifle to aid De Artigny who faced two warriors, naked knife in hand.
“Run, Madame, for the fort,” he shouted above the uproar. “To my help, Barbeau!”