The Grey Cloak

by Harold MacGrath

  CHAPTER XXVII

  ONONDAGA

  The Oneida village lay under the grey haze of a chill September night.Once or twice a meteor flashed across the vault of heaven; and thesharp, clear stars lighted with magic fires the pure crystals of thefirst frost. The hoot of an owl rang out mournfully in answer to theplaintive whine of the skulking panther. A large hut stood in thecenter of the clearing. The panther whined again and the owl hooted.The bear-skin door of the hut was pushed aside and a hideous facepeered forth. There was a gutteral call, and a prowling cur slunk in.

  Within the hut, which was about twenty feet square, men, women andchildren had packed themselves. The air was foul, and the smoke fromthe blazing pine knots, having no direct outlet, rolled and curled andsank. The savages sprawled around the fire, bragging and boasting andlying as was their wont of an evening. Near-by the medicine man,sorcerer so-called, beat upon a drum in the interest of science andrattled bears' claws in a tortoise-shell. A sick man lay huddled inskins at the farthest end of the hut. His friends and relatives gavehim scant attention. Indians were taught to scorn pity. Drawings onthe walls signified that this was the house of the Tortoise.

  Four white men sat among them; sat doggedly in defeat. Gallantry is anoble quality when joined to wisdom and foresight; alone, it leads intopits and blind alleys. And these four men recognized with no smallbitterness the truth of this aphorism. They had been ambushed scarcefour hours from Quebec by a baud of marauding Oneidas. Only JeanPauquet had escaped. They had been captives now for several weeks.Rage had begun to die out, fury to subside; apathy seized them in itslistless embrace. Heavy, unkempt beards adorned their faces, and theirhair lay tangled and matted upon their shoulders. They were allpictures of destitution, and especially the whilom debonair poet. Hiscondition was almost pitiable. Some knavish rascal had thrust burdocksinto his hair and another had smeared his face with balsam sap. He hadthrashed one of these tormentors, and had been belabored in return. Hehad by now grown to accept each new indignity with the same patientphilosophy which made the Chevalier and the vicomte objects ofadmiration among the older redskin stoics. As for D'Herouville, he hadlost but little of his fire, and flew into insane passions at times;but he always paid heavily for the injuries which he inflicted upon histormentors. His wound, however, had entirely healed, and the color onhis cheeks was healthful. He would become a formidable antagonistshortly. And there were intervals when the vicomte eyed him morosely.

  The Chevalier completely ignored the count, either in converse or inlooks. D'Herouville was not at all embarrassed. Rather it added tothe zest of this strange predicament in which they were placed. It wasa tonic to his superb courage to think that one day or another he mustfight and kill these three men or be killed himself.

  Occasionally the vicomte would stare at the Chevalier, long andprofoundly. Only Victor was aware of this peculiar scrutiny. It oftenrecalled to him that wild night at the Hotel de Perigny in Rochelle.But the scrutiny was untranslatable.

  No one spoke of madame; there was no need, as each knew instinctivelythat she was always in the others' thoughts. The Chevalier no morequestioned the poet as to her identity. Was she living or dead, incaptivity or safe again in Quebec? Not one laid his head down at nightwithout these questions.

  The monotonous beating of the drum went on. Harsh laughter rose; forevery night the Indians contrived to find new epithets with which torevile the captives. So far there had been no hint of torture save thegamut. The Chevalier, even with his inconsequent knowledge of thetongue, caught the meaning of some of the words. The jests were coarseand vulgar, and the women laughed over them as heartily as the men.Modesty and morality were not among the red man's immediate obligations.

  The Chevalier devoted his time to dreaming. It was an occupation whichall shared in, as it took them mentally away from their surroundings.He conjured up faces from the sparkle of the fire. He could see theRubens above the mantel at the hotel in Rochelle, the assembly at theCandlestick, the guardroom at the Louvre, the kitchens along the quays,or the cabarets in the suburbs. A camp song rises above the clinkingof the bottles and glasses; a wench slaps a cornet's face for apilfered kiss; a drunken guardsman quarrels over an unduly heavy die.

  "Count," said the vicomte to D'Herouville, "did you ever reckon whatyou should do with those ten thousand livres which you were to receivefor that paper of signatures?"

  At any other time this remark would have interested Victor.

  D'Herouville, having concentrated his gaze upon the ragged soles of hisboots, saw no reason why he should withdraw it. He was weary of thevicomte's banter. All he wanted was a sword and a clear sweep, withthis man opposing him.

  "Now, if I had those livres," went on the vicomte, whose only objectwas to hear the sound of his own voice, "and were at Voisin's, I shouldorder twelve partridge pies and twelve bottles of bordeaux."

  "Bordeaux," said Victor, absently.

  The Chevalier looked up, but seeing that he was not addressed, resumedhis dreams.

  "Yes, my poet, bordeaux, red and friendly. And on top of that shouldbe a fish salad, with that wonderful vinegar and egg dressing whichVoisin alone knows how to make."

  "And then?" urged Victor, falling into the grim humor of the thing.

  "Then, two bottles of champagne." The vicomte stood up. He appearedto be counting on his fingers. "That would make fourteen bottles."

  "You would be drunk."

  "Drunk as a fiddler on Saturday night. Now, I am going to promote mycharacter among these rascals by doing some medicine work myself." Andhe burst forth sonorously in profanity, waving his hands and swayinghis body. He recalled every oath in his extensive camp vocabulary.The expression on his face was sober, and Victor had a suspicion thatthis exhibition was not all play. The savages regarded the vicomte asone suddenly gone demented, till it dawned upon one of them that thewhite man was committing a sacrilege, mocking the reverend medicineman. He rose up behind the vicomte, reached over and struck himroughly on the mouth. The vicomte wheeled like a flash. The Indianfolded his arms across his bronzed chest and looked the furious mancalmly in the eye. The vicomte presently dropped his balled fists,shrugged, and sat down. It was the best and wisest thing he could do.

  D'Herouville, roused from his apathy, laughed. "Eh, you laugh?" saidthe vicomte, wiping his bloody lips. His eyes snapped wickedly.

  "It is a habit I have," retorted D'Herouville, glancing boldly at theChevalier.

  "Some day your habit will choke you to death."

  D'Herouville's cheeks darkened. He returned to the contemplation ofhis boots.

  "Ten thousand livres!" The vicomte wiped his lips again, and becamequiet.

  This was one evening among many of its like. The poet busied himselfwith taking some of the burs from his hair and absently plucking themto pieces. . . . And Paul had had an intrigue with Gabrielle which hadlasted nearly two years! And madame was unknown to him! What was herpurpose? Blind fool that he had been, with all his dreams. Ever washe hearing the music of her voice, breathing the vague perfume of herflowering lips, seeing the heavenly shadows in her eyes. Once he hadcome upon her while she slept. Oh, happy thief, to have pressed hislips upon that cheek, blooming delicately as a Persian peach! And thatmemory was all he had. She did not love him!

  The musing came to an abrupt end. A moccasined foot shot out andstruck Victor in the small of the back, sending him reeling toward thefire. In trying to save himself he extended his hands. He fell upon aglowing ember, and his palms were burned cruelly. Cries of laughterresounded through the hut. Victor bit his lips to repress the cry ofpain.

  With the agility of a panther, the Chevalier sprang toward the bully.There was a terrible smile on his face as he seized the young brave'swrists in a grip of iron. The Oneida was a strong youth, but hewrestled in vain. The Chevalier had always been gifted with strength,and these weeks of toil and hardship had turned his muscles into fibersunyielding as oak. Gradua
lly he turned the Indian around. The otherswatched the engagement with breathless interest. Presently the Indiancame to his knees. Quick as light the Chevalier forced him upon hisface, caught an arm by the elbow and shoved the brown hand into thefire. There was a howl of pain and a yell of laughter. Withoutseeming effort the Chevalier then rolled the bully among theevil-tempered dogs. So long as he continued to smile, the Indians sawnothing but good-natured play, such as had been the act which causedVictor his pain. The Chevalier sat down, drew his tattered cloakaround his shoulders, and once more resumed his study of the fire.

  "Hoh!" grunted the fighting braves, who frankly admired this exhibitionof strength.

  "Curse it, why didn't I think of that?" said the vicomte, his handseeking his injured mouth again.

  "God bless you for that, Paul," murmured Victor, the sparkle of tearsin his eyes. "My hands do not hurt half so much now."

  "Would to God, lad, you had gone to Spain. I am content to sufferalone; that is my lot; but it triples my sufferings to see you in pain."

  "Good!" said D'Herouville. "The cursed fool of a medicine man hasstopped his din. We shall be able to sleep." He doubled up his kneesand wrapped his arms around them.

  A squaw gave Victor some bears' grease, and he rubbed his palms withit, easing the pain and the smart.

  One by one the Indians dozed off, some on their bellies, some on theirbacks, some with their heads upon their knees, while others curledthemselves up among the warm-bodied dogs. Monsieur Chouan hooted oncemore; the panther's whine died away in the distance; from another partof the village a cur howled: and stillness settled down.

  Victor, kept awake by his throbbing hands, which he tried to ease bygently rocking his body, listened dully to all these now familiarsounds. Across his shoulders was flung the historic grey cloak. Inthe haste to pursue madame's captors, it had mysteriously slipped intothe bundle they had packed. Like a Nemesis it followed themrelentlessly. This inanimate witness of a crime had followed them witha purpose; the time for its definition had not yet arrived. TheChevalier refused to touch it, and heaped curses upon it each time itcrossed his vision. But Victor had ceased to feel any qualms; it keptout the chill at night and often served as a pillow. Many a timeD'Herouville and the vicomte discovered each other gaping at it. Ifcaught by D'Herouville, the vicomte shrugged and smiled; on the otherhand, D'Herouville scowled and snarled his beard with his fingers.There was for these two men a peculiar fascination attached to thatgrey garment, of which neither could rid himself, try as he would.Upon a time it had represented ten thousand livres, a secure head, anda woman's hand if not her heart.

  Once Victor thoughtlessly clasped his hands, and a gasp of pain escapedhim.

  "Does it pain you much, lad?" asked the Chevalier, turning his head.

  "I shut them, not thinking. I shall be all right by morning."

  The Chevalier dropped his head upon his knees and dozed. The vicomteand the poet alone were awake and watchful.

  A sound. It drifted from afar. After a while it came again, nearer.The sleeping braves stirred restlessly, and one by one sat up. A doglifted his nose, sniffed, and growled. Once more. It was a cry, humanand designed. It consisted of a prolonged call, followed by severalshort yells. The old chief rose, and putting his hands to his mouth,uttered a similar call. It was immediately answered; and a few minuteslater three Indians and two Jesuit priests pushed aside the bearskinand entered the hut.

  "Chaumonot!" exclaimed the Chevalier.

  The kindly priest extended his hands, and the four white menrespectfully brushed them with their lips. It was a tribute less tohis office than to his appearance; for not one of them saw in hiscoming aught else than a good presage and probable liberation.

  Chaumonot was accompanied by Father Dablon, the Black Kettle,--nowfamous among his Onondaga brothers as the one who had crossed the evilwaters, and two friendly Oneida chiefs. There ensued a prodigiousharangue; but at the close of it the smile on Chaumonot's facesignified that he had won his argument.

  "You are free, my sons," he said. "It took some time to find you, butthere is nothing like perseverance in a good cause. At dawn you willreturn with me to Onondaga. Monsieur," addressing the Chevalier; "andhow is the health of Monsieur le Marquis, your kind father?"

  The smile died from the Chevalier's face. "Monsieur le Marquis is atQuebec; I can not say as regards his health."

  "In Quebec?"

  "Yes, Father," Victor interposed.

  "How did you know that we were here ?" asked the vicomte.

  "Pauquet, in his wanderings, finally arrived at Onondaga two weeks ago.Upon hearing his story I at once began a search. We are virtually atpeace with the Senecas and the Oneidas."

  "And . . . the women?" inquired Victor, his heart's blood gushing tohis throat.

  The two Jesuits solemnly shook their heads.

  Victor laid his head against the Chevalier's arm to hide the bittertears.

  "No sign?" asked the Chevalier calmly. All the joy of the rescue wasgone.

  "None. They were taken by a roving band of Senecas, of whom nothinghas been heard. They are not at the Senecas' chief village."

  However great the vicomte's disappointment may have been, his faceremained without any discernible emotion. But he turned toD'Herouville, his tone free from banter and his dark eyes full ofmenace:

  "Monsieur le Comte, you and I shall soon straighten out our accounts."

  "For my part, I would it were to-morrow. Our swords will be given backto us. Take heed, Vicomte," holding out a splendid arm, as if callingthe vicomte's attention to it.

  The vicomte twisted his shoulder and made a grimace. "I will kill youas certainly as we stand here. It is written. And after you . . ."

  D'Herouville could not piece together this broken sentence.

  Four days later, the first of October, they came to the mission. Thelake of Onondaga lay glittering in the sunshine, surrounded by greenvalleys, green hills, and crimsoning forests. As they arrived at thepalisade and fort, Du Puys, sighting them, fired a salute of welcome.The echoes awoke, and hurried to the hills and back again withthrilling sound. The deer lifted his lordly antlers and trembled; thebear, his jaws dripping with purloined honey, flattened his earsrestlessly; the dozing panther opened his eyes, yellow and round as aking's louis; and from the dead arms of what was once a kingly pine,the eagle rose and described circles as he soared heavenward. The gazeof the recent captives roved. Here were fruitful valley and hill;pine, oak, beech, maple and birch; luscious grape and rosy apple; cornand golden pumpkin. They saw where the beaver burrowed in his dams,and in the golden shallows and emerald deeps of the lake caughtglimpses of trout, bass, salmon and pickerel. And what a picture mettheir eyes as they entered the palisades: the black-robed priests, theshabby uniforms of the soldiers and their quaint weapons and dentedhelmets, the ragged garbs of the French gentlemen who had accompaniedthe expedition, the painted Indian and his ever-inconsolable dog.

  "Here might a man dwell in peace," said the Chevalier.

  "Not with ambition for his bride," was the vicomte's observation.

  The beginning of the end came on the seventh of October, after a famoushunting day. A great fire was built on the shores of the lake. Themoon, crooked in shape and mellow as a fat pumpkin, hung low over theforest crests. The water was golden and red: the moon and the flames.The braves were holding a hunting dance in honor of the kill. Therewere at this time about sixty warriors encamped around the mission.The main body was at the Long House, far back among the hills. A weirdchanting broke the stillness of the night. The outer circle wascomposed of the older braves and chieftains, the colonists, theJesuits, and the four unhappy men who were their guests. None of thefour took particular interest in the unique performance. Here theywere, but little better situated than at Oneida. True, they were nolonger ill-treated and food was plentiful, but they were held here in acaptivity no less irksome. They were prisoners of impotency. Chanceand the go
d of whims had put them upon a sorry highway to the heart'sdesire. It mattered nothing that madame had said plainly that sheloved none of them. The conceit of man is such that, like hope, itdies only when he dies. Perhaps the poet's heart was the mostpeaceful: he had bravely turned over the alluring page.

  The dance grew wilder and noisier.

  Chaumonot guilelessly pushed his inquiries regarding Monsieur leMarquis. Those thousand livres had done so much! That generosity wasso deeply imbedded in his mind! And what had brought Monsieur leMarquis to Quebec, and how long was he to remain? The Chevalier's jawsknotted and knotted; but he succeeded in answering each questioncourteously or avoiding it adroitly by asking a question himself. Morethan once he felt the desire to leap up and dash into the forest.Anything but that name . . . Monsieur le Marquis! "Tell Monsieur leComte for me that I am sleeping and may not be disturbed!" It had beena cup of gall indeed that he drank outside his father's chamber.

  All this while D'Herouville smiled and smiled; the vicomte labored overthe rust on his blade. When at length the good Father moved to anotherside of the circle, where Du Puys and Nicot sat, the Chevalier stood upand stepped before D'Herouville.

  "Rise, Monsieur," he said. His voice was even.

  D'Herouville rose, wondering. Victor ceased to inspect his hands, andthe vicomte let the blade sink to his knees.

  "You have laughed, Monsieur D'Herouville; you have laughed atmisfortune." The Chevalier still spoke quietly. Only Victor surmisedthe raging fire beneath those quiet tones.

  "And will," retorted D'Herouville, his eyes lighting with intelligence.

  "At Quebec you held an unmanly threat above my head. Come with me;there is no woman here."

  "Fight you? I believe we have settled that matter," insolently.

  The Chevalier brought the back of his hand swiftly againstD'Herouville's mouth.

  The laugh which sounded came from the vicomte. This would beinteresting if no one interfered. But he was up almost as quickly asVictor, who rushed between the two men. D'Herouville's sword was halffree.

  "Wherever you say!" he cried hoarsely.

  "A moment, gentlemen!" said the vicomte, pointing toward the dancingcircle.

  A tall figure had stepped quietly into the dancing circle, raising hishands to command silence. It was the Black Kettle, son of Atotarho.

  "Two stranger canoes are coming up the river. Let us go to meet them,"said the Black Kettle. "Either they are friends, or they are enemies."

  "Let us wait and see what this is," and the vicomte touched theChevalier on the arm.

  "Curse you all!" cried D'Herouville passionately. "Liar!" He turnedupon Victor. "But for your lying tongue, I should not be here."

  "After Monsieur le Chevalier," said the poet, forgetting that he couldnot hold a sword.

  "Rather say after me, Saumaise;" and the vicomte smiled significantly.

  "All of you, together or one at a time!" D'Herouville was mad withrage.

  "One at a time," replied the banterer; "the Chevalier first, and if heleaves anything worth fighting, I; as for you, my poet, your chancesare nil."

  Meanwhile a dozen canoes had been launched. A quarter of an hourpassed anxiously; and then the canoes returned, augmented by two more.Father Chaumonot hailed. An answering hail came back.

  "Father Chaumonot?"

  "Who calls me by name?" asked the Jesuit.

  "Brother Jacques!"

  Brother Jacques! The human mind moves quickly from one thing toanother. For the time being all antagonism was gone; a single thoughtbound the four men together again.

  "Are you alone?" asked Chaumonot. His voice quavered in spite of hiseffort.

  "No!" sang out Brother Jacques's barytone; and there was a joyous notein it. "Two daughters of Onontio are captives with me."

  Two daughters of Onontio; two women from the Chateau St. Louis! A rarewine seemed to infuse the Chevalier's blood. He forgot many things inthat moment.

  "Women?" murmured Father Chaumonot, in perplexity. "Oh, this isfortunate and yet unfortunate! What shall we do with them here? I canspare no men to take them back to Quebec; and the journey would onlyplunge them into danger even worse."

  The Senecas, sullen but dignified, and their captives were broughtashore and led toward the fire. The Onondagas crowded around. These,then, were the fair flowers which grew in the gardens of the white man;and the young braves, who had never before set eyes upon white women,gazed wonderingly and curiously at the two marvels. The womensustained with indifference and composure this mild investigation.They had gone through so much that they were not interested in whatthey saw. The firelight illumined their sadly arrayed figures andplayed over their worn and weary faces. Father Chaumonot extended hishands toward them reassuringly; and they followed his every gesturewith questioning eyes. Corn Planter, the Seneca chief, began toharangue. Since when had the Onondaga brother taken it upon himself tomeddle with the affairs of the Senecas? Was not the law writtenplainly? Did the Onondaga wish to defy the law of their forefathers?The prisoners were theirs by right of their cunning. Let the Senecasproceed with their captives, as their villages were yet very far away,and they had spent much time in loitering.

  "We will buy," said Father Chaumonot, knowing the savage's cupidity."Two belts of wampum."

  The Corn Planter made a negative sign.

  "Ten beaver skins," said the priest.

  "The daughters of Onontio are worth a thousand beaver skins."

  "Well, then," said leather Chaumonot, reaching down and taking a musketfrom the ground, "this with powder and ball to go with it."

  The Corn Planter wavered. He took the gun and inspected it, turned itover to his companions that they might also pass judgment upon it; andthey whispered among themselves for a space.

  "Corn Planter accepts the thunderer for himself and ten beaver skinsfor his brave warriors," and the barter was consummated.

  It was now that madame saw four familiar faces beyond the fire. Thesemen, these men; even here, in the heart of the wilderness! With an oddlittle smile she extended her hands, swayed, and became limp uponBrother Jacques's arm.