Once in the canoe I bade Lord Starling crouch low, and I paddled fiercely. I breathed hard not from exertion, but like a swimmer fighting for his breath. I was submerged in waves of terror, yet I had no name for what I feared. I learned then that there is but one real terror in the world,—fear of the unseen. The man who feels terror of an open foe must be a strange craven.
Lord Starling respected my mood and was silent. He sat warily, shifting his weight to suit the plunging canoe.
"The fog chokes me," he said at length. "How large a camp have you?Whom did you leave on guard?"
I told him.
"That should be sufficient."
"Not for a concerted attack."
"But who would make a concerted attack?"
I lengthened my stroke till the canoe quivered. "I am not sure. I have been shadowed. I thought it was by your order. I cannot talk and paddle, monsieur."
But I could paddle and think. And always I saw the meadow as we had found it that first day with drifts of white butterflies over the flowers, and the woods warm and beckoning. How would the meadow look now?
But when we came to it I thought it looked unchanged, save that the fog made all things sinister. We crashed through the guarding reeds, and I let the canoe drive hard upon the sand. No one was in sight, and a wolf was whining at the edge of the timber. I leaped to the shore.
I think that I called as I stumbled forward. I saw the ashes of a dead fire, and a cask that had held rum lying with the sides and end knocked in. Then I saw a dead body.
I did not hasten then. My feet crawled. The body lay sprawled and limp with its out-stretched fingers clutching. One hand pointed toward the woman's cabin.
I turned the corpse over. It was Simon. His scarlet head was still dripping, but his face was untouched. I saw that he had died despairing, and I laid him back with a prayer on my lips but with the lust to kill in my heart.
I went through the cabins quickly but methodically. I think that I made no sound of grief or excitement, but I knew indefinitely that Lord Starling was following me, and that, at horribly measured intervals, he gave short, panting groans. But I did not speak to him, nor he to me.
I spoke for the first time at the woman's cabin. I looked within and saw that it was untouched; then I put out my arm and barred Lord Starling's way.
"I have never stepped in here, and you shall not," I told him with my jaws set, and I think that I struck him across the face, though of that I have never been quite sure.
In my own lodge I found havoc. Bales had been broken open, and my papers were thrown and trampled. Many of the papers were blood-smeared.
I examined every cabin and every bale, then went to the ashes of the camp fire and stood still. Lord Starling followed, and I heard his smothered groan. I took out my knife.
"I shall kill you if you make that noise again," I said.
I think that I spoke quietly, but he stepped back. I saw that he was afraid,—afraid of losing his miserable, mistaken life,—and I laughed. I laughed for a long time. Hearing myself laugh, I knew that it sounded as if I were near insanity, but I was not. My head had never been clearer.
Perhaps Lord Starling conquered his fear. He came nearer and lifted his magnificent, compelling bulk above me.
"Listen!" he began. "We have been foes; we shall be again; but now we are knit closer than eye and brain in a common cause. I will deal with you with absolute truth as with my own right hand. Tell me. Tell me, in God's mercy! What do you know? Who did this? What can we do?"
His voice was judicial, but I saw his great frame swaying like a shambling ox. I marveled that he could show emotion. My own body felt dead.
"The woman has been taken away," my stiff, strange voice explained."So far they have not harmed her."
"How do you know?"
"There are no marks of struggle. Simon resisted, and they killed him.The other men surrendered. The Indians wanted prisoners, not scalps."
"Was it Pemaou and his Hurons?"
"Yes."
"You are sure?"
"He left a broken spear in my lodge. There was bad blood between us once, and I broke the spear in two and tossed the pieces at him, telling him to keep them,—to keep them, for we should meet again. I humbled him. Now it is his jest. He is a capable Indian. He seems to have outwitted even you, monsieur."
Because I spoke as one dead he thought I needed leading. He took me by the arm and would have guided me gently to the canoe.
"Come, Monsieur de Montlivet, you must rouse yourself. We must start in pursuit."
I shook him off. "Sit here where it is dry. You need your strength. We have hours to get through here before we leave, and little to do to help us through the time. We must wait here for Pierre."
"What do you mean? We must go at once."
"No, we wait for Pierre. It may be dusk before he returns. I sent him over the portage yesterday with orders to explore some leagues to the south. We must wait for him. He can tell us whether Pemaou went east by way of the portage."
"But we lose time!"
"We gain it. If Pemaou did not go by way of the portage, he went west. He would not dare go north, for fear of the Pottawatamies, and he would have no object in going south. He went east or west. We can learn from Pierre."
The man's shoulders heaved. "Your men were cowards," he muttered.
I looked at him. So a coward could despise a coward! "My men were wise," I corrected. "With Simon killed there were only two men left,—one, rather, for Leclerc is a nonentity. Labarthe, left alone, was wise to surrender. He is skillful with Indians. Monsieur, tell me of your dealings with Pemaou. Tell me your trip here. I need details."
He measured me. "You dictate, monsieur?"
I pointed to Simon's body. "That is my claim."
He gulped at that, and turned his back on the red horror to fix his steady, critical gaze on my face. "After the massacre," he began, with an effort, "I followed many false trails. I went to Quebec, to Montreal. All this has nothing to do with what you wish to know. But at Montreal I first heard rumors of an English prisoner who was being carried westward. That sent me to Michillimackinac."
"You heard this rumor through the priests?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"I thought so. It is fortunate for the success of your somewhat complicated plans that you are a Catholic and a Jacobite."
"Is there a slur in that remark, monsieur?"
"Not unless the facts themselves are insulting, Our priests would see no hidden purpose in your story. They would be predisposed in favor of a Catholic and follower of James. They would give you letters where a commandant would not. It was good policy to go to them."
"But, monsieur, I am a Catholic!"
"Which, I repeat, is fortunate."
"Monsieur, this is wanton insult. Are you trying to pick a quarrel with me here, here with this tragedy around us? It is a dog's trick. I will not fight you."
Again I took out my knife. "I will not fight you here,—here with this tragedy around us,—but I may kill you. I shall do it if you do not tell me this story fairly. I care nothing for your life, and I need this story. I will have it if I have to choke it out of your throat."
"I am trying to tell you the story, monsieur."
"No. You are telling me a pleasant fairy tale of a love-lorn knight searching the wilderness for his lost mistress. A moving tale, monsieur, but not the true one. I want the real story. The story of the English spy who wishes to ransom his cousin, but who also treats secretly with the Hurons,—who treats with Pemaou, monsieur. Tell me his story."
His face did not alter. "You believe me a spy?"
"I have reason, monsieur."
Still he regarded me. "You might be right, but you are not. Monsieur, I am a broken man. I want nothing but my cousin. If there is intrigue around me I do not know it. I am telling you the truth."
I fought hard against the man's fascination, his splendid, ruined pomp. "You must have a code," I burst out. "There must be something you hold dear. Will you swear to me by the name of the woman that you have not had secret dealings with the Hurons?"
"I swear."
"But the profile that the Huron carried!"
"Those pictures I scattered broadcast. You will find them among the Algonquins, and the Ottawas of the upper river. My cousin has a distinctive profile. I offered rewards for news of any one—man or woman—who looked like the face that I had drawn."
I put out my hand. "I hope that I have wronged you, monsieur."
He bowed and touched my fingers. His own were icy, yet he shivered at the chill of mine. "Pemaou would not dare harm the woman. Monsieur de Montlivet, you know Indians. Surely Pemaou would not dare?"
I gripped my knife. "No man knows Indians! Where did you see Pemaou first?"
"At Michillimackinac. When I reached there and learned that the prisoner had gone with you I sent interpreters through the camps with offers of reward for news of your whereabouts. Pemaou came. He said he could locate you and I took him as guide."
"He selected his own escort?"
"Yes."
"And you traveled slowly?"
"Very slowly."
I fingered my pipe and bit hard at its stem. "Pemaou has played carefully. He had the woman captured and brought to camp. The time was not ripe for him to use her, so he let me carry her away. But he has had me shadowed. You played well into his hands, for you furnished blankets and provisions. He had no intention of letting you find us. We are equal dupes. I see that I wronged you, monsieur."
He looked down, his breath laboring. I could look at him now without recoil, for a common humiliation bound us. We were white and we had been tricked by a savage. We sat in heavy silence.
At last Starling spoke dully. "Why did Pemaou wait so long?"
I gripped my knife the closer. "That we shall learn when we learn what he has done with the woman."
He looked up with his jaw shaking. "Monsieur, we must make haste."
But I shook my head. "Monsieur, no. We must await Pierre."
The fog was withdrawing. It was noon, and I rose and made ready a grave for Simon. I chose a spot under a pine where I had seen the woman sit, and I dug deep as my crude implements would permit. Then I piled stones on the mound. The Englishman helped me, and together we said a prayer. We did not comment till our work was over. Then Starling looked down at the mound.
"I wonder why he was killed? The others surrendered."
I shrugged a trifle bitterly. "He loved the woman. It was not her fault. I doubt that she knew it, and she could not help it. But it cost him his life, for it made him attempt to carry a forlorn hope. And she never even knew. It is suicide to love a woman hopelessly, monsieur."
It was hideous when we went back to our seats by the ashes. The sun had come out hot and nauseating, and the flies buzzed horribly. We tried to crowd down food, but we could not swallow. We sat and chewed on our despairing thoughts, and hate that was a compound of physical faintness and sick uncertainty rose between us.
The Englishman took a miniature from his pocket and handed it to me.
"She gave it to me herself," he said. "With laughter and with kisses, monsieur."
I tried to wave the picture away, but I had not strength to resist looking. It was no profile that I saw. The brown eyes looked full in mine; merry eyes, challenging, fun-crowded, innocent. There were no sombre shadows there. There was spirit in plenty, but no sorrow. White shoulders rose from clouds of pink gauze, and the hair was powdered and pearl-wreathed and piled high in a coronet. It was not the face of the woman that I knew. I said so, and returned the portrait to the Englishman.
He could not resist baiting me. "You do not like it, monsieur?"
I shook my head. "It is nothing to me. It is the face of a laughing, trusting, untouched girl. I have never seen her."
"You say that you married her."
"Monsieur, this is a girl. I married a woman, a woman matured by tragedy. The eyes that are laughing in this portrait are wiser now. They have seen the depths of a man's treachery. But they have not lost their spirit, no, nor their tenderness, monsieur. You will find little that you recognize in the woman who is now my wife."
He kept his composure. "You use the word 'wife' very glibly," he said, with a yawn. "Do you use it when the lady is within hearing, as you do now?"
"She is my wife."
He laughed, for he saw he had drawn blood. "Your wife in name, perhaps,—I grant you that,—but not in fact. Do you think me blind that I should not see the two cabins. And you said that you had never crossed the threshold of the woman's room. I see that I shall find my cousin the maiden that I left her, monsieur."
I kept my lips closed. He had indeed drawn blood. I could not answer.He leaned forward and tapped a significant forefinger on my knee.
"Remember, she has kissed me, monsieur. She has kissed me often of her own will."
And then my spirit did return. "That does not concern me."
He lifted his great lip. "You are indulgent."
The flies buzzed odiously. The Englishman was gloating over me, his great head craned forward like a buzzard's. My brain took fire.
"I am not indulgent," I said slowly, with my throat dry. "I am wise. She has kissed you, yes. I have no doubt that she has kissed you many times, casually, lightly, indifferently. She brushed the plumage of her falcon in the same way. You are welcome to the memory of those kisses, my lord. You may have more like them in the future, and I shall not say you nay. They mean nothing."
He scowled at me. "What do you know of her kisses?" he said under his breath.
I looked him in the eye. "I know this. There is but one kiss that means anything from a woman, and she gives it, if she is the right kind of a woman, to but one man in her life. For the rest,—I value them no more than the brush of her finger-tips. Tell me, have you felt her lips pressed to yours till her breath and her soul were one with you? Tell me that. Answer, I say."
I had let the cord of reason and decency slip. I rose, and I think that the hate in my face must have been wolfish, for the man drew back. He tried to look contemptuous, but I saw fear in his eyes. Fear and something more,—a sudden pain and longing. The emotion that heretofore he had kept well in hand trapped him for the moment. I was answered. The woman might never be mine, but she had never been his, either. I turned away. I was triumphant, but I loathed myself. I was sick with the situation, and the man who had brought me to it.
"You may keep your kisses, monsieur," I said savagely. "You may keep them. But if you mention them to me again I shall throttle you where you stand."
The Englishman had felt the revulsion, and he showed no resentment of my heat. He heaved himself up in the hot, horrible sunshine and rubbed his hands as if washing them free.
"We are curs," he said quietly.
I could not say nay. "We must eat," I cautioned; "we must eat, and keep ourselves sane. If we can get through this day without murder or worse, we shall have work to do from now on that will serve to keep our heads clear. Pierre will be coming soon now."
Starling was regarding me keenly. "You lose your temper, and therefore you should be easy to read," he said reflectively. "But you are not. You evidently married my cousin for convenience. I can understand the situation. But you stand by your bargain well. You have the honor of your name somewhat sensitively at heart. But if you had not married her—— If there were no compulsion, no outside reason—tell me, would you marry her now?"
But that I left unanswered.
Pierre came at five o'clock. He was keen for the approaching supper hour and came jovially.
I was sick with haste, and deep sunk in my own grief, so I was cruel and a fool; I plumped the facts at him without a softening word. And so I frustrated my own ends. The great, slow creature cowered and grew dumb under my story. Then he went, great-eyed and hanging-lipped, from cabin to cabin. I had locked up his springs of word and thought.
But one thing my sword and my words prodded out of him. He had come by the portage path from the east, and had seen no marks of passage that were less than a week old. Our star led west.
I baled what provision and ammunition we needed, loaded the canoes, and cached the furs and the balance of the stores at the edge of the forest. At six o'clock we were afloat. I led the way, and Pierre followed with the Englishman. This gave me space to think in silence.
The sun sank red and clear, and we paddled from a colored dusk to a clear starlight. I knew this dimly, as the lost in the inferno know the barred joys above them. Unless we found Pemaou within the next few hours I should never be one with the loveliness of nature again.
I held my way due west to the Malhominis. I could secure their cooperation, if nothing more. Pierre followed at a canoe length, and we traveled unbrokenly. It was an hour short of midnight when we saw the west shore. I could take no bearings in the dim light, so we nosed along, uncertain whether to go north or south to find the mouth of the Wild Rice River where the Malhominis had their home. We held a short colloquy and started northward. Suddenly Pierre shot his canoe beside my own.
"A camp!" he breathed in a giant whisper.
I suspended my paddle. On the shore to the north of us were lights. It could not be the Malhominis, for they lived inland; it was not Pemaou, for the camp was many times larger than his would be. It was probably a hunting party. All the western tribes were friendly; more, they were my allies. I saw no necessity for caution. I raised a long halloo, and our canoes raced toward the lights.
We landed in a medley. Indians sprang from the squatting groups around the fire and ran to meet us. They were black shapes that I could not recognize. I leaped from my canoe and held up my hand in greeting. But an arm reached out and tore my musket from me. I looked up. A leering Iroquois stood over me.
I dropped my arms and stood passive. A look over my shoulder told me that Pierre and Starling had been seized and were fighting well.
"Caution!" I called. "Do not resist. Watch me."
"Where are we? What does it mean?" Starling called back. His voice was shaking.
I held out my arms to be bound. "The Iroquois!" I shouted to Pierre in dialect. "I did not know there were any within a thousand miles. Keep steady. Follow me. We may find Pemaou here."
The Indians bound us systematically, but without undue elation, so that I judged that they had many captives. They were Senecas and had the look of picked men. I understood their speech, but beyond ribald jests at our expense they said nothing. It was all swift, unreal. Owls hooted in the woods and dogs snarled at us. The groups that remained by the fire peered in our direction, but were too lethargic to come near. I tried for a word with Starling. I feared for his spirit.
"They are Senecas," I managed to say to him; "the most diplomatic nation of the Iroquois league. They will not butcher us without consideration. Keep cool."
He nodded with some patronage. He looked impressive, unshaken; yet the moment before he had been terror-stricken. I saw that I did not understand him, after all.
Having bound us, our captors raised a shout and shouldered us toward the camp. A young brave capered before us, beating his breast and singing. The braves by the fire took up the cry.
And so we were pushed into the circle of flaming light. The Indians crowded to us, and pressed their oily, grinning faces so near that I felt their breath. I stumbled over refuse, and dirt-crusted dogs blocked my way. The mangled carcass of a deer lay on the ground, and the stench of fresh blood mingled with the reek of the camp. Yet I saw only one thing clearly. In the midst of it stood the woman and Singing Arrow.
My relief caught at my throat, and the cry I gave was hoarse and strangled. But the woman heard it. My first look had shown me not only that she was unharmed, but that she was undaunted, that she stood white-faced in all the grime, and held herself above it, a thing of spirit that soil could not reach. Yet when she saw me, the cry that came from her in answer changed her from an effigy to something so warm and living that I forgot where I stood, and stopped my breath to hold her gaze to mine, and drink the moment to the full. We stood with captivity between us and torture at our elbow, but the woman looked only at me, and her lips grew red and tremulous, and her breath came fast. "You are safe. You are safe." I heard the words even among the babel, and I pulled like a wild animal at my bonds to free myself and reach her side.
But I was held fast, and while I struggled came a mighty cry from behind me, "Mary! Mary! Mary!" Starling's Goliath frame pushed by me, and his captors were hurled like pygmies to each side.
The woman was unprepared. She cried at sight of him with a deep throaty terror that sent the blood to my brain. Starling would have pressed himself to her, but she put out her unbound arms and fended him away. And then he stood with his great height bowed and pleaded to her. I had shrugged at the English for their hard reserve, but when I heard this man I learned again that it is always the dammed torrent that is to be feared. Even the Indians heard in silence.
The silence lasted. Never before nor since have I known savages to take the background and let two whites play out a tragedy unchecked. But now they formed a ring and watched. They forgot their interest in me and let me go. I could stand unheeded. An old man threw tinder on the fire, and we saw each other's faces as in the searching, red light of a storm. I watched the cords in Starling's neck tighten and relax as he talked on and on.
The drama was in pantomime to me, as to the Indians, for the cousins spoke in English. But I could understand the woman's face. She spoke in monosyllables, but I could have pitied any other man for the gulf she put between them by her look. She was more than scornful; torn and disheveled as she was, she was cruelly radiant, her eyes black-lined and her lips hard. She was unassailable. And when she met her kinsman's eye I gloried in her till I could have laid my cheek on the ground at her feet.
It was plain they were kinsmen. I had marked the strange blood resemblance between them when I first saw the man, and it was doubly to be noted now. It was blood against blood as they faced each other. And it came to me that it was more than a personal duel. No wrong is so unforgivable as one from our own family whose secret weaknesses we know and share, and I felt that the repulsion in the woman's eyes was part for herself and part for her pride of race. Yet I was uncertain of the issue. The tie of blood is strong, and after a few minutes I thought that Starling was gaining ground. His great personality enwrapped us all, and his strange, compelling voice went on and on and on, pleading, pleading in a tongue that I could not understand. His eyes never left the woman's, and in time hers fell. I tried to clench my bound hands, for my pride in her was hurt; yet I could understand his power.
It was just then that the savages wearied of the spectacle and hustled Starling away. They saw that he was English, and they unbound his arms, and began to take counsel concerning him. In a flash I saw my path clear. They were friendly to the English. The woman was English. I must not let her identify herself with me. And so when her glance crept back to me, I was prepared. I would not stop to read what her look might say. I shook my head at her and dropped my eyes. I made the same signal to Singing Arrow. The Indian would understand my motive; I could not be sure about the woman.
And then I turned and mingled with the crowd, with my heart beating strangely but my brain cool. The interest was centring in Starling, and the older men had their calumets in hand and were preparing for the council. I saw that for a few hours at least I should have life and semi-liberty. There was no possibility of my escape, so, bound as I was, I was free to wander within limits. I would keep as near the women as possible and try and herd my faction together.
I had been too absorbed to use my eyes, but now I saw that a captive was lying near my feet. He was closely tied on two pieces of rough wood shaped like a St. Andrew's cross, and was a hideous sight with his tongue protruding and his eyes beginning to glaze. Dogs were scrambling and tearing at him, and I edged nearer and tried to drive them away. I examined him as closely as I dared, and judged by the dressing of his long hair that he was a Miami. In that case the war party must have come from the south by way of the Ohio and the Illinois country, and they were probably working their way north to reach Michillimackinac on its unguarded side. I saw it was a war party, for there were no women with them, and the Iroquois carry their families on all hunting trips.
I looked at the dying man and wished for my knife. So they tortured Indian captives while they let me, a Frenchman, go lightly bound. Well, my turn was yet to come. My white skin probably gave me importance enough so that I would be referred to the council. I would not look ahead. I would plan for the moment, and open eyes and ears.
There were many captives, I saw now, and my anxiety for Leclerc and Labarthe grew keen. I made my slow way around the bound figures. Some were pegged to the ground by their out-stretched hands and feet, and some were stretched on crosses. But all were Indians. I saw more Miamis, a few Kickapoos, and some whom I did not know; I learned later that they were Mascoutens. And then I saw Labarthe. He was tied to a tree, Leclerc beside him. Leclerc, who was ever a fool, would have motioned to me, but Labarthe struck down his arm and gave a blank stare. So I was able to get near them. They looked blood-stained and jaded, but practically unhurt, and I saw a half-eaten chunk of meat in Leclerc's hand. They had been fed and reasonably well treated. But that meant nothing as guide to what might come.
I had not made my way alone. Starling was the chief attraction, but I, too, was the centre of a curious, chaffering crowd. The braves were unwontedly good-humored, childishly pleased with the evening's excitement, and I amused them still further by shrugging at them and making great faces of contempt. When one offered me a meal cake I kicked at him and trampled the food into the ground, and as I swaggered away I heard him tell the others that I was a bear for courage. I could have smiled at that, for I was acting more like a blustering terrier than any nobler animal, but I would not let them see that I understood their tongue.
And so I pushed my way about. But wherever I went, or whatever else my eyes were doing, I kept watch upon the woman. She stood quiet with Singing Arrow and waited for what might come. Her fate was hanging with Starling's at the council ring, and I knew that I must keep away from her. That was not easy. Each time that I let my glance rest upon the foulness of the camp I felt that I must go to her and blind her eyes. But I never made more than one step. I had only to look at her to understand that her spirit had learned in these months to hold itself above the body. What was passing did not touch her; she lived in the fortress of her splendidly garrisoned pride. Singing Arrow stood equally aloof, intrenched in her stoicism, but I think the root motives of the two were different, though the outside index was the same. Indeed, we all had different wellsprings for our composure. Pierre's stolidity was largely training. Starling's quiet might mean instinctive imitation, but I feared it was something more sinister. While mine—— But I had no composure. I swaggered and shrugged and played harlequin and boaster.
We were soon to learn that Starling's quiet was not impervious. I saw him start. His hand flew to where his knife had been, and his teeth showed like a jackal's. A figure that had lain, blanket-shrouded in the shadow, had risen and come forward. It was Pemaou. He had pleased his humor by being an unseen auditor and letting us play out our various forms of resistance and despair for his delight. Now he would make a dramatic entry. He was dressed for the part in a loin cloth, a high laced hat of scarlet, and the boots of a captain of dragoons. He stopped before Starling and grinned silently. Then he held his hat, French fashion, and made a derisive bow. The Englishman forgot his dignity and cursed. I wished that I had been near enough to hold up a warning hand.
I knew my turn was next, so was prepared. Pemaou sought me, and stood before me, but I would not see him; I looked through him as through glass. He spoke to me in French, but I was deaf. I heard the Senecas grunt with amusement.
Pemaou heard it too, and his war plume quivered. He gave an order in Huron, and one of his men came behind me and unbound my hands. I could have jeered at the childishness of his open purpose. He hoped that, with my hands free, I would spring at him, impotent and vengeful as a caged rattlesnake, and that then he could turn me over to the sport and torture of the mob. I stretched my freed arms, laughed to myself, and turned away. My laugh was genuine. It was wine to me that he should have shown weakness in this fashion, when in some ways he had proved himself a better general than I. It was a small victory, but it cheered me.
I do not know how long the council lasted, but it seemed hours. The old men rose at last, and going to Starling, patted him, grunted over him, and examined him. I could not hear what they said, but it was evidently pacific; they led him off in the direction of the largest lodge.
And then came the woman's turn. I knew that my face was strained, though I strove to keep it sneering. I saw the oldest man give instructions, then he went to the two women and pointed the way before him. I pushed along as best I could. He took them to a small hut of bark and motioned them within, while he himself dropped the mat in front of the opening. They were safe for that night at least.
The savages were wearied now and turned to Pierre and me with yawns. They made short work of us. I was bound to the arm of a stout warrior, and he dragged me under a tree and dropped on the ground. He was snoring before I had finished building a barricade of cloak between us to keep as much as possible of his touch and smell away.
The camp quieted rapidly, and I soon had only silence between me and the stars. My mind was active but curiously placid. Inch by inch I went over the ground of the last twenty-four hours. I stated the case to myself as a foreigner translates a lesson. It is sometimes a help to put a situation in the concrete, to phrase it as to a stranger. In that way you stand aloof and see new light. So I put the matter in category, sharing it with the stars, and with the back of the snoring Indian.
We were in Pemaou's hands. He had known that the Iroquois were coming; had probably known it months before, and had instigated this campaign. He wished an alliance with the English, and, though he could work to that end through the Iroquois, he would find an English prisoner a material aid. I could see how useful I had been to him in keeping the Englishwoman away from Michillimackinac,—where he would have had ado to hold his title of possession to her,—and I could not but respect the skill with which he had timed his blow, and brought her to the Iroquois camp at the right moment. Yes, I had served him well, from the time when I had assisted him to hear Longuant's speech in the Ottawa camp to the present hour. The accident that had strengthened him still further by throwing Lord Starling into his hands he also owed to me. But I looked up at the stars and did not lose courage. The game was not over; the score was yet to be paid.
I had many plans to arrange. Day was coming, and I watched the horizon breaking and felt that the morning would bring new opportunity.
And then, just as I needed all my wit and presence, I fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.
I do not know that, after all, I can call that sleep which fell upon me. Sleep is merely a blessed veiling of the faculties; this was collapse, deadness. The Indian beside me must have been equally worn, for he lay like a log. We were huddled close to a tree, so were unnoticed, or at least undisturbed. The sun was hours high when I opened my eyes.
I sprang to my feet, dragging the Indian to his knees. He grunted, rubbed his eyes, and feeling sluggish and uncomfortable from the warmth of the morning, found me an incubus. He grunted again, untied the thongs that bound us, and went, stretching and yawning, to find his breakfast.
I stood for a moment marshaling my wits. The bright day and the noise confused me, for I had been deep sunk in unconsciousness, and grasped the real world unsteadily. The camp was even larger than the night had shown, and it took some looking to find the woman's lodge. It was empty; the mat was pulled down from before the door.
I should have expected nothing else, for the morning was far advanced, but I felt baffled, belated, like one whose long unconsciousness had carried him hopelessly out of touch with his surroundings. Most of the Indians were gathered at the shore, and I made my way toward them. I went but slowly, for I had to feign indifference. I knew that every step was watched. Perhaps the woman herself was watching. I burned with shame to think she should have seen me sleep so soddenly. I expected every moment to see her in the crowd.
But when I reached the beach the crowd was straying as if the excitement were over. Far out on the water to the northeast was a flotilla of canoes fast disappearing. Whom did they carry? Had they left from the camp? I cursed myself for my lost hours. The threads of the situation had slipped from my hand, and all my feeling of competence and hope of the night before had gone with them. I could see no sign of the woman nor of Starling. Pierre's red head was a beacon, but I dared not go to him. He was bending over a caldron of boiling meat, and I saw that my man was himself again, and that the trencher called him more winningly than any voice of mine. I shrugged, and went to the beach to make what toilet I could. The cold water recreated me. I was more a man when I strolled back in the crowd.
And then I saw Labarthe. He was unbound and mingling with the Indians. Leclerc was close beside him, shuffling and docile; he, too, was free, as was Pierre. Four of us, and our hands at liberty. This looked better. I hummed a tune, clapped a brave on the shoulder, and motioned him to bring me meat and meal. But where was the woman?
I saw Labarthe working toward me with his eyes the other way, so I knew he had news. He was nimbler witted than Pierre, though less valuable on a long stretch. I dreaded Leclerc, for he could not be trusted even for good sense, and I heartily wished him elsewhere. But Pierre came to the rescue; he called Leclerc boldly, and drew him to the meat caldron. I was satisfied. Three of us were working in unison,—and we had worked together in this way before, and won. But where were Pemaou, and Starling, and the woman?
Labarthe made his way near, and stood with his back toward me. I remembered a roundelay that we had sung in camp. I whistled it, picking, in the meantime, at the bone the Indian had brought. I whistled the tune once, twice, several times. Then I fitted words to it.
"Where is the woman? Where is the Englishman? Tell me." I sang the words boldly, but in bastard French with clipped accents. I feared that among all these Senecas there might be one or more who had some smattering of the French tongue.
Labarthe did not answer at once nor look around, so I went on singing. Nonsense words now, with no coherence or meaning, and all in French that a cowherd would have been ashamed to own.
I worked at last to a crescendo of sound that gave Labarthe his cue. He turned and laughed, as if noticing me for the first time. He cocked his head like a game bird, planted his legs apart, and joined the song. He had the biggest voice from Montreal to Chambly, and he sung with full lung power and at breathless speed. It was a torrent of sound; my ears were strained to follow it.
"Five large canoes left this morning," he warbled. "They carried madame, the Englishman, Pemaou, and his Hurons, and a detachment of the Senecas,—some seventy-five in all. They went to Michillimackinac."
The news hit me like a bullet, and I must have whitened, but I kept on singing. I nodded at Labarthe, and sang, I think, of spring and running brooks. Then I flung a jeer at him and ate my breakfast. I ate it systematically and stolidly, though it would not have tempted any but a starving man. I was a fool and a dullard. I had slept away my opportunities, and I could not see that my strength was important to any one. But I determined to preserve it.
If I kept up jest and laughter for the next hours—and I have some memory that I did—it was automatic. For I more nearly touched despair than ever before. I did not need the sentences that I picked up further among the Indians to tell me what had happened. The Senecas, under Pemaou's guidance, had gone to Michillimackinac; had put their heads into the bear's mouth, and yet were as safe as in their own village, for the bear's teeth were drawn, and the Senecas were armored. They traveled with Pemaou, and they had two English prisoners. That insured them protection from the Hurons, who desired the English alliance and had leanings toward the Iroquois. As to the Ottawas,—there was Singing Arrow as hostage. It was significant that the Senecas had allowed Singing Arrow to go unbound. They desired an alliance with the Ottawas. I remembered Longuant's speech, and his indicated policy of casting his strength with the winning side, and I thought it probable they would succeed.
And if they succeeded? Well, Cadillac had his two hundred regulars. Yet he could not hope to win, and he would do what he could to hold off the necessity of trying. He would not dare seize the Senecas. No, the league of the Long House had won. Their braves could sit in our garrison at their leisure and exchange peace belts with our Indians under our eyes. I set my teeth and wondered what part Starling had played in it all. He had grown curiously at ease when he had found himself in an Iroquois camp. I had no choice but to believe that Pemaou had tricked and deceived him, as he had said, but that did not mean that he had not been in league with Pemaou in the beginning. Pemaou was capable of tricking a confederate. No Englishman understands an Indian, and if he had patronized Pemaou the Huron would have retaliated in just this way. I grew sick with the maze of my thought. But one thing I grasped. With part of the Senecas in the French camp, we Frenchmen would be spared for a time. We would be convenient for exchange, or to exact terms of compromise. They might torture us, but they would keep us alive till the issue of this expedition was known.
All about me were preparations for a permanent camp. This puzzled me for a time, but I soon worked out the reason. They were afraid to march with their full force on Michillimackinac, for they feared the friendship of the western tribes for the French, and thought that if a large war party marched openly toward the garrison these tribes would rally to Cadillac's defense. So this camp was kept as watch-dog for the western region. I prayed that Cadillac keep his judgment cool.
One thing brought smiles that I had to turn into vacant and misleading laughter. Through all the talk ran my name,—that they did not know was mine. They had heard that I was stirring among the western tribes, and that I was making them dangerous. They spoke of my knowledge of Indian tongues, and added apocryphal tales of my feats of wit and daring. My image loomed large, and it was no wonder that they did not connect this mythical Colossus with the swaggering royster who played buffoon for their mirth. I wondered that Pemaou had not told them, but I reflected that there is a mutual distrust among Indians that takes the place of reticence, and that that had saved me. I had escaped for the moment, but the ice was thin. I should be given short shrift once my name was known.
The day passed, warm and lovely in the woods and on the water, hideous and sweltering in the stench of the camp. I saw captives die of heat and flies, but I could do nothing. My men took cue from me, and we all laughed and chaffered. I even took a turn at spear throwing, but was too discreet to win. I gained some good-will, perhaps, but nothing more, and when the stars came out that night I ground my teeth to think of how little I had accomplished, and of the slender opportunity ahead.
But the next morning I saw a straw to grasp. Up to that time we had been left to the guardianship of all the camp, but the second day I saw that the huge brave to whom I was tied at night followed me incessantly. I watched, and saw that my men had similar attendants. This was a gain, as I said to Labarthe. I did not try to have connected speech with the men, but by saying a word at a time as we passed we could patch together a few sentences.
From that on I gave the day to winning my special jailer. He was an intelligent Indian and inclined to be good-humored. I amused him, and when I took a net and motioned that we go to the swamp to fish he grunted and agreed.
The swamp lay on the north of the camp, and was, I was sure, part of the great rice field on which the Malhominis had their village to the west. The swamp was flooded so that it would bear a canoe, and it teemed with fish. I took the net,—it was ingeniously woven of nettles pounded to a fibre and then spun into cords,—and showed the Indian how to swing it across an eddy and draw it under with a swift, circular sweep that would entangle any fish. I had success, and the Indian warmed to the sport and tried it himself. He could not do it; he could not get the twist of the hand that was the whole secret, and I had to show him again. He improved and grew ambitious. A few braves wandered over to look at us, but my jailer was jealous of his new accomplishment, and we took a canoe and paddled out of sight. We spent most of the day in the swamp.
That evening I went boldly to Pierre and said a few swift words. I told him to keep as near the swamp as possible, and to tell the other men to do the same. In about two days, if my plans carried, we should be able to accomplish something. In the meantime they must appear contented, and try for the confidence of their guards.
Now my plan was simple. I had in my shirt the bottle of laudanum that all traders carry, and it was my only weapon. Pierre had shown me a small flask of rum which the Indians had not discovered, and which he had had the unexpected self-control to leave untouched. I hoped that when my Indian had learned the casting of his net his vanity could be played on to invite the other Frenchmen and their guards to see his prowess, and that we should then have opportunity to treat the Indians to the laudanum-dosed rum. It was a crazy scheme, but worth a trial. If we could get possession of the canoe, there was some hope that we could make our way to the Malhominis village.
No teacher was ever more zealous than I for my net-thrower. Early the next morning I winked toward the swamp, and jerked my thumb over my shoulder. The Indian came willingly. Why should he not? I was unarmed, and he had knife and hatchet and was my peer in strength. He thought me a strange fool, but useful.
But that morning the lesson went badly. The Indian was clumsy, and being ashamed of himself, grew surly and indifferent. The sun was hot, the water dazzling, and mosquitoes rose in clouds. The Indian wanted to go back to camp, and I cudgeled my wits for expedients to keep him there.
And then I bethought me of an accomplishment which I had shown Indians before. Quickness of hand is my greatest resource, and I had been known to noose a fish. I tore my handkerchief in ribands, made a weighted sling, and had the Indian swing the canoe over a ripple where a great bass lay. I waited my time, then plunged my hand down with the weighted noose. I drew it up, with the fish caught through the gills.
The Indian was pleased. He grunted and exclaimed in his own speech, though he thought I could not understand.
"They say the Frenchman, Montlivet, can do that." Then he looked at me and light dawned.
"You are Montlivet!"
I wasted no time. I do not know how I did it, but I sprang the length of the canoe and was on him before he could reach his knife. The canoe rocked, but righted itself. I knotted my fingers in the Indian's throat, and my body pinioned his arms.
The surprise of my attack gave me a second's vantage, and in it I snatched at the vial in my shirt, and drew the stopper with my teeth. It was difficult, for the great, naked frame was writhing under me, and the canoe pitched like a cork in an eddy. I felt the Indian's hot breath, and his teeth snapping to reach me. His arm was working free and his knife unsheathed. I threw my whole weight on his chest, released my clutch on his neck, and taking both hands, forced his mouth open and dashed the contents of my laudanum vial down his throat. Then I sprang into the water, dragging Indian and canoe after me.
I felt the slash of a knife in my right shoulder as I touched the water, and the Indian's wiry grasp on my coat. I rolled and grappled with him, and the canoe floated away. Hugging each other like twining water snakes, we sank down through the reeds to the slimy ooze of the bottom.
Down there we wrestled for a second, blinded and choking. Then self-love conquered hate, and we kicked ourselves free and spluttered to the surface. My shoulder was stinging, and I could not tell how long I could depend on it. I made a desperate stroke or two, dived, and put myself in the cover of the reeds.
The Indian splashed after me, but the water flowed through the reeds in a dozen channels, and he took the wrong one. He would find his mistake in a moment. I swam a few paces under water, then lay quiet, holding myself up by the reeds, and keeping my mouth to the air. Piece by piece I freed myself of my clothing and let it drop. The cut in my shoulder was raw and made me faint. It was not dangerous, but deep enough to give me trouble, and would make my swimming slow, if, indeed, I could swim at all. I felt the water swash against me and knew the Indian was swimming back. There was only a thin wall of reeds between us, and in a moment he would come to where the channels joined and see my floating garments. I could not stop to secure them, though I had hoped to tie them in a bundle on my back. I dropped under the water and swam away.
I have often marveled how I distanced that Indian so easily. It may have been his discomfort from the opiate, though I have never known how much of what I splashed over him went into his mouth, nor what effect it had. But after a little I heard no sound of pursuit. I thought that perhaps the Indian had gone back to spread the alarm, and I took no risks. I swam as fast as I had strength, resting occasionally by holding on to the reeds, and trying to keep my course due northwest.
And hour by hour passed, and still I kept on swimming. It was torture after the first. I could rest as often as I needed, but the cold water palsied me, and I feared cramp. My shoulder was feverish, and the pain of it sapped my strength. Occasionally I found a log tangled in the reeds, and I pulled myself up on it into the sun. If I had not been able to do that I could not have gone on.
With chill and fever and pain I had light-headed intervals. These came as the afternoon waned, and while they lasted I thought that the woman was in the Seneca camp, and that I must get back to her. Then I would turn and swim with the current, losing in a few minutes as much as I had gained in double the time. Fortunately these seizures were brief, but they would leave me sick and shaken and grasping the reeds for support. Another illusion came at this time: I would hear the woman calling, calling my name. Sometimes she cried that I had forsaken her. That left me weaker than the fever of my wound.
It was impossible to see where I was going, for the reeds were high above my head, but so long as my reason lasted I steered by the sun. I presume that I doubled many times, and lost much space, but that I do not know, for toward the end I traveled like an automaton. I could not fix my mind on where I was going or why, but I kept repeating to myself that I must push against the current, and so, though I lost the idea at times, and found myself drifting, I think that I went some distance after my brain had ceased to direct.
And then I found peace. My mind, freed of the burden of thinking of its surroundings, turned to the woman. She called to me, talked to me, sometimes she walked the reeds at my side. She was all smiles and lightness, and her tongue had never a barb. I forgot to struggle. The narrow channel where I had been fighting my way opened now into a broader passage, and the current flowed under me like an uplifting hand. The woman's voice called me from down-stream; I turned on my back, and floated, dreamy and expectant, toward the river's mouth.
I was called to semi-consciousness by the tinkling clamor of small bells, and by feeling my feet caught in something clinging yet yielding. Then my body swung into it. It was a web. I pulled at it, and tried to brush it away. And all the while the bells kept ringing, ringing. A shower of arrows fell around me, and one grazed my foot.
A man must be far gone indeed when an arrow point will not sting him to life. I was no longer a fever-riven log of driftwood. I knew where I was and what was happening. I had reached the Malhominis village. Working through the rice swamp, I had come into the main river too far to the west, but following the woman's voice I had floated back. I was caught in one of the nets that the Malhominis strung with small bells, and stretched across the stream to keep both fish and enemies in bounds. I set my teeth hard.
"It is Montlivet. It is Montlivet," I called.
Had I thought the Malhominis stolid and none too intelligent! They heard me call, they pushed a canoe to my rescue, and they carried me to a warm lodge. I remember that I bandied words with them as they carried me. They made sport to see me naked, for on my former visit I had rebuked them severely on that score. But they were tender of my shoulder.
The time for the next few hours—indeed for the night—is confused. My shoulder was dressed and bound with herbs, and I was laid on a bed of rushes. Outchipouac, the Malhominis war chief, knew from former acquaintance with me that I had prejudices and would not lie where it was not clean, and so he humored me and gave orders that the rushes be freshly cut. By this I knew that he had not only respect for me, but something that was like affection, since savages are indolent and intolerant, and will not bestir themselves for Europeans unless they are unwontedly interested. I treasured this kindness. One meets little that savors of personal regard in the wilderness, and I was ill.
Now, savages know little of the laws of health and abuse what they know, but in the matter of herbs they can be trusted. The herb drink which they gave me had virtue, for I woke with my head clear. A gourd of water stood beside my pallet, and I drained it and called lustily for another. A man pushed aside the skins and came in. It was Pierre. Pierre, alive, clothed, and with every hair of his flamingo head bristling and unharmed! He answered my cry with a huge smile, and then because he had a gypsy mother in the background of his nature, he put his great hands before his face, and I saw tears pushing between the fingers.
That made me fear ill news. I half rose, and would have shaken his tidings out of him like corn out of a bag. But the pain of my shoulder sent me back again with my teeth jammed hard together.
"What has happened? Out with it!" I cried.
But Pierre was inarticulate. He came to my pallet and mumbled something between tears about my shoulder.
—"and the master with no clothes but a dirty Indian's!" he finished.
So I was the cause of this demonstration. I patted his hand.
"But your escape, Pierre? Where are the other men?"
"Master, I do not know."
"But where did you come from? How did you get here? Talk, man!"
"The master does not give me time. I came by land. It is a fine land. They raise great squashes. Yes, and grain and vegetables! I have never seen their like in France. If I had a farm here I could have more than I could eat the whole year round."
I took time to curse. I had never heard my giant prate of agriculture; the camp and the tap-room had been his haunts. This appeared to be a method of working toward ill news. I lay back on my rushes and tried to fix his eye.
"Pierre, answer. Where is Labarthe?"
"I told the master"—
"Answer!"
"I don't know."
"Did he escape with you?"
Pierre rubbed his sleeve across his face. "The master will not listen. I do not know about Labarthe. I saw him at camp yesterday morning. The master saw him at the same time. Then the master went to the swamp, and I went, too, with my Indian. But I kept behind. By and by I saw the canoe upside down, and the master's cloak floating on the water; by that I knew that the master was drowned or had got away. I thought he had gone to the Malhominis, and I wanted to go, too. So I killed my Indian, and hid him in the grass. I came by land."
I rose on my elbow, careless of my shoulder. "How could you kill theIndian? You had no weapon."
Pierre stretched out his arms, knotted like an oak's branches, and illustrated. "I hugged him. Once I broke the ribs of a bear."
I lay and wagged my head like an old man who hears of warlocks and witch charms, and knows the tales to be true. The stupefying simplicity of it! If you want a thing, take it. Pierre wanted to follow me, so he killed his guard and came. That was all there was of it. I looked at him long, my head still wagging. He had done this sort of thing before. I had never understood it. It was this that I meant when I had called Pierre, dull of wit as he seemed, the most useful of my men.
I lay all day on my pallet, and Outchipouac served me with his own hands.
"It is thus that we treat those whom we delight to honor," he said, and he held the gourd to my lips and wiped my face with a square of linen that some trader had left in camp. He would give me no solid food, but dosed me with brewed herbs and great draughts of steaming broth. The juggler looked into the lodge and would have tried his charms on me, but Outchipouac sent him away.
A storm rose toward night, and I heard the knocking of the rain on the skin roof above me, and thought of the woman traveling northward in the Iroquois canoes. Starling was with her. I lay with tight-clenched hands.
The storm swelled high. I asked that the mat be dropped from before the door that I might see the lightning, and while I watched it Outchipouac slipped in. He felt me over, and patted my moist skin approvingly. Then he sat by my side and began to talk.
His talk at first was a chant, a saga, a recitation of the glories of his ancestors. The Malhominis had been a proud race,—now they were dwindled to this village of eighty braves. He crooned long tales of famine, of tribal bickerings, of ambuscade and defeat; his voice rustled monotonously like wind in dried grass.
Then his tone rose. He spoke of the present, its possibilities. The Iroquois league was a scourge, a pestilence. Could it be abolished, the western nations would return to health. Security would reign, and tribal laws be respected. The French would be friends, partners,—never masters,—and a golden age would descend upon the west. It was the gospel that I had cried in the wilderness, but phrased in finer imagery than mine. I felt the wooing of his argument, even as I had wooed others, and I listened silently and watched the lightning's play.
But I dreaded the moment when his argument should leave theory and face me in the concrete. The change came suddenly, as in music a tender melody will merge abruptly into a summons to arms. He called me to witness. The Iroquois were at the gates. They outnumbered the Malhominis, but the Sacs, the Chippewas, and the Winnebagoes were all within a day's journey, and would come at my call. The time for the alliance of which I had told them was at hand. My body was crippled but my brain was whole. To-morrow he, the chief, at my bidding, and with my watchword, would send runners through the tribes. Within the week a giant force could be gathered and an attack made. The Iroquois camp would be exterminated, and then I, at the head of the force, could march where I willed. Never had the western tribes followed a white man, but I had called their hearts from their bodies, and they would go.
But one thing I was to remember. He, Outchipouac, the chief, was my brother in arms. He had rescued me, clothed me, furnished me the means of war. My victories were his victories. These were his conditions. All Iroquois slaves that might be captured were to belong to the Malhominis to be incorporated in their tribe. The other tribes could divide the plunder, but the Malhominis needed new blood for adoption. I must agree to that.
He stopped. I was too sick of mind to speak, and my distemper was not of my wound. I had builded for this moment for two years, and now that it had come I was going to turn my back on it. More, I was going to refuse aid to a man who had succored me, had shown me genuine kindness. Self-pity is contemptible, but I felt it now.
"I cannot lead you," I said dully. "Gather your troops if you like, and make the attack without me. I cannot be here. To-morrow I must start for Michillimackinac. You will give me a canoe and a man?"
The lightning filled the tent and lit our faces, and I saw the chief start back under the blow of my words. He was shocked out of all his inherited and acquired phlegm. He did not speak, but he rose and peered into my eyes and I saw bewilderment go and contempt rise to take its place. To feel the righteous disdain of an Indian! That is an unusual experience for a white man.
And still he did not reply. He sat down and pulled his blanket over him. He was sorting out the evidence against me and giving judgment. It seemed at least an hour that he sat silent. And when he did speak he brought no manna.
"You have sold yourself to the Iroquois wolf. You are a child. You see only what is in front of your nose and forget what may come later. You are a fox. You hand us over to the wolf, but what do you expect? Has a wolf gratitude? No, but he has hunger. Fox meat is poor and stringy, but the wolf has a large stomach. Let the fox beware."
I pulled myself to my feet, though my shoulder cried to me for mercy.I jerked the chief's blanket aside.
"Outchipouac, I have listened. You have used an old trick. When a man wishes to be rid of a dog he cries that it is mad; then he can kill it, and no one will call him to account. So you. If you wish to break the covenant between us, now is your time. You can call me a fox, you can say that I have sold my honor to the Iroquois wolf. No one will check you, for I am naked and ill, and you are powerful. But you will have lied. This is my answer. I have called you 'brother;' I have kept the bond unbroken. If there is a fox here it is the man who calls me one."
I waited, and my mind was heavy. If the chief called me "brother" in turn, I was ready to embrace him as of my kin. For he was full of vigor of mind and honesty, and I respected him. He had been kind to me. Would he trust me against the evidence,—the evidence of his ears and of my reluctant tongue?
He temporized. "The Frenchman has a tongue like a bobolink,—pleasant to hear. Whether it says much,—that is a different matter. Can the Frenchman tell me why he wishes to go to Michillimackinac? Can he tell me why he spends time from the moon of breaking ice to the moon of strawberries building a lodge of promises, and then when he is just ready to use the lodge blows it down with a breath?"
What could I tell him? That I was following a woman? That I had given her my name, and that I must protect her? It would sound to him like a parrot's laughter. This was no court of love. It was war. A troubadour's lute would tinkle emptily in these woods that had seen massacre and knew the shriek of the death cry. Again I set my teeth and rose.
"Outchipouac, war is secret. I cannot tell you why I go to Michillimackinac. But trust me. I go on business; I shall return at once, within ten days, unless the wind be foul. Will you furnish me a canoe and a man to paddle?" I stooped and pulled rushes from my pallet, plaited them, and bound them in a ring. "Take this ring; keep it. It is firm, like my purpose, and unending, like my endeavor. I shall replace it with a chain of bright silver when I come to you again. I give it to you in pledge of my friendship."
The chief took the ring and handled it loosely. I thought he was about to throw it away, but he did not. He put it in his blanket.
"It is well," he said, and left the lodge. I was held on probation.
I had a good night and woke with new sinews. I saw that the sun was shining and the sky untroubled. A squaw brought me broth, and I drank it hungrily and tried to see no evil augury in the fact that I was served by a woman. I flattered her, and asked her to summon Pierre.
She brought him at once. He thrust himself into the entrance, and I saw dismay written large upon him.
"There is a canoe waiting to take the master away," he cried. "I am going, too."
Now I was prepared for this battle. "Pierre, you are to stay here. You are to keep near the Seneca camp to help Labarthe and Leclerc. If they escape, go, all of you, to our camp on Sturgeon Cove and guard the stores till I send you word. You understand?"
"But the master is sick. I go with him."
"You stay here."
"I go with the master."
"I will not allow it."
"Then I follow behind."
"You have no canoe, no provision."
"I have legs. I can walk. I can eat tripe de roche."
The giant was trembling. I could not but respect this rebellion. He had broken the chains of three centuries in his defiance. The thought of his filling his cavernous stomach with tripe de roche—which is a rock lichen, slimy and tasteless—moved me somewhat.
"You dare disobey me, Pierre?"
"But the master is sick."
I shrugged, but the logic held. "Then tell the chief," I capitulated."And see that I have something to wear."
Water was brought by one squaw, and another fetched more broth and bound my shoulder with fresh dressings. Then leggings, robe, and girdle of wolfskin were left for me. I put them on with difficulty, and went to find Outchipouac.
I stepped out into a glare of sunshine and stood blinking. The braves were gathered in a group, and a line of squaws barred me from them. I started toward them, but the squaws waved me back; they pointed me to the shore and the waiting canoe. Pierre rolled forward, uneasy and scowling.
"The braves will not speak to us; they say our talk means nothing."
"Who said that?"
"Outchipouac. He showed me a grass ring hanging on a pole by his lodge. He says that when you come again and hang a silver one in its place it will be time for him to listen."
I knew the Indians were watching, though covertly, so I could only bow. I went to the canoe and looked to its provisioning. There were two bags of rice, one of jerked meat, some ears of maize, and the dried rind of a squash; a knife and a hatchet lay with them. Our hosts had been generous. We were to be aided even if we were to be disciplined. I found my place, and Pierre took the paddle and pushed away.
It is one thing to be at enmity with savages, it is another to be an outcast among them. I knew that their attitude had excuse, and I was sick with myself. Then my Indian dress chafed my pride. I was sure that Pierre was laughing under his wrinkled red skin, and I was childish enough to be ready to rate him if he showed so much as a pucker of an eye. For I had always refused to let my men adopt the slightest particular of the savage dress. I had held—and I contend rightly—that a man must resist the wilderness most when he loves it most, and that he is in danger when he forgets the least point of his dress or manner. After that the downward plunge is swift. I had said this many times, and I knew Pierre must be recalling it.
And so I was sore with fate. Wounded, skin-clad, I was not heroic in look; it was hard to be heroic in mind. I had jeopardized the chance of an empire for a woman. But that proved nothing. The weakest could do that. It must be shown that I could justify my sacrifice.
These were irritations, yet they were but the surface of my suffering. Underneath was the grinding, never-ceasing ache of anxiety. What was happening at Michillimackinac? Would I reach there in time? I could do nothing but sit and think. Always, from dawn to dusk, my impatient spirit fretted and pushed at that canoe, but my hands were idle. I tried paddling with my left hand, but it dislocated my bandages, and I did not dare. I was in some pain, but exposed as I was, broiled by the sun and drenched by showers, I yet mended daily. I ate well and drank deep of the cold lake water and felt my strength come. My cut was healing wholesomely without fever, and Pierre washed and bandaged it twice a day. He told me with many a twist of his hanging lip that it was well for me that he was there.