83CHAPTER V.DANTON BREAKS OUT.
When Menard reached the wharf, early on the following morning, he found Father Claude waiting for him. The new canoe lay on the wharf, and beside it was a heap of stores. Perrot and the two newengagéssat on the edge of the wharf. The sun had just risen over the trees on St. Helen’s Island, and the air was clear and cool.
“Well, Perrot,” said Menard, as he unslung his musket and horn, “is everything ready?”
“Everything, M’sieu.”
“Where is Guerin?”
“I have not seen him, M’sieu.”
Menard turned to the priest.
“Good-morning, Father. You are on time, I see; and that is more than we can say for Danton. Where is the boy?”
“He has gone for Mademoiselle St. Denis, Captain. He was here before the sunrise, checking up the stores.”84
“Learning to work, is he? That is a good sign. And how about yourself? Did you pick up anything yesterday?”
“Yes,” replied the priest. “I enquired at the Mission about Teganouan and his companions.”
“Well?”
“Nothing is known of them. Teganouan had been one of the worst drunkards among the Onondagas, and his conversion, a year ago, was thought to be one of our greatest victories for the faith. His penances were among the most complete and purging ever––”
“And the others?”
“Just before I left the Mission for Quebec, Teganouan went on an errand to the city and fell among some of our fellow-countrymen who were having a drinking bout. For a few days after that he wavered, and fell again. Once afterward he was seen in company with two low fellows,coureurs de bois, who have since been confined under suspicion of communicating with the enemy.”
“He has returned to the Mission, then?”
“No, he disappeared some time ago. They do not know the Long Arrow. I described him to Brother de Lamberville––”
“Oh, he is here now?”85
“Yes. It seems, further, that all the other workers among the Iroquois have had word and are returning. That much of my labour is removed.”
“How do they get this word?” said Menard, impatiently. “That is the old question. It is enough to make one wonder if there are any secrets kept from the enemy’s country.”
“No one seems to know, M’sieu. The Superior told me last night that they had not been sent for, so it would seem that the information must have reached them through the Indians.”
“The folly of these new governors!” Menard strode back and forth. “Oh, it makes one sigh for old Frontenac. He never walked blindfolded into such a trap as this. But go on. You were speaking of Father de Lamberville.”
“It was only that I described the Long Arrow to Brother de Lamberville. He seemed to remember such a wampum collar as the Long Arrow wore. He could not recall exactly.”
“Then we may as well forget the incident. It seems that we are to know nothing of it. Here is Danton.”
The lieutenant and the maid were walking86rapidly down to the wharf. Mademoiselle was in a gay mood after her few hours of enjoyment among the comforts of a city.
“Good-morning,” she called, waving her hand.
“Good-morning,” said Menard, shortly. He did not look a second time, to see her smile fade, for Guerin had not appeared, and he was rapidly losing patience. He walked up and down the wharf for a few moments, while Danton found a seat for the maid and the two talked together.
“Perrot,” he said, “do you know where Guerin was last evening?”
“Yes, M’sieu. He was at the inn.”
“What was he doing? Drinking?”
“A little, M’sieu.”
“Go up there, on the run. If you don’t find him there, come right back, for we can’t wait much longer for anyone.”
Perrot ran up the street and disappeared. In a few moments he came in sight, striding down between the row of houses, holding Guerin firmly by one arm. The young fellow was hanging back, and stumbling in limp fashion. He was evidently drunk. Danton, who had joined Menard when the two men appeared, said, “Heavens, he must have started early!”87
Some distance behind Perrot and Guerin came a ragged crowd of woodsmen, singing, jeering, and shouting, and bearing broad traces of a sleepless night.
Menard stood waiting with a look of disgust. When they came upon the wharf Guerin laughed, and tried to get out a flippant apology for his tardiness; but Menard seized him before the words were off his lips, and dragging him across the wharf threw him into the water. Then he turned to Perrot, and said, “Pull him out.”
The two new men stood uneasily near, with startled faces. Behind them the maid was sitting, a frightened look in her eyes. Danton had risen.
“Clear away from here!” Menard called to the drunken rabble, who had collected a few rods away, and were now hesitating between laughter and fright. They stood looking at each other and at Menard, then they slunk away.
In all an hour had gone before they were ready to start. Guerin was weak and shivering from his plunge, but Menard ordered him into the canoe. The incident drew a cloud over the maid’s spirits, and altogether depressed88the party, so that not until afternoon did they get into conversation. By that time they were past the Lachine Rapids and the Sault St. Louis, where the men made a portage, and Danton led the maid along the bank through the tangled brush and briers. When at last they were ready to push on across Lake St. Louis the maid’s skirt was torn in a dozen places, and a thorn had got into her hand, which Danton carefully removed with the point of his knife, wincing and flushing with her at each twinge of pain. During the rest of the day, they had an Iroquois lesson, and by the end of the afternoon when the sun was low, and Menard headed for the shore of Isle Perrot, the maid was bright again, laughing over Danton’s blunders in the new language.
They spent the next day on the island, for what with wind and rain the lake was impassable for their canoe. The men built a hut of brush and bark which sheltered the party from the driving rain. Menard’s mood lightened at the prospect of a rest, and he started a long conversation in Iroquois which soon had even Father Claude laughing in his silent way. The rain lessened in the afternoon, but the wind was still running high. Menard and the89engagéswent out early in the afternoon and repacked all the supplies, in order that the weight might be distributed more evenly in the canoe. With this and other work he was occupied until late in the afternoon. Father Claude took the occasion for a solitary walk, and for meditation. When Menard entered the hut he found the maid sitting with her head resting against one of the supporting trees. She wore a disturbed, unsettled expression. Danton evidently had been sitting or standing near her, for when Menard entered, stooping, he was moving across the hut in a hesitating, conscious manner. The Captain looked at them curiously.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to take away a part of your house to pay for your supper,” he said. “Everything is wet outside that might do for firewood. Lend a hand, Danton.” He gathered logs and sticks from the floor and walls, and carried them out. Danton, after a quick look toward the maid (which, of course, Menard saw), did the same.
The Captain was the first to reenter the hut. The maid had not moved, and her eyes were puzzled and wearied, but she tried to smile.
“Has it stopped raining?” she asked.90
Menard gave her an amused glance, and pointed to a sparkling beam of sunlight that came slanting in through an opening in the wall, and buried itself in a little pool of light on the trampled ground. She looked at it, flushed, and turned her eyes away. He stood for a moment, half minded to ask the question that was on his tongue, but finally held it back. In a moment Danton came back, looking suspiciously at each of them as he stooped to gather another armful of wood.
Menard was thoughtful during the evening meal. Afterward he slipped his arm through Father Claude’s, and led him for a short walk, giving him an account of the incident. “I didn’t say anything at the time,” he concluded, “partly because I thought I might be mistaken, and partly because it would have been the worst thing I could do. I begin to see––I should have foreseen it before I spoke to him about the girl––that we have trouble ahead, Father, with these precious children. I confess I don’t know just what to do about it. We must think it over. Anyway, you had better talk to her. She would tell you what she wouldn’t tell me. If he’s annoying her, we must know it.”91
Father Claude was troubled.
“The maid is in our care,” he said, “and also in that of Lieutenant Danton. It would seem that he––”
“There’s no use in expecting him to take any responsibility, Father.”
“Yes, I suppose you are right. He is a child.”
“Will you go to the maid, Father, and get straight at the truth? You see that I cannot meddle with her thoughts without danger of being misinterpreted. It is you who must be her adviser.”
The priest acquiesced, and they returned to the camp, to find the maid still sitting alone, with a troubled face, and Danton puttering about the fire with a show of keeping himself occupied. They ate in silence, in spite of Menard’s efforts to arouse them. After the meal they hung about, each hesitating to wander away, and yet seeing no pleasure in gathering about the fire. Menard saw that Father Claude had it in mind to speak to the maid, so he got Danton away on a pretext of looking over the stores. But he said nothing of the episode that was in all their minds, preferring to await the priest’s report.92
After the maid had gone to her couch beneath the canoe, and Danton had wandered into the wilderness that was all about them, Father Claude joined Menard at the fire.
“Well, Father, what word?”
“Softly, M’sieu. It is not likely that she sleeps as yet.”
“Well?”
“I have talked long with her, but she is of a stubborn mind.”
“How is that?”
“She was angry at first. She spoke hastily, and asked me in short terms to leave her in solitude. And then, after a time, when she began to see that it was her welfare and our duty which I had in mind, and not an idle curiosity, she was moved.”
“Did she speak then?”
“No, M’sieu, she wept, and insisted that there was no trouble on her mind,––it was merely the thought of her home and her father that had cast her down.”
“And so she has pride,” mused Menard. “Could you gather any new opinions, Father? Do you think that they may already have come to some understanding?”
“I hardly think so, M’sieu. But may I93suggest that it would be well to be firm with Lieutenant Danton? He is young, and the maid is in our trust,”
“True, Father. I will account for him.”
There seemed to be nothing further to do at the moment, so the priest went to his blanket, and Menard drew a bundle under his head and went to sleep, after a glance about the camp to see that the sentry was on watch. Now that Montreal lay behind, and the unsettled forest before, with only a thin line of Frenchmen stretched along the river between them and Fort Frontenac, he had divided the night into watches, and each of the fourengagésstood his turn.
The following day was all but half gone before the wind had dropped to a rate that made the passage of the lake advisable. Menard ordered the noon meal for an hour earlier than usual, and shortly afterward they set out across the upper end of Lake St. Louis to the foot of the cascades. Before the last bundle had been carried up the portage to Buisson Pointe, the dusk was settling over the woods across the river, and over the rising ground on Isle Perrot at the mouth of the Ottawa.
During the next day they passed on up the94stream to the Coteau des Cedres. Menard and Father Claude were both accustomed to take the rapid without carrying, or even unloading, but Danton looked at the swirling water with doubt in his eyes. When the maid, leaning back in the canoe while the men halted at the bank to make fast for the passage, saw the torrent that tumbled and pitched merrily down toward them, she laughed. To hold a sober mood for long was not in her buoyant nature, and she welcomed a dash of excitement as a relief from the strained relations of the two days just gone.
“M’sieu,” she called to Menard, with a sparkle in her eyes. “Oh, M’sieu, may I stay in the canoe?”
Danton turned quickly at the sound of her voice, and a look, half of pain, half of surprise, came over his face as he saw her eagerness. Menard looked at her in doubt.
“It may be a wet passage, Mademoiselle.”
“And why not, M’sieu? Have I not been wet before? See, I will protect myself.” She drew the bundles closely about her feet, and threw a blanket across her knees. “Now I can brave the stream, Captain. Or,”––her gay tone dropped, and she looked demurely at95him,––“perhaps it is that I am too heavy, that I should carry myself up the bank. I will obey my orders, Captain.” But as she spoke she tucked the blanket closer about her, and stole another glance at Menard.
He smiled. He was thinking of Madame Gordeau and her fragile daughter, who had shuddered with fear at a mere glimpse of the first rapid. “Very well,” he said, “Mademoiselle shall stay in the canoe.”
“But it is not safe”––broke in Danton, stepping forward. Then, conscious of the blunder, he turned away, and took up the rope.
“Lay hold, boys,” said Menard.
Perrot and one of the new men waded into the water, and laid hold of the gunwales on each side of the bow. Menard himself took the stern. He called to Danton, who stood awkwardly upon the bank, “Take the rope with the men.”
Guerin made the rope fast and set out ahead, with the other men and Danton close behind. Father Claude rolled up his robe and joined them.
“Wait,” called Menard, as the rope straightened. “Mademoiselle, I am sorry to disturb you, but if you will sit farther back you will have96less trouble from the spray.” He waded along the side, and helped her to move nearer the stern, placing the bundles and the blanket about her as before. Then he shouted, “All right,” and they started into the foaming water.
They toiled slowly up the incline, catching at rocks to steady their course, and often struggling for a foothold. Once Menard ordered a halt at a large rock, and all rested for a moment.
When they started again, the men at the bow of the canoe had some trouble in holding it steady, for their feet were on a stretch of smooth rock, and Menard called Danton back to help them. The boy worked his way along the rope, and reached the bow.
“Come around behind Perrot,” said Menard.
Danton reached around Perrot’s body, and caught hold of the gunwale. At that moment his foot slipped, and he fell, dragging the side of the canoe down with him. The men at the bow did their best to prevent a capsize, but succeeded only in keeping half the bundles in the canoe. The others, the muskets, and the maid went into the river.
Menard moved forward as rapidly as he could against the current. The maid was unable at97once to get her feet, used as she was to the water, and was swept down against him. He caught her, and, steadying himself with one hand, by the water-logged canoe, raised her head and held her while she struggled for a footing and shook the water from her eyes. Before she was wholly herself, Danton came plunging toward them.
“Give her to me!” he said huskily. “I’ve drowned her! My God, let me have her!”
“Stop,” said Menard, sternly. “Take the men, and go after those bales––quick!”
Danton looked stupidly at him and at the maid, who was wiping the water from her face with one hand, and holding tightly to the Captain. Then he followed Perrot, who had already, with the two new men and Father Claude, commenced to get together the bales, most of which had sunk, and were moving slowly along the bottom. Menard still had his arm about the girl’s shoulders. He helped her to the shore.
“Keep moving, Mademoiselle,––don’t sit down. In a moment we shall have a fire. Father Claude,” he called, “bring the canoe ashore.” Then to the maid, “There are yet some dry blankets, thank God.”98
Mademoiselle was herself now, and she protested. “But it is only water, M’sieu. Let me go on with you, beyond the rapids.”
Menard merely shook his head. The canoe was soon on the bank, and emptied of water. The other men were beginning to come in with soaked bundles and dripping muskets. Each bale was opened, and the contents spread out to dry, while Guerin was set to work at drying the muskets with a cloth. Perrot and Danton built a rough shelter for the maid, enclosing a small fire, and gave her some dry blankets. Then each man dried himself as best he could.
This accident threw Danton into a fit of gloominess from which nothing seemed to arouse him. He was careless of his duty, and equally careless to the reprimands that followed. This went on for two days, during which the maid seemed at one moment to avoid him, and at another to watch for his coming. In the evening of the second day following, the party camped at Pointe à Baudet, on Lake St. Francis. The supper was eaten in a silence more oppressive than usual, for neither Menard nor Father Claude could overcome the influence of Danton’s heavy face and the maid’s troubled eyes. After the supper the two strolled away, and sat99just out of earshot on a mossy knoll. For hours they talked there, their voices low, save once or twice when Danton’s rose. They seemed to have lost all count of time, all heed of appearances. Menard and the priest made an effort at first to appear unobservant, but later, seeing that their movements were beyond the sight of those unheeding eyes, they took to watching and speculating on the course of the conversation. The night came on, and the dark closed over them. Still the murmur of those low voices floated across the camp.
Father Claude, with a troubled mind, went down to the water, and walked slowly up and down. Menard saw to the final preparations for the night, and posted the first sentry. Then he joined the priest.
“Father?”
“Yes.”
“I think it is time to speak.”
“I fear it is, M’sieu.”
“I must leave it in your hands.”
“Shall I go now?”
“Yes.”
Without further words, Father Claude walked up the bank, crackling through the bushes. From this spot the voices were inaudible, and100for a few moments there was no sound. Then Menard could hear some one moving heavily through the undergrowth, going farther and farther into the stillness, and he knew that it was Danton. He sat on the bank with his back against a tree, and waited for a long hour. At last he dropped asleep.
He was awakened by Father Claude. The priest dropped to the ground beside him. His training had given Menard the faculty of awaking instantly into full grasp of a situation.
“Well,” he said. “Where is the maid?”
“She has gone to her couch, but not to sleep, I fear. It has come, M’sieu.”
“What has come?”
“Danton has lost his senses. He asks her to marry him, to flee with him. It is a difficult case. She has had no such experience before, and knows not how to receive him. She seems to have no love for him, beyond the pleasure his flattery has given her. She believes all he says. One thing I know, aside from all questions of expediency, of care for our trust, this must not go on.”
“Not for the present, at least. She may do what she will, once we have taken her safely to Frontenac.”101
“No, M’sieu; not even then. We must stop it at once.”
“Oh, of course,” said Menard; “so far as we are concerned, we have no choice. You need not bother longer to-night. I will wait for the boy. I am sorry for him.”
“I should have more pity, if I knew less of his past.”
“Tush, Father! He is not a bad fellow, as they go. To be sure he does not rise any too well to new responsibilities, but he will grow into it. It is better an honest infatuation with the daughter of a gentleman than a dishonest one with an Indian maid. And you know our officers, Father. God knows, they are all bad enough; and yet they are loyal fellows.”
“Ah, M’sieu, I fear you will be too lenient with him. Believe me, we have not a minute to waste in stopping the affair.”
“Have no fear, Father. Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
Menard lay on the bank, gazing at the sparkling water, and listening to the slow step of the sentry and to the deeper sounds of the forest. Another hour crept by, and still Danton had not returned. Menard walked about the camp to make sure that he was not already102rolled in his blanket; then he went to the sentry, who was leaning against a tree a few rods away.
“Colin,” he said, “have you seen Lieutenant Danton?”
“Yes, M’sieu. He is up there.” Colin pointed through the trees that fringed the river. “I heard a noise some time ago, and went up to see. He is lying under a beech tree, if he has not moved,––and I should have heard him if he had. It may be that he is asleep.”
Menard nodded, and walked slowly along the bank, bending aside the briers that caught at his clothes and his hands.
103CHAPTER VI.THE FIGHT AT LA GALLETTE.
Danton was lying on the ground, but he was not asleep. He looked up, at the sound of Menard’s footsteps, and then, recognizing him, lowered his eyes again. The Captain hesitated, standing over the prostrate figure.
“Danton,” he said finally, “I want you to tell me the truth.”
The boy made no reply, and Menard, after waiting for a moment, sat upon a log.
“I have decided to do rather an unusual thing, Danton,” he said slowly, “in offering to talk it over with you as a friend, and not as an officer. In one thing you must understand me: Mademoiselle St. Denis has been intrusted to my care, and until she has safely reached those who have a right to share the direction of her actions, I can allow nothing of this sort to go on. You must understand that. If you will talk with me frankly, and try to control yourself104for the present, it may be that I can be of service to you later on.”
There was a long silence. Finally, Danton spoke, without raising his head.
“Is there need of this, M’sieu? Is it not enough that she––that Mademoiselle dismisses me?”
“Oh,” said Menard, “that is it?”
“Yes.”
“You are sure of yourself, Danton? sure that you have not made a mistake?”
“A mistake?” The boy looked up wildly. “I was––shall I tell you, M’sieu?––I left the camp to-night with the thought that I should never go back.”
Menard looked at him curiously.
“What did you plan to do?”
“I didn’t know,––I don’t know now. Back to Montreal, perhaps to the Iroquois. I don’t care where.”
“You did not bring your musket. It would hardly be safe.”
“Safe!” There was weary contempt in the boy’s voice. He sat up, and made an effort to steady himself, leaning back upon his hands. “I should not say this. It was what I thought at first. I am past it now; I can think better.105It was only your coming,––when I first saw you, it came rushing back, and I wanted to––oh, what is the use? You do not know. You cannot understand.”
“And now?”
“Now, Captain, I ask for a release. Let me go back to Montreal.”
“How would you go? You have no canoe.”
“I will walk.”
Menard shook his head.
“I am sorry,” he said, “but it is too late. In the first place, you would never reach the city. There are scouting bands of Iroquois all along the river.”
“So much the better, M’sieu, so––”
“Wait. That is only one reason. I cannot spare you. I have realized within the last day that I should have brought more men. The Iroquois know of our campaign; they are watching us. A small party like this is to their liking. I will tell you, Danton, we may have a close rub before we get to Frontenac. I wish I could help you, but I cannot. What reason could I give for sending you alone down the river to Montreal? You forget, boy, that we are not on our own pleasure; we are on the King’s errand. For you to go now would be106to take away one of our six fighting men,––to imperil Mademoiselle. And that, I think,” he looked keenly at Danton, “is not what you would wish to do.”
The boy’s face was by turns set and working. He looked at Menard as if to speak, but got nothing out. At last he sprang to his feet, and paced back and forth between the trees.
“What can I do?” he said half to himself. “I can’t stay! I can’t see her every day, and hear her voice, and sit with her at every meal. Why do you call yourself my friend, Menard? Why don’t you help? Why don’t you say something––?”
“There are some things, Danton, that a man must fight out alone.”
Danton turned away, and stood looking over the river. Menard sat on the log and waited. The moments slipped by, and still they said nothing. They could hear the stirring of Colin, back at the camp, and the rustle of the low night breeze. They could almost hear the great silent rush of the river.
“Danton.”
The boy half turned his head.
“You will stay here and play the man. You will go on with your duties; though, if the old107arrangement be too hard, I will be your master in the Iroquois study, leaving Mademoiselle to Father Claude. And now you must return to the camp and get what sleep you can. Heaven knows we may have little enough between here and Frontenac. Come.”
He got up, and walked to the camp, without looking around. Danton lingered until the Captain’s tall figure was blending with the shadows of the forest, then he went after.
During the following day they got as far as the group of islands at the head of Lake St. Francis. Wherever possible Menard was now selecting islands or narrow points for the camp, where, in case of a night attack, defence would be a simple problem for his few men. Also, each night, he had the men spread a circle of cut boughs around the camp at a little distance, so that none could approach without some slight noise. Another night saw the party at the foot of Petit Chesneaux, just above Pointe Maligne.
While Perrot was preparing the supper, and Danton, with thevoyageurs, was unpacking the bales, Menard took his musket and strode off into the forest. There was seldom a morning now that the maid did not have for her breakfast108a morsel of game which the Captain’s musket had brought down.
mapNote.––By this picture-writing the Long Arrow (of the clan of the Beaver) tells the Beaver (of the same clan) that he has taken up the hatchet against the party in the canoe, and he asks the Beaver to assist him. The parallel zigzag lines under the long arrow tell that he is travelling by the river, and the two straight lines under these that he has two warriors with him. The attack is to be made in either three or four sleeps, or days, as indicated by the three finished huts and one unfinished.The Beaver has seen this sign, as shown by his signature at the bottom. The seventeen slanting lines under the foot mean that he has seventeen warriors and they are travelling on foot, southward, as shown by the fact that the lines slope toward the sun.That the figures in the canoe are French is shown by their hats. The priest has no paddle, the maid is represented with long hair.
Note.––By this picture-writing the Long Arrow (of the clan of the Beaver) tells the Beaver (of the same clan) that he has taken up the hatchet against the party in the canoe, and he asks the Beaver to assist him. The parallel zigzag lines under the long arrow tell that he is travelling by the river, and the two straight lines under these that he has two warriors with him. The attack is to be made in either three or four sleeps, or days, as indicated by the three finished huts and one unfinished.The Beaver has seen this sign, as shown by his signature at the bottom. The seventeen slanting lines under the foot mean that he has seventeen warriors and they are travelling on foot, southward, as shown by the fact that the lines slope toward the sun.That the figures in the canoe are French is shown by their hats. The priest has no paddle, the maid is represented with long hair.
In half an hour he returned, and sought Father Claude; and after a few low words the two set off. Menard led the way through thicket and timber growth, over a low hill, and down into a hollow, where a well-defined Indian trail crossed a brook. Here was a large sugar maple tree standing in a narrow opening in the thicket. Menard struck a light, and held up a torch so that the priest could make out a blaze-mark on the tree.
“See,” said Menard. “It is on the old trail. I saw it by the merest chance.”
Father Claude bent forward, with his eyes109close to the inscription that had been painted on the white inner bark, with charcoal and bear’s grease.
“Can you read it?” asked Menard, holding the torch high.
The priest nodded. Both of these men knew the Indian writing nearly as well as their own French.
“He does not know of the two men you got at Montreal, M’sieu. He tells of only six in our canoe.”
“No? But that matters little. The Beaver has hurried after him with nearly a score. They can give us trouble enough. What do you make of the huts? Do they mean three days or four?”
“It looks to me,” said the priest slowly, “that he was interrupted in drawing the fourth.”
“Well,”––Menard threw his torch into the brook, and turned away into the dusk of the thicket,––“we know enough. The fight will be somewhere near the head of the rapids. Perhaps they will wait until we get on into the islands.”
“And meantime,” said the priest, as they crackled through the undergrowth, “we shall110say nothing of this to Lieutenant Danton or the maid?”
“Nothing,” Menard replied.
In three days more they had passed Rapide Flat, after toiling laboriously by the Long Sault. They were a sober enough party now, oppressed with Danton’s dogged attention to duty and with the maid’s listless manner.
They were passing a small island the next morning, when Perrot gave a shout and stopped paddling.
“What is it?” asked Menard, sharply.
Perrot pointed across a spit of land. In the other channel they could see a bateau just disappearing behind a clump of trees. It was headed down-stream. Menard swung the canoe about, and they skirted the foot of the island. Instead of a single bateau there were some half dozen, drifting light down the river, with a score ofcoureurs de boisandvoyageursunder the command of a bronzed lieutenant, Du Peron, a sergeant, and a corporal. The lieutenant recognized Menard, and both parties landed while the two officers exchanged news.
“Can you spare me a few men?” Menard asked, when they had drawn apart from the others.111
The lieutenant’s eye roamed over the group on the beach, where the men of both parties were mingling.
“How many do you want? I’m running shorthanded. We have all we can manage with these bateaux.”
“There’s a war party of twenty on my trail,” said Menard. “If I had my own men with me I should feel safe, but I have my doubts about these fellows. I haven’t room for more than two.”
“What’s the trouble?––that La Grange affair?”
Menard nodded.
“I heard that they had a price on your head. There’s been a good deal of talk about it at Frontenac. A converted Mohawk has been scouting for us, and he says that the Onondagas blame you for that whole galley business.”
“I know,” said Menard, grimly. “You could hardly expect them to get the truth of it.”
“It was bad work, Menard, bad work. The worst thing La Grange did was to butcher the women and children. He was drunk at the time, and the worst of it was over before d’Orvilliers got wind of it. Do you know who is leading this war party?”112
“The Long Arrow.”
“Oh, yes. A big fellow, with a rather noticeable wampum collar. He came to Frontenac as a Mission Indian, but got away before we suspected anything. Our scout told me that his son was in the party that was taken to the galleys. He’s been scouting along the river ever since. Likely as not he followed you down to Quebec. How many men have you now?”
“Five, and Father Claude.”
“He could shoot at a pinch, I suppose. I’ll let you have the best two I have, but––” Du Peron shrugged his shoulders––“you know the sort that are assigned for this transport work. They’re a bad lot at best. But they can shoot, and they hate the Iroquois, so you’re all right if you can keep them sober. That will make nine, with yourself,––it should be enough.”
“It will be enough. How is the transport moving?”
“Splendidly. Whatever we may say about the new Governor, our Intendant knows his business. I judge from the way he is stocking up Frontenac, that we are to use it as the base for a big campaign.”
“I suppose so. You will report, will you, at113Montreal, that we were safe at Rapide Flat? And if you find acoureurgoing down to Quebec, I wish you would send word to Provost that Mademoiselle St. Denis is well and in good spirits.”
The lieutenant looked curiously at the maid, who was walking with Father Claude near the canoe. Then the two officers shook hands, and in a few moments were going their ways, Menard with two villainousvoyageursadded to his crew. That afternoon he passed the last rapid, and beached the canoe at La Gallette, thankful that nothing intervened between them and Fort Frontenac but a reach of still water and the twining channels of the Thousand Islands, where it would call for the sharpest eyes ever set in an Iroquois head to follow his movements.
They ate an early supper, and immediately afterward Father Claude slipped away. The maid looked after him a little wistfully, then she wandered to the bank, and found a mossy seat where she could watch the long rapid, with its driving, foaming current that dashed over the ledges and leaped madly around the jagged rocks. Menard set his men at work preparing the camp against attack. When this was well under way he called Danton, who was lying by114the fire, and spent an hour with him conversing in Iroquois. By that time the twilight was creeping down the river. Menard left the boy to form a speech in accord with Iroquois tradition, and went on a tour of inspection about the camp. The new men had swung thoroughly into the spirit of their work; one of them was already on guard a short way back in the woods. The other men were grouped in a cleared place, telling stories and singing.
Father Claude came hurriedly toward the fire, looking for Menard. His eyes glowed with enthusiasm.
“M’sieu,” he said, in an eager voice, “come. I have found it.”
“What?”
“It has come to me,––about the canoe.”
Menard looked puzzled, but the priest caught his arm, and led him away.
“It came while we ate supper. The whole truth, the secret of the allegory, flashed upon me. I have worked hard, and now it is done. Instead of leaving out the canoe, I have put it back, and have placed in it six warriors, three paddling toward the chapel, and three away from it. Over them hovers an angel,––a mere suggestion, a faint, shining face, a diaphanous115form, and outspread hands. Thus we symbolize the conflict in the savage mind at the first entrance of the Holy Word into their lives, with the blessed assurance over all that the Faith must triumph in the end.”
At the last words, he stopped and drew Menard around to face the portrait of the Lily of the Onondagas, which was leaning against a stump.
“Is it too dark, M’sieu? See, I will bring it closer.” He lifted the picture, and held it close to Menard’s eyes. He was trembling with the excitement of his inspiration.
The Captain stepped back.
“I should like to know, Father, where you have had this picture.”
“It was in my bundle. I have”––for the first time he saw the sternness in Menard’s face, and his voice faltered.
“You did not leave it at Montreal?”
Father Claude slowly lowered the canvas to the ground. The light had gone out of his eyes, and his face was white. Then suddenly his thin form straightened. “I had forgotten. It was M’sieu’s order. See,”––he suddenly lifted the picture over his head and whirled to the stump,––“it shall go no farther. We will116leave it here for the wolves and the crows and the pagan redmen.”
He dashed it down with all his strength, but Menard sprang forward, and caught it on his outstretched arm. “No, Father,” he said; “we will take it with us.”
The priest smiled wearily, and lowered the picture to the ground; but when Menard said, “You have broken it,” he raised it hastily, and examined it. One corner of the wooden frame was loosened, but the canvas was not injured.
“I can mend it,” he said.
Then they walked to the camp together, without talking; and Menard helped him repair the frame, and pack the picture carefully.
“How is it that it was not ruined in the capsize at Coteau des Cedres?” Menard asked.
“It was preserved by a miracle, M’sieu. This bundle did not leave the canoe.”
Thevoyageurs, still lounging in the clearing, were laughing and talking noisily. The Captain, after he had prepared the maid’s couch, and bade her good-night, called to them to be quiet. For a time the noise ceased, but a little later, as he was spreading his blanket on the ground, it began again, and one of the transport men sang the opening strain of a ribald117song. Menard strode over to the group so quickly that he took them by surprise. Colin was slipping something behind him, but he could not escape Menard’s eye. In a moment he was sprawling on his face, and a brandy flask was brought to light. Menard dashed it against a tree, and turned to the frightened men.
“Go to your blankets, every man of you. There are Iroquois on this river. You have already made enough noise to draw them from half a league away. The next man that is caught drinking will be flogged.” He thought of the maid lying under her frail shelter, for whose life he was responsible. “If it occurs twice, he will be shot. Perrot, I want you to join the sentry. From now on we shall have two men on guard all night. See that there is no mistake about this. At the slightest noise, you will call me.”
The men slunk to their blankets, and soon the camp was still.
The river sang as it rushed down its zigzag channel through the rocks,––a song that seemed a part of the night, and yet was distinct from the creeping, rustling, dropping, all-pervading life and stir of the forest. Every leaf, every twig and root, every lump of sod118and rock-held pool of stagnant water, had its own miniature world, where living things were fighting the battle of life. In the far distance, perhaps, an owl hooted; or near at hand a flying squirrel alighted on a bending elm-twig. Deer and moose followed their beaten tracks to the streams that had been theirs before ever Frenchman pierced the forest; beaver dove into their huts above the dams their own sharp teeth had made; moles nosed under the rich soil, and left a winding track behind; frogs croaked and bellowed from some backset of the river,––and all blended, not, perhaps, so much into a sound, as into a sense of movement,––an even murmur in a low key, to which the lighter note of the water was apart and distinct.
To a man trained as Menard had been, this was companionship. He was never alone in the forest, never without his millions of friends, who, though they seldom came into his thoughts, were yet a part of him, of his sense of life and strength. And through all these noises, even to the roar of Niagara itself, he could sleep like a child, when the slightest sound of a moccasined foot on a dry leaf would have aroused him at the instant to full activity. To-night he lay awake for a long time. With119every day that he drew nearer the frontier came graver doubts of the feasibility of the plan which had been intrusted to him. The wretched business of La Grange’s treachery and the stocking of the King’s galleys had probably alienated the Onondagas for all time. Their presence on the St. Lawrence pointed to this. He felt safe enough, personally, for the very imprudence of the Governor’s campaign, which had made it known so early to all the Iroquois, was an element in his favour. The Iroquois, unlike many of the roaming western tribes, had their settled villages, with lodges and fields of grain to defend from invasion. One secret of the campaign had been well kept; no one save the Governor’s staff and Menard knew that the blow was to fall on the Senecas alone. And Menard was certain enough in his knowledge of Iroquois character to believe that each tribe, from the Mohawks on the east to the Senecas on the west, would call in its warriors, and concentrate to defend its villages. Therefore there could be no strong force on the St. Lawrence, where the French could so easily cut it off. As for the Long Arrow and his band, eight good fighting men and a stout-hearted priest could attend to them.120
No, the danger would begin after the maid was safe at Frontenac, and he and Danton and Father Claude must set out to win the confidence of the Onondagas. The Oneidas and Mohawks must not be slighted; but the Onondagas and Cayugas, being the nearest to the Senecas, and between them and the other nations, would likely prove to be the key to the situation.
The night was black when he awoke. Clouds had spread over the sky, hiding all but a strip in the west where a low line of stars peeped out. This strip was widening rapidly as the night breeze carried the clouds eastward. At a little distance some of the men were whispering together and laughing softly. A hand was feeling his arm, and a voice whispered,––
“Quick, M’sieu; something has happened!”
“Is that you, Colin?”
“Yes. Guerin was on guard with me, and he fell. I thought I heard an arrow, but could not be sure. I looked for him after I heard him fall, but could not find him in the dark.”
Menard sprang to his feet, with his musket, which had lain at his side every night since leaving Montreal.
“Where was Guerin, Colin?”
“Straight back from the river, a few rods.121He had spoken but a moment before. It must have told them where to shoot.”
“Call the men, and draw them close in a circle.” Menard felt his way toward the fire, where a few red embers showed dimly, and roused Danton with a light touch and a whispered caution to be silent. Already he could hear the low stir of theengagésas they slipped nearer the fire. He walked slowly toward the river, with one hand stretched out in front, to find the canoe. It was closer than he supposed, and he stumbled over it, knocking one end off its support. The maid awoke with a gasp.
“Mademoiselle, silence!” he whispered, kneeling beside her. “I fear we are attacked. You must come with me.” He had to say it twice before she could fully understand, and just then an arrow sang over them, and struck a tree with a lowthut. He suddenly rose and shouted, “Together, boys! They will be on us in a moment. Close in at the bank, and save your powder. Perrot, come here and help me with the canoe.”
There was a burst of yells from the dark in answer to his call, and a few shots flashed. Danton was rallying the men, and calling to122them to fall back, where they could take cover among the rocks and trees of the bank.
The maid was silent, but she reached out her hand, and Menard, catching her wrist, helped her to her feet, and fairly carried her down the slope of the bank, laying her behind the tangled roots of a great oak. Already the sky was clearer, and the trees and men were beginning to take dim shape. The river rushed by, a deeper black than sky and woods, with a few ghostly bits of white where the foam of the rapids began.
“Stay here,” he whispered. “Don’t move or speak. I shall not be far.”
She clung to his hand in a dazed manner, but he gently drew his away, and left her crouching on the ground.
The men were calling to one another as they dodged back from tree to tree toward the river, shooting only when a flash from the woods showed the position of an Indian. Some of them were laughing, and as Menard reached the canoe Perrot broke into a jeering song. It was clear that the attacking party was not strong. Probably they had not taken into account the double guard, relying on the death of the sentry to clear the way for a surprise.123
“Perrot!” called the Captain. “Why don’t you come here?”
The song stopped. There was a heavy noise as thevoyageurcame plunging through the bushes, drawing a shower of arrows and musket balls.
“Careful, Perrot, careful.”
“They can’t hit me,” said Perrot, laughing. He stumbled against the Captain, stepped back, and fell over the canoe, rolling and kicking. Menard sprang toward him and jerked him up. He smelled strongly of brandy.
Menard swore under his breath.
“Pick up your musket. Take hold of that canoe,––quick!”
Perrot was frightened by his stern words, and he succeeded in holding up an end of the canoe, while Menard pushed him down the slope to the water’s edge. They rushed back, and in a few trips got down most of the stores. By this time Perrot was sobering somewhat, and with the Captain he took his place in the line. The men were shooting more frequently now, and by their loose talk showed increasing recklessness. Calling to Danton, Menard finally made them understand his order to fall back. Before they reached the bank, Colin dropped,124with a ball through the head, and was dragged back by Danton.
They dropped behind logs and trees at the top of the slope. It began to look as if the redmen were to get no closer, in spite of the drunken condition of all but one or two of the men. Though the night was now much brighter, they were in the shadow, and neither the Captain nor Danton observed that the brandy which the transport men had supplied was passing steadily from hand to hand. They could not know that the boy Guerin lay on his back amid the attacking Onondagas, an arrow sticking upright in his breast, one hand lying across his musket, the other clasping a flask.
The maid had not moved. She could be easily seen now in the clearer light, and Menard went to her, feeling the need of giving her some work to occupy her mind during the strain of the fight.
“Mademoiselle,” he whispered.
She looked up. He could see that she was shivering.
“I must ask you to help me. We must get the canoe into the water. They will soon tire of the assault and withdraw; then it will be125safe to take to the canoe. They cannot hurt you. We are protected by the bank.”
He helped her to rise, and she bravely threw her weight on the canoe, which Menard could so easily have lifted alone, and stood at the edge of the beach, passing him the bundles, which he, wading out, placed aboard. But suddenly he stopped, with an exclamation, peering into the canoe.
The maid, dreading each moment some new danger, asked in a dry voice, “What is it, M’sieu?”
For reply he seized the bundles, one at a time, and tossed them ashore, hauling the canoe after, and running his hand along the bark.
The maid stepped to his side. There was a gaping hole in the side of the canoe. She drew her breath in quickly, and looked up at him.
“It was Perrot,” he muttered, “that fool Perrot.” He stood looking at it, as if in doubt what to do. Up on the bank the men, Danton and Father Claude among them, were popping away at the rustling bushes. Suddenly he turned and gazed down at the maid’s upturned face. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “I do not think there is danger, but whatever happens you126must keep close to me, or to Danton and Father Claude. It may be that there will be moments when we cannot stop and explain to you as I am doing now, but you must trust us, and believe that all will come out well. The other men are not themselves to-night––”
He stopped. It was odd that he should so talk to a maid while his men were fighting for their lives; but the Menard who had the safety of this slender girl in his hands was not the Menard of a hundred battles gone by. So he lingered, not knowing why, save that he hoped for some word from her lips of confidence in those who wished to protect her. And, as he waited, she smiled with trembling lips, and said:––
“It will come out well, M’sieu. I––I am not afraid.”
Then Menard went up the bank with a bound, and finding one man already in a stupor, and another struggling for a flask, which Father Claude was trying to take away from him, he laid about him with his hard fists, and shortly had the drunkards as near to their senses as they were destined to be during the short space they had yet to live.