127CHAPTER VII.A COMPLIMENT FOR MENARD.
Colin and Guerin were dead, and one of the transport men lay in a drunken sleep, so that including Menard, Danton, and Father Claude there were six men in the little half circle that clung to the edge of the bank, shooting into the brush wherever a twig stirred or a musket flashed. “There are not many of them,” said Menard to Danton, as they lay on their sides reloading. He listened to the whoops and barks in an interval between shots. “Not a score, all told.”
“Will they come closer?”
“No. You won’t catch an Iroquois risking his neck in an assault. They’ll try to pick us off; but if we continue as strong as we are now, they are likely to draw off and try some other devilment, or wait for a better chance.”
Danton crept back to his log for another shot. Now that the sky was nearly free of128clouds, and the river was sparkling in the starlight, the Frenchmen could not raise their heads to shoot without exposing a dim silhouette to the aim of an Indian musket. Father Claude, who was loading and firing a longarquebuse à croc, had risen above this difficulty by heaping a pile of stones. Kneeling on the slope, a pace below the others, and resting the crutch of his piece in a hollow close to the stones, he could shoot through a crevice with little chance of harm, beyond a bruised shoulder.
The maid came timidly up the bank, and touched Menard’s arm.
“What is it, Mademoiselle? You must not come here. It is not safe.”
“I want to speak to you, M’sieu. If I could have your knife––for one moment––”
“What do you want of a knife, child? It is best that you––” There was a fusillade from the brush, and his voice was lost in the uproar. “You must wait below, on the beach. They cannot get to you.”
“It is the canoe, M’sieu. The cloth about the bales is stout,––I can sew it over the hole.”
Menard looked at her as she crouched by his side; her hair fallen about her face and shoulders; her hands, grimy with the clay of the129bank, clinging to a wandering root. She was still trembling with excitement, but her eyes were bright and eager. Without a word he drew his knife from its sheath, and held it out. She took it, and was down the slope with a light spring, while the Captain poked the muzzle of his musket through the leaves. As he drew it back, after firing, he caught a glimpse of Danton’s face, turned toward him with a curious expression. The boy laughed nervously, and wiped the sweat from his blackened forehead. “They don’t give us much rest, Captain, do they?” Menard’s reply was jerked out with the strokes of his ramrod: “They will––before long––and we can––take to the canoe. We’re letting them have all they want.” He peered through the leaves, and fired quickly. A long shriek came from the darkness. Menard laughed. “There’s one more gone, Danton.”
The fight went on slowly, wretchedly, shot for shot, Danton himself dragging up a bale of ammunition and serving it to the men. The maid, unaided, had overturned the canoe where it lay, and with quickened breath was pressing her needle through the tough bark. Danton lost the flint from his musket, and crept down130the bank to set a new one. Suddenly he exclaimed, “There goes Perrot!”
The oldvoyageurhad, in a fit of recklessness, raised his head for a long look about the woods. Now he was rolling slowly down the slope toward the canoe and the maid, clutching weakly at roots and bushes as he passed. There was a dark spot on his forehead. Menard sprang after, and felt of his wrists; the pulse was fluttering out. He looked up, to see the maid dipping up water with her hollowed hands, and waved her back.
“It is no use, Mademoiselle. Is the canoe ready? We may need it soon.”
She stood motionless, slowly shaking her head, and letting the water spill from her hands a drop at a time.
“Go back there. Do what you can with it.” He hurried up the bank and fell into his place.
“Do you see what they are doing?” asked Danton.
“Playing the devil. Anything else?”
The lieutenant pointed to an arrow that was sticking in a tree beside him, slanting downward. “They are climbing trees. Listen. You can hear them talking, and calling down. I’ve fired, but I don’t get them.”131
Menard listened closely, and shot for the sound, but with no result.
“We’ve got to stop this, Danton. I don’t understand it. It isn’t like the Iroquois to keep at it after a repulse. Tell Father Claude; he is shooting too low.” Menard glanced along the line at his men. The drunken transport man lay silent at his post; beyond him were his mate and one of the Montreal men, both of them reckless and frightened by turns, shooting aimlessly into the dark. The arrows were rattling down about them now. One grazed Father Claude’s back as he stooped to take aim, and straightened him up with a jerk. A moment later a bullet sang close past Menard’s head. He looked for the maid; she was sitting by the canoe, sewing, giving no heed to the arrows.
The Montreal man groaned softly, and flattened out, with an arrow slanting into the small of his back; which so unmanned the only other consciousengagéthat he sank by him, sobbing, and trying to pull out the arrow with his hands. Menard sprang up.
“My God, Danton! Father Claude! This is massacre. Run for the canoe. My turn, eh?”132
“What is it?” asked Danton. “Did they get you?”
For reply, Menard tore an arrow from the flesh of his forearm and dashed down the bank, musket in hand. The maid was tugging at the canoe, struggling to move it toward the water. She did not look up to see the yellow, crimson, and green painted figures rise from the reeds that fringed the water but a few yards away; she did not hear the rush of moccasined feet on the gravel. Before she could turn, she was seized and thrown to the ground, surrounded by the Indians, who were facing about hastily to meet Menard. The Captain came among them with a whirl of his musket that sent one warrior to the ground and dropped another, half stunned, across the canoe. Danton was at his heels, and Father Claude, fighting like demons with muskets and knives.
“Quick, Mademoiselle!” Menard lifted her as he spoke, and swung her behind him; and then the three were facing the group of howling, jumping figures, which was increased rapidly by those who had followed the Frenchmen down the bank. “Come back here, Father. Protect the maid! They dare not attack you, if you drop your musket! Loose your hold,133Mademoiselle.” He caught roughly at the slender arms that held about his waist, parrying a knife stroke with his other hand. “They will kill you if you cling to me. Now, Danton! Never mind your arm. I have one in the hand. Fight for the maid and France!” Menard was shouting for sheer lust and frenzy of battle, “What is the matter with the devils? Why don’t they shoot? God, Danton, they’re coming at us with clubs!” He called out in the Iroquois tongue: “Come at us, cowards! Make an end of it! Where are your bows? your muskets? Where is the valour of the Onondagas––of my brothers?”
The last words brought forth a chorus of jeers and yells. The two officers stood side by side at the water’s edge. Behind them, knee-deep in the water, was Father Claude, holding the maid in his arms. The Indians seemed to draw together, still with that evident effort to take their game alive, for two tall chiefs were rushing about, cautioning the warriors. Then, of a sudden, the whole body came forward with a rush, and Menard, Danton, Father Claude, and the maid went down; the three men fighting and splashing until they lay, bound with thongs, on the beach.134
Menard turned his head and saw that Danton lay close to him.
“Mademoiselle?” he said. “What have they done with her?”
“She is here.” The reply was in Father Claude’s voice. It came from the farther side of Danton.
“Is she hurt?”
“No. But they have bound her and me.”
“Bound you!” The Captain tried to sit up, but could not. “They would not do that, Father. It is a mistake.”
A warrior, carrying a musket under his arm, walked slowly around the prisoners, making signs to them to be silent. The others had withdrawn to the shadow of the bank; the sound of their voices came indistinctly across the strip of shore. Indifferent to the pain in his arm, Menard struggled at his thongs, and called to them in Iroquois: “Who of my brothers has bound the holy Father? What new fear strikes the breasts of the sons of the night-wind that they must subdue with force the gentle spirit of their Father, who has given his years for his children? Is it not enough that you have broken the faith with your brother, the child of your own village, the son135of your bravest chief? Need you other prey than myself?”
The guard stood over Menard, and lifted his musket. Menard laughed.
“Strike me, brave warrior. Show that your heart is still as fond as on the day I carried your torn body on my shoulder to the safety of your lodge. Ah, you remember? You have not forgotten the Big Buffalo? Then, why do you hesitate? The man who has courage to seize a Father of the Church, surely can strike his brother. This is not the brave Tegakwita I have known.”
Father Claude broke in on Menard, whose voice was savage in its defiance.
“Have patience, M’sieu. I will speak.” He lifted his voice. “Teganouan! Father Claude awaits you.” There was no reply from the knot of warriors at the bank, and the priest called again. Finally a chief came across and looked stolidly at the prisoners.
“My Father called?” he said.
“Your Father is grieved, Long Arrow, that you would bind him like a soldier taken in war.” The priest’s voice was gentle. “Is this the custom of the Onondagas? It was not so when I served you with Father de Lamberville.”136
“My Father fought against his children.”
“You would have slain me, Long Arrow, had I not.”
The Indian walked slowly back to his braves, and for some moments there was a consultation. Then the other chief came to them, and, without a word, himself cut the thongs that bound the priest’s wrists and ankles. There was no look of recognition in his eyes as he passed Menard, though they had been together on many a long hunt. He was the Beaver.
As the Captain lay on his back, looking first at the kneeling Indian, then at the sky overhead, he was thinking of the Long Arrow, again with a half-memory of some other occasion when they had met. Then, slowly, it came to him. It was at the last council to decide on his release from captivity, five years before. The Long Arrow had come from a distant village to urge the death of the prisoner. He had argued eloquently that to release Menard would be to send forth an ungrateful son who would one day strike at the hand that had befriended him.
Father Claude was on his feet, chafing his wrists and talking with the Beaver. The Long Arrow joined them, and for a few moments the137chiefs reasoned together in low, dignified tones. Then, at a word from the Beaver, and a grunt of disgust from the Long Arrow, Father Claude, with quick fingers, set the maid free, and took her head upon his knee.
“Have they hurt her, Father?” asked Menard, in French.
“No, M’sieu, I think not. It is the excitement. The child sadly needs rest.”
“Will they release you? It is not far to Frontenac. It may be that you can reach there with Mademoiselle.”
“No, my son.” The priest paused to dip up some water, and to stroke the maid’s forehead and wrists. “They have some design which has not been made clear to me. They have promised not to bind me or to injure what belongs to me among the supplies. But the Beaver threatens to kill us if we try to escape, Mademoiselle and I.”
“Why do they hold you?”
“To let no word go out concerning your capture. I fear, M’sieu––”
“Well?”
The priest lowered his eyes to the maid, who still lay fainting, and said no more. A long hour went by, with only a commonplace word138now and then between the prisoners. The maid revived, and sat against the canoe, gazing over the water that swept softly by. Danton lay silent, saying nothing. Once a groan slipped past the Captain’s lips at a twitch of his wounded arm, and Father Claude, immediately cheered by the prospect of a moment’s occupation, cleaned the wound with cool water, and bandaged it with a strip from his robe.
Preparations were making for a start. A half-dozen braves set out, running down the beach; and shortly returned by way of the river with two canoes. The others had opened the bales of supplies (excepting Father Claude’s bundle, which he kept by him), and divided the food and ammunition among themselves. The two chiefs came to the prisoners, and seated themselves on the gravel. The Long Arrow began talking.
“My brother, the Big Buffalo, is surprised that he should be taken a prisoner to the villages of the Onondagas. He thinks of the days when he shared with us our hunts, our lodges, our food, our trophies; when he lived a free life with his brothers, and parted from them with sadness in his voice. He had a grateful heart for the Onondagas then. When139he left our lodges he placed his hand upon the hearts of our chiefs, he swore by his strange gods to keep the pledge of friendship to his brothers of the forest. Moons have come and gone many times since he left our villages. The snow has fallen for five seasons between him and us, to chill his heart against those who have befriended him. Twice has he been in battle when we might have taken him a prisoner, but the hearts of our braves were warm toward him, and they could not lift their arms. When there have been those who have urged that the hatchet be taken up against him, many others have come forward to say, ‘No; he will yet prove our friend and our brother.’”
Menard lay without moving, looking up at the stars. Danton, by his side, and the maid, sitting beyond, were watching him anxiously. Father Claude stood erect, with folded arms.
“And now,” continued the chief, “now that Onontio, the greatest of war chiefs, thinks that he is strong, and can with a blow destroy our villages and drive us from the lands our gods and your gods have said to be ours by right, as it was our fathers’,––now there is no longer need for the friendship of the Onondagas,140whose whole nation is fewer than the fighting braves of the great Onontio. The war-song is sung in every white village. The great canoes take food and powder up our river, for those who would destroy us.”
Menard was still looking upward. “My brother,” he said, speaking slowly, “was once a young brave. When he was called before his great chief, and commanded to go out and fight to save his village and his brothers and sisters, did he say to his chief: ‘No, my father, I will no longer obey your commands. I will no longer strive to become a famous warrior of your nation. I will go away into the deep forest,––alone, without a lodge, without a nation, to be despised alike by my brothers and my foes?’ Or did he go as he was bid, obeying, like a brave warrior, the commands of those who have a right to command? Does not the Long Arrow know that Onontio is the greatest of chiefs, second only to the Great-Chief-Across-the-Water, the father of red men and white men? If Onontio’s red sons are disobedient, and he commands me to chastise them, shall I say to my father, ‘I cannot obey your will, I will become an outcast, without a village or a nation?’ The Long Arrow is a141wise man. He knows that the duty of all is to obey the father at Quebec.”
“The Big Buffalo speaks with wisdom. But it may be he forgets that our braves have passed him by in the battles of every season since he left our villages. He forgets that he met a band of peaceful hunters from our nation, who went into his great stone house because they believed that his white brothers, if not himself, would keep the word of friendship. He forgets that they were made to drink of the white man’s fire water, and were chained together to become slaves of the great kind Chief-Across-the-Water, who loves his children, and would make them mighty in his land. Is this the father he would have us obey? Truly, he speaks with an idle tongue.”
Menard lay silent. His part in La Grange’s treachery, and in carrying out later the Governor’s orders, would be hard to explain. To lay the blame on La Grange would not help his case, at least until he could consult with Father Claude, and be prepared to speak deliberately.
“My brother does not reply?”
“He will ask a question,” replied Menard. “What is the will of the chiefs to do with the sons of Onontio?”142
“The Big Buffalo has seen the punishment given by the Onondagas to those who have broken their faith.”
“I understand. And of course we shall be taken to your villages before this death shall come?”
The Long Arrow bowed.
“Very well,” said Menard, in his slow voice. “As the Long Arrow, brave as he is, is but a messenger, obeying the will of the nation, I will withhold my word until I shall be brought before your chiefs in council. I shall have much to say to them; it need be said only once. I shall be pleased to tell my truths to the Big Throat, whose eyes can see beyond the limits of his lodge; who knows that the hand of Onontio is a firm and strong hand. He shall know from my lips how kind Onontio wishes to be to his ungrateful children––” He paused. The Indians must not know yet that the Governor’s campaign was to be directed only against the Senecas. The mention of the Big Throat would, he knew, be a shaft tipped with jealousy in the breast of the Long Arrow. The Big Throat, Otreouati, was the widest famed orator and chief of the Onondagas; and it was he who had adopted Menard as his son.143Above all, the Long Arrow would not dare to do away with so important a prisoner before he could be brought before the council.
The maid was leaning forward, following their words intently. “Oh, M’sieu,” she said, “I cannot understand it all. What will they do with you?”
Menard hesitated, and replied in French without turning his head: “They will take us to their villages below Lake Ontario. They will not harm you, under Father Claude’s protection. And then it is likely that we may be rescued before they can get off the river.”
“But yourself, M’sieu? They are angry with you. What will they do?”
“Lieutenant Danton and I must look out for ourselves. I shall hope that we may find a way out.”
The Long Arrow was looking closely at them, evidently resenting a woman’s voice in the talk. At the silence, he spoke in the same low voice, but Menard and Father Claude read the emotion underneath.
“It may be that the Big Buffalo has never had a son to brighten his days as his life reaches the downward years. It may be that he has not watched the papoose become a fleet144youth, and the youth a tireless hunter. He may not have waited for the day when the young hunter should take his seat at the council and speak with those who will hear none but wise men. I had such a son. He went on the hunt with a band that never returned to the village.” His voice rose above the pitch customary to a chief. It was almost cold in its intensity. “I found his body, my brother, the body of my son, at this place, killed by the white men, who talked to us of the love of their gods and their Chief-Across-the-Water. Here it was I found him, who died before he would become the slave of a white man; and here I have captured the man who killed him. It is well that we have not killed my brother to-night. It is better that we should take him alive before the council of the Onondagas, who once were proud in their hearts that he was of their own nation.”
The maid’s eyes, shining with tears, were fixed on the Indian’s face. She had caught up with her hand the flying masses of her hair and braided them hastily; but still there were locks astray, touched by the light of the starlit sky. Menard turned his head, and watched her during the long silence. Danton was watching145her too. He had not understood the chief’s story, but it was clear from her face that she had caught it all. It was Father Claude who finally spoke. His voice was gentle, but it had the air of authority which his long experience had taught him was necessary in dealing with the Indians.
“The Big Buffalo has said wisely. He will speak only to the great chiefs of the nation, who will understand what may be beyond the minds of others. The heart of the Long Arrow is sad, his spirit cast down, and he does not see now what to-morrow he may,––that the hand of the Big Buffalo is not stained with the blood of his son. We will go to your village, and tell your chiefs many things they cannot yet know. For the Big Buffalo and his young brother, I shall ask only the justice which the Onondagas know best how to give. For myself and my sister, I am not afraid. We will follow your course, to come back when the chiefs shall order it.”
The two Indians exchanged a few signs, rose, and went to the scattered group of braves, who were feasting on the white men’s stores. In a moment these had thrown the bundles together, and were getting the canoes into the water.146Two warriors cut Danton’s thongs and raised him to his feet. He rubbed his wrists, where the thongs had broken the skin, and stepped about to get the stiffness from his ankles. Then he bent down to set Menard loose, but was thrown roughly back.
“What’s this? What’s the matter? Do you understand this, Menard?”
“I think so,” replied the Captain, quietly.
“What is it?”
“A little compliment to me, that is all.”
Danton stood looking at him in surprise, until he was hustled to the nearest canoe and ordered to take a paddle. He looked back and saw four warriors lift Menard, still bound hand and foot, and carry him to the other canoe, laying him in the bottom beneath the bracing-strips. Father Claude, too, was given a paddle. Then they glided away over the still water, into a mysterious channel that wound from one shadow-bound stretch to another, past islands that developed faintly from the blackness ahead and faded into the blackness behind. The lean arms of the Indians swung with a tireless rhythm, and their paddles slipped to and fro in the water with never a sound, save now and then a low splash.
147CHAPTER VIII.THE MAID MAKES NEW FRIENDS.
The prisoners were allowed some freedom in the Onondaga village. They were not bound, and they could wander about within call of the low hut which had been assigned to them. This laxity misled Danton into supposing that escape was practicable.
“See,” he said to Menard, “no one is watching. Once the dark has come we can slip away, all of us.”
Menard shook his head.
“Do you see the two warriors sitting by the hut yonder,––and the group playing platter among the trees behind us? Did you suppose they were idling?”
“They seem to sleep often.”
“You could not do it. We shall hope to get away safely; but it will not be like that.”
Danton was not convinced. He said nothing further, but late on that first night he made148the attempt alone. The others were asleep, and suspected nothing until the morning. Then Father Claude, who came and went freely among the Indians, brought word that he had been caught a league to the north. The Indians bound him, and tied him to stakes in a strongly guarded hut. This much the priest learned from Tegakwita, the warrior who had guarded them on the night of their capture. After Menard’s appeal to his gratitude he had shown a willingness to be friendly, and, though he dared do little openly, he had given the captives many a comfort on the hard journey southward.
Later in the morning Menard and Mademoiselle St. Denis were sitting at the door of their hut. The irregular street was quiet, excepting for here and there a group of naked children playing, or a squaw passing with a load of firewood on her back. An Indian girl came in from the woods toward them. She was of light, strong figure, with a full face and long hair, which was held back from her face by bright ribbons. Her dress showed more than one sign of Mission life. She was cleaner than most of the Indians, and was not unattractive. She came to them without hesitation.149
“I am Tegakwita’s sister. My name is Mary; the Fathers at the Mission gave it to me.”
Menard hardly gave her a glance, but Mademoiselle was interested.
“That is not your Indian name?” she asked.
“Yes,––Mary.”
“Did you never have another?”
“My other name is forgotten.”
“These Mission girls like to ape our ways,” said Menard, in French.
The girl looked curiously at them, then she untied a fold of her skirt, and showed a heap of strawberries. “For the white man’s squaw,” she said.
Mademoiselle blushed and laughed. “Thank you,” she replied, holding out her hands. The girl gave her the berries, and turned away. Menard looked up as a thought came to him.
“Wait, Mary. Do you know where the young white chief is?”
“Yes. He tried to run away. He cannot run away from our warriors.”
“Are you afraid to go to him?”
“My brother, Tegakwita, is guarding him. I am not afraid.”
Menard went to a young birch tree that stood150near the hut, peeled off a strip of bark, and wrote on it:––
“If you try to escape again you will endanger my plans. Keep your patience, and I can save you.”
“Will you take him some berries, and give him this charm with them?”
She took the note, rolled it up with a nod, and went away. Menard saw the question in Mademoiselle’s eyes, and said: “It was a warning to be cool. Our hope is in getting the good-will of the chiefs.”
“Will they––will they hurt him, M’sieu?”
“I hope not. At least we are still alive and safe; and years ago, Mademoiselle, I learned how much that means.”
The maid looked into the trees without replying. Her face had lost much of its fulness, and only the heavy tan concealed the worn outlines. But her eyes were still bright, and her spirit, now that the first shock had passed, was firm.
Father Claude returned, after a time, with a heavy face. He drew Menard into the hut, and told him what he had gathered: that the Long Arrow and his followers were planning a final vengeance against Captain Menard. All the151braves knew of it; everywhere they were talking of it, and preparing for the feasting and dancing.
“They will wait until after the fighting, won’t they?”
“No, M’sieu. It is planned to begin soon, within a day or two.”
“Have you inquired for the Big Throat?”
“He is five leagues away, at the next village. We can hardly hope for help from him, I fear. All the tribes are preparing to join in fighting our troops.”
Menard paused to think.
“It looks bad, Father.” He walked up and down the hut. “The Governor’s column must have followed up the river within a few days of us. Then much time was lost in getting us down here.” He turned almost fiercely to the priest. “Why, the campaign may have opened already. Word may come to-morrow from the Senecas calling out the Onondagas and Cayugas. Do you know what that means? It means that I have failed,––for the first time in my life, Father,––miserably failed. There must be some way out. If I could only get word to the Big Throat. I’m certain I could talk him over. I have done it before.”152
Father Claude had never before seen despair in Menard’s eyes.
“You speak well, M’sieu. There must be some way. God is with us.”
The Captain was again pacing the beaten floor. Finally he came to the priest, and took his arm. “I don’t know what it is that gives me courage, Father, but at my age a man isn’t ready to give up. They may kill me, if they like, but not before I’ve carried out my orders. The Onondagas must not join the Senecas.”
“How”––began the priest.
Menard shook his head. “I don’t know yet,––but we can do it.” He went out of doors, as if the sunlight could help him, and during the rest of the day and evening he roamed about or lay motionless under the trees. The maid watched him until dark, but kept silent; for Father Claude had told her, and she, too, believed that he would find a way.
Late in the evening Father Claude began to feel disturbed. Menard was still somewhere off among the trees. He had come in for his handful of grain, at the supper hour, but with hardly a word. The Father had never succeeded, save on that one occasion when Danton was the subject, in carrying on a long153conversation with the maid; and now after a few sorry attempts he went out of doors. He thought of going to the Captain, to cheer his soul and prepare his mind for whatever fate awaited him, but his better judgment held him back.
The village had no surface excitement to suggest coming butchery and war. The children were either asleep or playing in the open. Warriors walked slowly about, wrapped closely in blankets, though the night was warm. The gnats and mosquitoes were humming lazily, the trees barely stirring, and the voices of gossiping squaws or merry youths blended into a low drone. There was the smell in the air of wood and leaves burning, from a hundred smouldering fires. Father Claude stood for a long time gazing at the row of huts, and wondering that such an air of peace and happiness could hover over a den of brute savages, who were even at the moment planning to torture to his death one of the bravest sons of New France.
While he meditated, he was half conscious of voices near at hand. He gave it no attention until his quick ear caught a French word. He started, and hurried to the hut, pausing in the door. By the dim light of the fire, that burned154each night in the centre of the floor, he could see Mademoiselle standing against the wall, with hands clasped and lips parted. Nearer, with his back to the door, stood an Indian.
The maid saw the Father, but did not speak. He came forward into the hut, and gently touched the Indian’s arm.
“What is it?” he asked in Iroquois.
The Indian stood, without a reply, until the silence grew heavy. Mademoiselle had straightened up, and was watching with fascinated eyes. Then, slowly, the warrior turned, and beneath buckskin and feathers, dirt and smeared colours, the priest recognized Danton. He turned sadly to the maid.
“I do not understand,” he said.
She put her hands before her eyes. “I cannot talk to him,” she said, in a broken voice. “Why does he come? Why must I––” Then she collected herself, and came forward. Pity and dignity were in her voice. “I am sorry, Lieutenant Danton. I am very sorry.”
The boy choked, and Father Claude drew him, unresisting, outside the hut.
“How did you come here, Danton? Tell me.”
Danton looked at him defiantly.155
“What does this mean? Where did you get these clothes?”
“It matters not where I got them. It is my affair.”
“Who gave you these clothes?”
“It is enough that I have friends, if those whom I thought friends will not aid me.”
The priest was pained by the boy’s rough words.
“I am sorry for this, my son,––for this strange disorder. Did you not receive a message from your Captain?”
Danton hesitated. “Yes,” he said at last. “I received a message,––an order to lie quiet, and let these red beasts burn me to death. Menard is a fool. Does he not know that they will kill him? Does he not know that this is his only chance to escape? He is a fool, I say.”
“You forget, my son.”
“Well, if I do? Must I stay here for the torture because my Captain commands? Why do you hold me here? Let me go. They will be after me.”
“Wait, Danton. What have you said to Mademoiselle?”
The boy looked at him, and for a moment could not speak.156
“Do you, too, throw that at me, Father? It was all I could do. I thought she cared for her life more than for––for Menard. No, let me go on. I have risked everything to come for her, and she––she––I did not know it would be like this.”
“But what do you plan?” The priest’s voice was more gentle. “Where are you going? You cannot get to Frontenac alone.”
“I don’t know,” replied Danton wearily, turning away. “I don’t care now. I may as well go to the devil.”
Without a word of farewell he walked boldly off through the trees, drawing his blanket about his shoulders. Father Claude stood watching him, half in mind to call Menard, then hesitating. Already the boy was committed: he had broken his bonds, and to make any effort to hold him meant certain death for him. Perhaps it was better that he should take the only chance left to him. The hut was silent. He looked within, and saw the maid still standing by the wall. Her eyes were on him, but she said nothing, and he turned away. He walked slowly up and down under the great elms that arched far up over his head. At last he looked about for the Captain, and157finding him some little way back in the woods, told him the story.
Menard’s face had aged during the day. His eyes had a dull firmness in place of the old flash. He heard the account without a word, and, at the close, when the priest looked at him questioningly for a reply, he shook his head sadly. His experiment with Danton had failed.
“He didn’t tell you who had helped him?”
“No, M’sieu. It is very strange.”
“Yes,” said Menard, “it is.”
The night passed without further incident. Early in the morning, Father Claude went out to find Tegakwita, and learn what news had come in during the night of the French column. Runners were employed in passing daily between the different villages, keeping each tribe fully informed.
Menard sat before the hut. The clearing showed more life than on the preceding day. Bands of warriors, hunting and scouting parties, were coming in at short intervals, scattering to their shelters or hurrying to the long building in the centre of the village. The growing boys and younger warriors ran about, calling to one another in eager, excited voices. As the158morning wore along, grave chiefs and braves, wrapped in their blankets, walked by on their way to the council house.
The maid, after Father Claude had gone, watched the Captain for a long time through the open door. The conversation with the Long Arrow, on the night of their capture, had been burned into her memory; and now, as she looked at Menard’s drawn face and weary eyes, the picture came to her again of the Long Arrow sitting by the river in the dim light of the stars,––and of the white man who had fought for her, lying before him, gazing upward and speaking with a calm voice to the stern chief who wished to kill him. Then, in spite of the excitement, the danger, and exhaustion of the fight, it had seemed that the Captain could not long be held by this savage. His stern manner, his command, had given her a confidence which had, until this moment, strengthened her. But now, of a sudden, she saw in his eyes the look of a man who sees no way ahead. This quarrel with the Long Arrow was no matter of open warfare, even of race against race; it was an eye for an eye, the demand of a crazed father for the life of the slayer of his son. That she could do nothing,159that she must sit feebly while he went to his death, came to her with a dead sense of pain.
With a restless spirit she went out of doors, passing him with a little smile; but he did not look up. A group of passing youths stopped and jeered at him, but he did not give them a glance. She shrank back against the building until they had gone on.
“Do not mind them, Mademoiselle,” said Menard, quietly. “They will not harm you.”
She hesitated by his side, half in mind to speak to him, to tell him that she knew his trouble, and had faith in him, but his bowed head was forbidding in its solitude. All about the hut, under the spreading trees, was a stretch of coarse green sod, dotted with tiny yellow flowers and black-centred daisies. She wandered over the grass, gathering them until her hands were full. Two red boys came by, and paused to cry at her, taunting her as if she, too, were to meet the fate of a war captive. The thought made her shudder, but then, on an impulse, she called to them in their own language. They looked at each other in surprise. She walked toward them, laying down the flowers, and holding out her hand. A little later, when Menard looked up, he saw her160sitting beneath a gnarled oak, a boy on either side eagerly watching her. She was talking and laughing with them, and teaching them to make a screeching pipe with grass-blades held between the thumbs. He envied her her elastic spirits.
“You have made two friends,” he called in French.
She looked up and nodded, laughing. “They are learning to make the music of the white brothers.”
The boys’ faces had sobered at the sound of his voice. They looked at him doubtfully, and then at each other. He got up and walked slowly toward them.
“I will make friends, too, Mademoiselle,” he said, smiling. “We have none too many here.”
Before he had taken a dozen steps, the boys arose. He held out his hands, saying, “Your father would be friends with his children.” But they began to retreat, a step at a time.
“Come, my children,” said the maid, smiling at the words as she uttered them. “The white father is good. He will not hurt you.”
They kept stepping backward until he had reached the maid’s side; then, with a shout of defiance, they scampered away. In the distance161they stopped, and soon were the centre of a group of children whom they taught to blow on the grass-blades, with many a half-frightened glance toward Menard and the maid.
“There,” he said, at length, “you may see the advantage of a reputation.”
She looked at him, and, moved by the pathos underlying the words, could not, for the moment, reply.
“I once had a home in this village,” he added. “It stood over there, in the bare spot near the beech tree.” His eyes rested on the spot for a moment, then he turned back to the hut.
“M’sieu,” she said shyly.
The little heap of flowers lay where she had dropped them; and, taking them up, she arranged them hastily and held them out. “Won’t you take them?”
He looked at her, a little surprised, then held out his hand.
“Why,––thank you. I don’t know what I can do with them.”
They walked back together.
“You must wear some of the daisies, Mademoiselle. They will look well.”
She looked down at her torn, stained dress,162and laughed softly; but took the white cluster he gave her, and thrust the stems through a tattered bit of lace on her breast.
Menard was plainly relieved by the incident. He had been worn near to despair, facing a difficulty which seemed every moment farther from a solution; and now he turned to her fresh, light mood as to a refuge.
“We must put these in water, Mademoiselle, or they will soon lose their bloom.”
“If we had a cup––?”
“A cup? A woodsman would laugh at your question. There is the spring, here is the birch; what more could you have?”
“You mean––?”
“We will make a cup,––if you will hold the flowers. They are beautiful, Mademoiselle. No nation has such hills and lakes and flowers as the Iroquois. The Hurons boast of their lake country,––and the Sacs and Foxes, too, though they have a duller eye for the picturesque. See––the valley yonder––” He pointed through a rift in the foliage to the league-long glimpse of green, bound in by the gentle hills that rose beyond––“even to the tired old soldier there is nothing more beautiful, more peaceful.”163
He peeled a long strip of bark from the birch tree, and rolled it into a cup. “Your needle and thread, Mademoiselle,––if they have not taken them.”
“No; I have everything here.”
She got her needle, and under his direction stitched the edges of the bark.
“But it will leak, M’sieu.”
He laughed. “The tree is the Indian’s friend, Mademoiselle. Now it is a pine tree that we need. The guards will tell me of one.”
He walked over to the little group of warriors still at their game of platter,––the one never-ceasing recreation of the Onondagas, at which they would one day gamble away blankets, furs, homes, even squaws, only to win them back on the next. They looked at him suspiciously when he questioned them; but he was now as light of heart as on the day, a few weeks earlier, when he had leaned on the balcony of the citadel at Quebec, idly watching the river. He smiled at them, and after a parley the maid saw one tall brave point to a tree a few yards farther in the wood. They followed him closely with their eyes until he was back within the space allowed him.
“Now, Mademoiselle, we can gum the164seams,––see? It is so easy. The cold water will harden it.”
They went together to the spring and filled the cup, first drinking each a draught. He rolled a large stone to the hut door, and set the cup on it.
“Oh, Mademoiselle, it will not stand. I am not a good workman, I fear. But then, it is not often in a woodsman’s life that he keeps flowers at his door. We must have some smaller stones to prop it up.”
“I will get them, M’sieu.” In spite of his protests she ran out to the path and brought some pebbles. “Now we have decorated our home.” She sat upon the ground, leaning against the log wall, and smiling up at him. “Sit down, M’sieu. I am tired of being solemn, we have been solemn so long.”
Already the heaviness was coming back on the Captain. He wondered, as he looked at her, if she knew how serious their situation was. It hardly seemed that she could understand it, her gay mood was so genuine. She glanced up again, and at the sight of the settling lines about his mouth and the fading sparkle in his eyes, her own eyes, while the smile still hovered, grew moist.165
“I am sorry,” she said softly,––“very, very sorry.”
He sat near by, and fingered the flowers in the birch cup. They were both silent. Finally she spoke.
“M’sieu.”
He looked down.
“It may be that you think that––that I do not understand. It is not that, M’sieu. But when I think about it, and the sadness comes, I know, some way, that it is going to come out all right. We are prisoners, but other people have been prisoners, too. I have heard of many of them from Father Dumont. He himself has suffered among the Oneidas. I––I cannot believe it, even when it seems the darkest.”
“I hope you are right, Mademoiselle. I, too, have felt that there must be a way. And at the worst, they will not dare to hurt Father Claude and––you.” And under his breath he added, “Thank God.”
“They will not dare to hurt you, M’sieu. They must not do it.” She rose and stood before him. “When I think of that,––that you, who have done so much that I might be safe, are in danger, I feel that it would be cowardly for me to go away without you. You would166not have left me, on the river. I know you would have died without a thought. And I––if anything should happen, M’sieu; if Father Claude and I should be set free, and––without you––I could never put it from my thoughts. I should always feel that I––that you––no no, M’sieu. They cannot do it.”
She shook away a tear, and looked at him with an honest, fearless gaze. It was the outpouring of a grateful heart, true because she herself was true, because she could not accept his care and sacrifice without a thought of what she owed him.
“You forget,” he said gently, “that it was not your fault. They could have caught me as easily if you had not been there. It is a soldier’s chance, Mademoiselle. He must take what life brings, with no complaint. It is the young man’s mistake to be restless, impatient. For the rest of us, why, it is our life.”
“But, M’sieu, you are not discouraged? You have not given up?”
“No, I have not given up.” He rose and looked into her eyes. “I have come through before; I may again. If I am not to get through, I shall fight them till I drop. And then, I pray God, I may die like a soldier.”167
He turned away and went into the hut. He was in the hardest moment of his trial. It was the inability to fight, the lack of freedom, of weapons, the sense of helplessness, that had come nearer to demoralizing Menard than a hundred battles. He had been trusted with the life of a maid, and, more important still, with the Governor’s orders. He was, it seemed, to fail.
The maid stood looking after him. She heard him drop to the ground within. Then she roamed aimlessly about, near the building.
Father Claude came up the path, walking slowly and wearily, and entered the hut. A moment later Menard appeared in the doorway and called:––
“Mademoiselle.” As she approached, he said gravely, “I should like it if you will come in with us. It is right that you should have a voice in our councils.”
She followed him in, wondering.
“Father Claude has news,” Menard said.
The priest told them all that he had been able to learn. Runners had been coming in during the night at intervals of a few hours. They brought word of the landing of the French column at La Famine. The troops had started168inland toward the Seneca villages. The Senecas were planning an ambush, and meanwhile had sent frantic messages to the other tribes for aid. The Cayuga chiefs were already on the way to meet in council with the Onondagas. The chance that the attack might be aimed only at the Senecas, to punish them for their depredations of the year before, had given rise to a peace sentiment among the more prudent Onondagas and Cayugas, who feared the destruction of their fields and villages. Up to the present, none had known where the French would strike. But, nevertheless, said the priest, the general opinion was favourable to taking up the quarrel with the Senecas.
Further, the French were leaving a rearguard of four hundred men in a hastily built stockade at La Famine, and the more loose-tongued warriors were already talking of an attack on this force, cutting the Governor’s communications, and then turning on him from the rear, leaving it to the Senecas to engage him in front.