CHAPTER VIII.
THE MAID MAKES NEW FRIENDS.
The prisoners were allowed some freedom in the Onondaga village. Theywere not bound, and they could wander about within call of the low hutwhich had been assigned to them. This laxity misled Danton intosupposing that escape was practicable.
"See," he said to Menard, "no one is watching. Once the dark has comewe can slip away, all of us."
Menard shook his head.
"Do you see the two warriors sitting by the hut yonder,--and the groupplaying platter among the trees behind us? Did you suppose they wereidling?"
"They seem to sleep often."
"You could not do it. We shall hope to get away safely; but it willnot be like that."
Danton was not convinced. He said nothing further, but late on thatfirst night he made the attempt alone. The others were asleep, andsuspected nothing until the morning. Then Father Claude, who came andwent freely among the Indians, brought word that he had been caught aleague to the north. The Indians bound him, and tied him to stakes ina strongly guarded hut. This much the priest learned from Tegakwita,the warrior who had guarded them on the night of their capture. AfterMenard's appeal to his gratitude he had shown a willingness to befriendly, and, though he dared do little openly, he had given thecaptives many a comfort on the hard journey southward.
Later in the morning Menard and Mademoiselle St. Denis were sitting atthe door of their hut. The irregular street was quiet, excepting forhere and there a group of naked children playing, or a squaw passingwith a load of firewood on her back. An Indian girl came in from thewoods toward them. She was of light, strong figure, with a full faceand long hair, which was held back from her face by bright ribbons.Her dress showed more than one sign of Mission life. She was cleanerthan most of the Indians, and was not unattractive. She came to themwithout hesitation.
"I am Tegakwita's sister. My name is Mary; the Fathers at the Missiongave 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 herskirt, and showed a heap of strawberries. "For the white man's squaw,"she said.
Mademoiselle blushed and laughed. "Thank you," she replied, holdingout her hands. The girl gave her the berries, and turned away. Menardlooked 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 stood near the hut, peeled offa strip of bark, and wrote on it:--
"If you try to escape again you will endanger my plans. Keep yourpatience, 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 sawthe question in Mademoiselle's eyes, and said: "It was a warning to becool. 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 lostmuch of its fulness, and only the heavy tan concealed the wornoutlines. But her eyes were still bright, and her spirit, now that thefirst shock had passed, was firm.
Father Claude returned, after a time, with a heavy face. He drewMenard into the hut, and told him what he had gathered: that the LongArrow and his followers were planning a final vengeance againstCaptain Menard. All the braves knew of it; everywhere they weretalking 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 forhelp from him, I fear. All the tribes are preparing to join infighting our troops."
Menard paused to think.
"It looks bad, Father." He walked up and down the hut. "The Governor'scolumn must have followed up the river within a few days of us. Thenmuch time was lost in getting us down here." He turned almost fiercelyto the priest. "Why, the campaign may have opened already. Word maycome to-morrow from the Senecas calling out the Onondagas and Cayugas.Do you know what that means? It means that I have failed,--for thefirst time in my life, Father,--miserably failed. There must be someway out. If I could only get word to the Big Throat. I'm certain Icould talk him over. I have done it before."
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 thepriest, and took his arm. "I don't know what it is that gives mecourage, Father, but at my age a man isn't ready to give up. They maykill me, if they like, but not before I've carried out my orders. TheOnondagas must not join the Senecas."
"How"--began the priest.
Menard shook his head. "I don't know yet,--but we can do it." He wentout of doors, as if the sunlight could help him, and during the restof the day and evening he roamed about or lay motionless under thetrees. The maid watched him until dark, but kept silent; for FatherClaude had told her, and she, too, believed that he would find a way.
Late in the evening Father Claude began to feel disturbed. Menard wasstill somewhere off among the trees. He had come in for his handful ofgrain, at the supper hour, but with hardly a word. The Father hadnever succeeded, save on that one occasion when Danton was thesubject, in carrying on a long conversation with the maid; and nowafter a few sorry attempts he went out of doors. He thought of goingto the Captain, to cheer his soul and prepare his mind for whateverfate awaited him, but his better judgment held him back.
The village had no surface excitement to suggest coming butchery andwar. The children were either asleep or playing in the open. Warriorswalked slowly about, wrapped closely in blankets, though the night waswarm. The gnats and mosquitoes were humming lazily, the trees barelystirring, and the voices of gossiping squaws or merry youths blendedinto a low drone. There was the smell in the air of wood and leavesburning, from a hundred smouldering fires. Father Claude stood for along time gazing at the row of huts, and wondering that such an air ofpeace and happiness could hover over a den of brute savages, who wereeven at the moment planning to torture to his death one of the bravestsons of New France.
While he meditated, he was half conscious of voices near at hand. Hegave it no attention until his quick ear caught a French word. Hestarted, and hurried to the hut, pausing in the door. By the dim lightof the fire, that burned each night in the centre of the floor, hecould see Mademoiselle standing against the wall, with hands claspedand 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 thehut, 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 fascinatedeyes. Then, slowly, the warrior turned, and beneath buckskin andfeathers, dirt and smeared colours, the priest recognized Danton. Heturned 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 collectedherself, and came forward. Pity and dignity were in her voice. "I amsorry, Lieutenant Danton. I am very sorry."
The boy choked, and
Father Claude drew him, unresisting, outside thehut.
"How did you come here, Danton? Tell me."
Danton looked at him defiantly.
"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 friendswill 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 notreceive a message from your Captain?"
Danton hesitated. "Yes," he said at last. "I received a message,--anorder to lie quiet, and let these red beasts burn me to death. Menardis a fool. Does he not know that they will kill him? Does he not knowthat 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 Captaincommands? 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.
"Do you, too, throw that at me, Father? It was all I could do. Ithought she cared for her life more than for--for Menard. No, let mego on. I have risked everything to come for her, and she--she--I didnot know it would be like this."
"But what do you plan?" The priest's voice was more gentle. "Where areyou going? You cannot get to Frontenac alone."
"I don't know," replied Danton wearily, turning away. "I don't carenow. 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 watchinghim, half in mind to call Menard, then hesitating. Already the boy wascommitted: he had broken his bonds, and to make any effort to hold himmeant certain death for him. Perhaps it was better that he should takethe only chance left to him. The hut was silent. He looked within, andsaw the maid still standing by the wall. Her eyes were on him, but shesaid nothing, and he turned away. He walked slowly up and down underthe great elms that arched far up over his head. At last he lookedabout for the Captain, and finding him some little way back in thewoods, told him the story.
Menard's face had aged during the day. His eyes had a dull firmness inplace of the old flash. He heard the account without a word, and, atthe close, when the priest looked at him questioningly for a reply, heshook 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 comein during the night of the French column. Runners were employed inpassing daily between the different villages, keeping each tribe fullyinformed.
Menard sat before the hut. The clearing showed more life than on thepreceding day. Bands of warriors, hunting and scouting parties, werecoming in at short intervals, scattering to their shelters or hurryingto the long building in the centre of the village. The growing boysand younger warriors ran about, calling to one another in eager,excited voices. As the morning wore along, grave chiefs and braves,wrapped in their blankets, walked by on their way to the councilhouse.
The maid, after Father Claude had gone, watched the Captain for a longtime through the open door. The conversation with the Long Arrow, onthe 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 cameto her again of the Long Arrow sitting by the river in the dim lightof the stars,--and of the white man who had fought for her, lyingbefore him, gazing upward and speaking with a calm voice to the sternchief who wished to kill him. Then, in spite of the excitement, thedanger, and exhaustion of the fight, it had seemed that the Captaincould not long be held by this savage. His stern manner, his command,had given her a confidence which had, until this moment, strengthenedher. But now, of a sudden, she saw in his eyes the look of a man whosees no way ahead. This quarrel with the Long Arrow was no matter ofopen warfare, even of race against race; it was an eye for an eye, thedemand of a crazed father for the life of the slayer of his son. Thatshe could do nothing, that she must sit feebly while he went to hisdeath, came to her with a dead sense of pain.
With a restless spirit she went out of doors, passing him with alittle smile; but he did not look up. A group of passing youthsstopped and jeered at him, but he did not give them a glance. Sheshrank back against the building until they had gone on.
"Do not mind them, Mademoiselle," said Menard, quietly. "They will notharm you."
She hesitated by his side, half in mind to speak to him, to tell himthat she knew his trouble, and had faith in him, but his bowed headwas forbidding in its solitude. All about the hut, under the spreadingtrees, was a stretch of coarse green sod, dotted with tiny yellowflowers and black-centred daisies. She wandered over the grass,gathering them until her hands were full. Two red boys came by, andpaused to cry at her, taunting her as if she, too, were to meet thefate of a war captive. The thought made her shudder, but then, on animpulse, she called to them in their own language. They looked at eachother in surprise. She walked toward them, laying down the flowers,and holding out her hand. A little later, when Menard looked up, hesaw her sitting beneath a gnarled oak, a boy on either side eagerlywatching her. She was talking and laughing with them, and teachingthem to make a screeching pipe with grass-blades held between thethumbs. 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 themusic of the white brothers."
The boys' faces had sobered at the sound of his voice. They looked athim doubtfully, and then at each other. He got up and walked slowlytoward them.
"I will make friends, too, Mademoiselle," he said, smiling. "We havenone too many here."
Before he had taken a dozen steps, the boys arose. He held out hishands, saying, "Your father would be friends with his children." Butthey began to retreat, a step at a time.
"Come, my children," said the maid, smiling at the words as sheuttered 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 distancethey stopped, and soon were the centre of a group of children whomthey taught to blow on the grass-blades, with many a half-frightenedglance toward Menard and the maid.
"There," he said, at length, "you may see the advantage of areputation."
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 fora 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, takingthem up, she arranged them hastily and held them out. "Won't you takethem?"
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 lookwell."
She looked down at her torn, stained dress, and laughed softly; buttook the white cluster he gave her, and thrust the stems through atattered bit of lace on her breast.
Menard was plainly relieved by the incident. He had been worn near todespair, facing a difficulty which seemed every moment farther from asolution; and now he turned to her fresh, light mood as to a refuge.
"We must put these in water, Mademoiselle, or they will soon losetheir 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 co
uld you have?"
"You mean--?"
"We will make a cup,--if you will hold the flowers. They arebeautiful, Mademoiselle. No nation has such hills and lakes andflowers as the Iroquois. The Hurons boast of their lake country,--andthe Sacs and Foxes, too, though they have a duller eye for thepicturesque. See--the valley yonder--" He pointed through a rift inthe foliage to the league-long glimpse of green, bound in by thegentle hills that rose beyond--"even to the tired old soldier there isnothing more beautiful, more peaceful."
He peeled a long strip of bark from the birch tree, and rolled it intoa cup. "Your needle and thread, Mademoiselle,--if they have not takenthem."
"No; I have everything here."
She got her needle, and under his direction stitched the edges of thebark.
"But it will leak, M'sieu."
He laughed. "The tree is the Indian's friend, Mademoiselle. Now it isa 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 ofplatter,--the one never-ceasing recreation of the Onondagas, at whichthey would one day gamble away blankets, furs, homes, even squaws,only to win them back on the next. They looked at him suspiciouslywhen he questioned them; but he was now as light of heart as on theday, a few weeks earlier, when he had leaned on the balcony of thecitadel at Quebec, idly watching the river. He smiled at them, andafter a parley the maid saw one tall brave point to a tree a few yardsfarther in the wood. They followed him closely with their eyes untilhe was back within the space allowed him.
"Now, Mademoiselle, we can gum the seams,--see? It is so easy. Thecold water will harden it."
They went together to the spring and filled the cup, first drinkingeach a draught. He rolled a large stone to the hut door, and set thecup 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 flowersat 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 thepath and brought some pebbles. "Now we have decorated our home." Shesat upon the ground, leaning against the log wall, and smiling up athim. "Sit down, M'sieu. I am tired of being solemn, we have beensolemn so long."
Already the heaviness was coming back on the Captain. He wondered, ashe looked at her, if she knew how serious their situation was. Ithardly seemed that she could understand it, her gay mood was sogenuine. She glanced up again, and at the sight of the settling linesabout his mouth and the fading sparkle in his eyes, her own eyes,while the smile still hovered, grew moist.
"I am sorry," she said softly,--"very, very sorry."
He sat near by, and fingered the flowers in the birch cup. They wereboth silent. Finally she spoke.
"M'sieu."
He looked down.
"It may be that you think that--that I do not understand. It is notthat, M'sieu. But when I think about it, and the sadness comes, Iknow, some way, that it is going to come out all right. We areprisoners, but other people have been prisoners, too. I have heard ofmany of them from Father Dumont. He himself has suffered among theOneidas. I--I cannot believe it, even when it seems the darkest."
"I hope you are right, Mademoiselle. I, too, have felt that there mustbe a way. And at the worst, they will not dare to hurt Father Claudeand--you." And under his breath he added, "Thank God."
"They will not dare to hurt you, M'sieu. They must not do it." Sherose and stood before him. "When I think of that,--that you, who havedone so much that I might be safe, are in danger, I feel that it wouldbe cowardly for me to go away without you. You would not have left me,on the river. I know you would have died without a thought. And I--ifanything should happen, M'sieu; if Father Claude and I should be setfree, and--without you--I could never put it from my thoughts. Ishould always feel that I--that you--no no, M'sieu. They cannot doit."
She shook away a tear, and looked at him with an honest, fearlessgaze. It was the outpouring of a grateful heart, true because sheherself was true, because she could not accept his care and sacrificewithout a thought of what she owed him.
"You forget," he said gently, "that it was not your fault. They couldhave caught me as easily if you had not been there. It is a soldier'schance, Mademoiselle. He must take what life brings, with nocomplaint. 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 havecome through before; I may again. If I am not to get through, I shallfight them till I drop. And then, I pray God, I may die like asoldier."
He turned away and went into the hut. He was in the hardest moment ofhis trial. It was the inability to fight, the lack of freedom, ofweapons, the sense of helplessness, that had come nearer todemoralizing Menard than a hundred battles. He had been trusted withthe life of a maid, and, more important still, with the Governor'sorders. He was, it seemed, to fail.
The maid stood looking after him. She heard him drop to the groundwithin. Then she roamed aimlessly about, near the building.
Father Claude came up the path, walking slowly and wearily, andentered the hut. A moment later Menard appeared in the doorway andcalled:--
"Mademoiselle." As she approached, he said gravely, "I should like itif you will come in with us. It is right that you should have a voicein 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 hadbeen coming in during the night at intervals of a few hours. Theybrought word of the landing of the French column at La Famine. Thetroops had started inland toward the Seneca villages. The Senecas wereplanning an ambush, and meanwhile had sent frantic messages to theother tribes for aid. The Cayuga chiefs were already on the way tomeet in council with the Onondagas. The chance that the attack mightbe aimed only at the Senecas, to punish them for their depredations ofthe year before, had given rise to a peace sentiment among the moreprudent Onondagas and Cayugas, who feared the destruction of theirfields and villages. Up to the present, none had known where theFrench would strike. But, nevertheless, said the priest, the generalopinion was favourable to taking up the quarrel with the Senecas.
Further, the French were leaving a rearguard of four hundred men in ahastily built stockade at La Famine, and the more loose-tonguedwarriors were already talking of an attack on this force, cutting theGovernor's communications, and then turning on him from the rear,leaving it to the Senecas to engage him in front.
The Road to Frontenac Page 8
