CHAPTER IX.
THE WORD OF AN ONONDAGA.
For a long time after Father Claude had finished speaking, the threesat talking over the situation. Even the maid had suggestions. Butwhen all had been said, when the chances of a rescue by the French, orof getting a hearing before the council, even of a wild dash forliberty, had been gone over and over, their voices died away, and thesilence was eloquent. D'Orvilliers would know that only capture couldhave prevented them from reaching the fort; but even supposing him tobelieve that they were held by the Onondagas, he had neither the mennor the authority to fight through the Cayuga lakes and hills to reachthem. As for the Governor's column, it would have its hands fullbefore marching ten leagues from La Famine. Had Menard been alone, hewould have made the attempt to escape, knowing from the start that thechance was near to nothing, but glad of the opportunity at least todie fighting. But with Mademoiselle to delay their progress, and tosuffer his fate if captured, it was different. As matters stood, shewas likely to be released with Father Claude, as soon as he should bedisposed of. And so his mind had settled on staying, and dying, if hemust, alone.
"I have not known whether to tell all," said Father Claude, after thesilence. "And yet it would seem that Mademoiselle may as well know thetruth now as later."
"You have not told me?" she said, with reproach in her voice. "Must Ialways be a child to you, Father? If God has seen it best to place mehere, am I not to help bear the burden?"
"Mademoiselle is right, Father. Hold nothing back. Three stout heartsare better than two."
The priest looked gravely at the fire.
"The word has gone out," he said. "The Long Arrow, by his energy andhis eloquence, but most of all because he had the courage to capturethe Big Buffalo in the enemy's country with but a score of braves, nowcontrols the village. To-morrow night the great council will begin.The war chiefs of all the Cayuga and Onondaga and Oneida and Mohawkvillages will meet here and decide whether to take up the hatchetagainst the white men. The Long Arrow well knows that his power willlast only until the greater chiefs come, and he will have his revengebefore his day wanes."
"When?" asked the Captain.
"To-morrow morning, M'sieu. The feasting and dancing will beginto-night."
The maid was looking at the priest. "I do not understand," she said."What will he do?"
"He means me, Mademoiselle," said the Captain, quietly.
"Not--" she said, "not--"
"Yes," he replied. "They will bring us no food to-night. In themorning they will come for me."
"Oh, M'sieu, they cannot! They--" She gazed at him, not heeding thetears that suddenly came to her eyes and fell down upon her cheeks;and, as she looked, she understood what was in his mind. "Why do younot escape, M'sieu? There is yet time,--to-night! You are thinking ofme, and I--I--Oh, I have been selfish--I did not know! We will stayhere, Father Claude and I. You need not think of us; they will notharm us--you told me that yourself, M'sieu. I should be in your way,but alone--it is so easy." She would have gone on, but Menard held uphis hand.
"No," he said, shaking his head, "no."
Her lips moved, but she saw the expression in his eyes, and the wordsdied. She turned to Father Claude, but he did not look up.
"I do not know," said Menard, slowly, "whether the heart of the BigThroat is still warm toward me. He was once as my father."
"He will not be here in time," Father Claude said. "He does not startfrom his village until the sun is dropping on the morrow."
The maid could not take her eyes from Menard's face. Now that thefinal word had come, now that all the doubts of the unsettled day, nowonly half gone, had settled into a fact to be faced, he was himselfagain, the quiet, resolute soldier. Only the set, almost hard linesabout the mouth told of his suffering.
"If we had a friend here," he was saying, quietly enough, "it may bethat Tegakwita--But no, of course not. I had forgotten aboutDanton--"
"Tegakwita has lost standing in the tribe for allowing LieutenantDanton to escape. He is very bitter, We can ask nothing from him."
"No, I suppose not."
The cool air of these two men, the manner in which they could face theprospect, coupled with her own sense of weakness, weighed hard uponthe maid's heart. She felt that she must cry out, must in some mannergive way to her feelings. She rose and hurried into the open air. Thebroad sunlight was still sifting down through the leaves and lyingupon the green earth in bright patches. The robins were singing, andmany strange birds, whose calls she did not know, but who pipedgently, musically, so in harmony with the soft landscape that theirnotes seemed a part of it. It was all unreal, this quiet, sunlitworld, where the birds were free as the air which bore their songs,while the brave Captain--she could not face the thought.
The birch cup was still on the stone by the door. She lifted out theflowers with their dripping stems, and rearranged them carefully,placing a large yellow daisy in the centre.
An Indian was approaching up the path. He had thrown aside hisblanket, and he strode rapidly, clad in close-fitting jacket andleggings of deerskin, with knife and hatchet slung at his waist. Hecame straight to the hut and entered, brushing by her without aglance. Just as he passed she recognized him. He was Tegakwita. Herfear of these stern warriors had suddenly gone, and she followed himinto the doorway to hear his errand. Menard greeted him with a nod;Father Claude, too, was silent.
"The White Chief, the Big Buffalo, has a grateful heart," said theIndian, in cutting tones. She was glad that she could understand him.She took a flower from the bunch at her breast, and stood motionlessin the low doorway, pulling the petals apart, one by one and watchingthe little group within. The priest and the Captain were sitting onthe ground, Menard with his hands clasped easily about his knees.Tegakwita stood erect, with his back to the door. "He feels the loveof a brother for those who would make sacrifices for him," he went on."It was many years ago that he saved Tegakwita from the perils of thehunt. Tegakwita has not forgotten. When the White Chief became acaptive, he had not forgotten. He has lost his brave name as a warriorbecause he believed in the White Chief. He has lost--" his voice grewtremulous with the emotion that lay underneath the words--"He has losthis sister, whom he sent to be a sister to the white man and hissquaw."
"My brother speaks strangely," said Menard, looking up at him halfsuspiciously.
"Yes, it is strange." His voice was louder, and in his excitement hedropped the indirect form of speech that, in the case of an olderwarrior, would have concealed his feelings. "It is strange that youshould send my sister, who came to you in trust, to release the whitebrave. It is strange you should rob me of her whom my father placed bymy side."
Menard and Father Claude looked at each other. The Indian watched themnarrowly.
"My son is mistaken," said Father Claude, quietly. "His sister haswandered away. It may be that she has even now returned."
"No, my Father. The white brave has stolen her."
Menard got up, and spoke with feeling.
"Tegakwita does not understand. The white brave was foolish. He is ayoung warrior. He does not know the use of patience. He first escapedagainst my orders. The word I sent by your sister was a command to bepatient. He went alone, my brother. He has gone forever from my camp.It cannot be that she--"
"The Big Buffalo speaks lies. Who came to cut the white brave's bonds?Who stole the hunting coat, the leggings of Tegakwita, that her lovermight go free? Who has dishonoured herself, her brother, the fatherthat--" Words failed him, and he stood facing them with blazing eyes.
Menard glanced at the maid, but she had passed the point where a shockcould sway her, and now stood quietly at the door, waiting to hearwhat more the warrior would say. But he stood motionless. FatherClaude touched his arm.
"If this is true, Tegakwita, the Big Buffalo must not be held toblame. He has spoken truly. To talk in these words to the man who hasbeen your brother, is the act of a dog. You have forgotten that theBig Buffalo never speaks lies."
; The Indian gave no heed to his words. He took a step forward, andraised his hand to his knife. Menard smiled contemptuously, and spreadout his hands; he had no weapon. But Tegakwita had a second thought,and dropped his hand.
"Tegakwita, too, never speaks lies," he said. "He will come backbefore the sun has come again."
He walked rapidly out, crowding roughly past the maid.
Menajd leaned against the wall. "Poor boy!" he said, "poor boy!"
The maid came slowly in, and sat on the rude bench which leanedagainst the logs near the door. The strain of the day was drawing outall the strength, the womanhood, that lay behind her buoyant youth.Already the tan was fading from her face, here in the hut and underthe protecting elms; and the whiteness of her skin gave her, insteadof a worn appearance, the look of an older woman,--firmer, withgreater dignity. Her eyes had a deeper, fuller understanding.
"I suppose that there is nothing, M'sieu--nothing that we can do?"
Menard shook his head. "No; nothing."
"And the Indian,--he says that he will come back?"
"Yes. I don't know what he means. It doesn't matter."
"No, I suppose it doesn't."
They were silent for a moment. The maid leaned forward. "What wasthat, M'sieu?"
"Loungers, on the path."
"No, they are coming here."
Menard rose, but she stepped to the door. "Let me go, M'sieu. Ah, Isee them. It is my little friends." She went out, and they could hearher laughing with the two children, and trying to coax them toward thedoor.
"Danton will never get away," said the Captain, in a low tone to thepriest.
"I fear not, M'sieu."
"He has lost his head, poor boy. I thought him of better stuff. Andthe girl--Ah, if he had only gone alone! I could forgive his rashness,Father, his disobedience, if only he could go down with a clearname."
"There is still doubt," said the priest, cautiously. "We know onlywhat Tegakwita said."
"I'm afraid," Menard replied, shaking his head, "I'm afraid it's true.You said he wore the hunting clothes. Some one freed him. And the girlis gone. I wish--Well, there is no use. I hoped for something better,that is all."
Just outside the door the maid was talking gaily with the twochildren, who now and then raised their piping voices. Then it wasevident that they were going away, for she was calling after them. Shecame into the hut, smiling, and carrying a small willow basket full ofcorn.
"See," she said, "even now it is something to have made a friend. Weshall not go hungry to-day, after all. Will you partake, Father? AndM'sieu?"
She paused before the Captain. He had stepped forward, and was staringat her.
"Where are they?" he asked.
"The children? They are wandering along the path."
"Quick, Mademoiselle! Call them back."
She hesitated, in surprise; then set the basket on the ground andobeyed. Menard paced the floor until she returned.
"They are outside, M'sieu, too frightened to come near."
"Give me that birch cup, outside the door." He was speaking in quick,low tones. "They must not see me. It would frighten them."
She brought him the cup, and he emptied the flowers on the floor,tearing open the seams, and drying the wet white bark on his sleeve.He snatched a charred coal from the heap of ashes in the centre of thefloor, and wrote rapidly in a strange mixture of words and signs, "Apiece of thread, Mademoiselle. And look again--see that they have notgone."
"They are waiting, M'sieu."
He rolled the bark tightly, and tied it with the thread which shebrought from her bundle.
"We must have a present. Father Claude, you have your bale.Find something quickly,--something that will please them. No,wait--Mademoiselle, have you a mirror? They would run fiftyleagues for a mirror."
She nodded, rummaged through her bundle, and brought out a smallglass.
"Take this, Mademoiselle. Tell them to give this letter to the BigThroat, at the next village. They will know the way. He must have itbefore the day is over. No harm can come to them. If anyone wouldpunish them, the Big Throat will protect them. You must make them doit. They cannot fail."
Her face flushed, and her eyes snapped as she caught his nervouseagerness. Even Father Claude had risen, and was watching him withkindling eyes. She took the roll and the mirror, and ran out the door.In a moment, Menard, pacing the floor, could hear her merry laugh, andthe shrill-voiced delight of the children over their new toy. Hecaught the priest's hand.
"Father, we shall yet be free. Who could fail with such a lieutenantas that maid. How she laughs. One would think she had never a care."
At last she came back, and sank, with a nervous, irresponsible littlelaugh, on the bench. And then, for the moment, they all three laughedtogether.
In the silence that followed, Father Claude moved toward the door.
"I must go out again, M'sieu. It may be that there is further word."
"Very well, Father. And open your ears for news of the poor boy."
The priest bowed, and went out. Menard stood in the door watching him,as he walked boldly along the path. After a little he turned. The maidwas looking at him, still flushed and smiling.
"Well, Mademoiselle, we can take hope again."
"You are so brave, M'sieu."
He smiled at her impulsiveness, and looked at her, hardly consciousthat he was causing her to blush and lower her eyes.
"And so I am brave, Mademoiselle? It may be that Major Provost andMajor d'Orvilliers will not feel so."
"But they must, M'sieu."
"Do you know what they will say? They will speak with sorrow ofCaptain Menard, the trusted, in whose hands Governor Denonville placedthe most important commission ever given to a captain in New France.They will regret that their old friend was not equal to the test; thathe--ah, do not interrupt, Mademoiselle; it is true--that his failurelost a campaign for New France. You heard Father Claude; you know whatthese Indians plan to do."
"You must not speak so, M'sieu. It is wicked. He would be a coward whocould blame you. It was not your fault that you were captured. When Ireturn I shall go to them and tell them how you fought, and how youfaced them like--like a hero. When I return--" She stopped, as if theword were strange.
"Aye, Mademoiselle, and God grant that you may return soon. But yourgood heart leads you wrong. It was my fault that I did not bring aforce strong enough to protect myself,--and you. To fight is not asoldier's first duty. It is to be discreet; he must know when not tofight as well as when to draw his sword; he must know how many men areneeded to defend his cause. No; I was overconfident, and I lost. Andthere we must leave it. Nothing more can be said."
He stood moodily over the heap of ashes. When he looked at her again,she had risen.
"The flowers, M'sieu," she said, "you--you threw them away."
He glanced down. They lay at his feet. Silently he knelt and gatheredthem.
"Will you help me, Mademoiselle? We will make another cup. And thesetwo large daisies,--did you see how they rested side by side on theground when I would have trampled on them? You will take one and I theother; and when this day shall be far in the past, it may be that youwill remember it, and how we two were here together, waiting for thestroke that should change life for us."
He held it out, and she, with lowered eyes, reached to take it fromhis hand, but suddenly checked the motion and turned to the door.
"Will you take it, Mademoiselle?"
She did not move; and he stood, the soldier, helpless, waiting for aword. He had forgotten everything,--the low, smoke-blackened hut, theresponsibility that lay on his shoulders, the danger of themoment,--everything but the slender maid who stood before him, whowould not take the flower from his hand. Then he stepped to her side,and, taking away the other flowers from the lace beneath her throat,he placed the single daisy in their stead. Her eyes were nearlyclosed, and she seemed hardly to know that he was there.
"And it may be," he whispered softly, "that we, like the flo
wers,shall be spared."
She turned slowly away, and sank upon the bench. Menard, with astrange, new lightness in his heart, went out into the sunlight.
The day wore on. The warm sunbeams, that slipped down through thefoliage, lengthened and reached farther and farther to the east. Thebright spots of light crept across the grass, climbed the side of thehut and the tree-trunks, lingered on the upreaching twigs, and diedaway in the blue sky. The evening star shot out its white spears,glowing and radiant, long before the light had gone, or the purple andgolden afterglow had faded into twilight. Menard's mind went back toanother day, just such a glorious, shining June day as this had been,when he had sat not a hundred yards from this spot, waiting, as now,for the end. He looked at his fingers. They were scarred and knotted;one drunken, frenzied squaw had mangled them with her teeth. He hadwondered then how a man could endure such torture as had come to him,and still could live and think, could even struggle back to health.The depression had gone from him now; his mind was more alert thansince the night of the capture. Whether it was the bare chance of helpfrom the Big Throat, or the gentle sadness in the face of the maid asshe bowed her head to the single daisy on her breast,--something hadentered into his nerves and heart, something hopeful and strong, Hewondered, as Father Claude came up the path, slowly, laboriously, whythe priest should be so saddened. After all, the world was green andbright, and life, even a few hours of it, was sweet.
"What news, Father?"
The priest shook his head. "Little, M'sieu."
"Has the feast begun?"
"Not yet. They are assembling before the Long House."
"Are they drinking?"
"Yes."
There was no need for talk, and so the two men sat before the hut,with only an idle word now and then, until the dark came down. Thequiet of the village was broken now by the shouts of drinkingwarriors, with a chanting undertone that rose and swelled slowly intothe song that would continue, both men knew, until the break of day,or until none was left with sober tongue to carry the wavering air. Agreat fire had been lighted, and they could see the glare and thesparks beyond a cluster of trees and huts. Later, straggling bravesappeared, wandering about, bottle or flask in hand, crazed by the rawbrandy with which the English and Dutch of New York and Orange and theFrench of the province alike saw fit to keep the Indians supplied.
A group of the warriors came from the dance, and staggered toward thehut of the captives. They were armed with knives and hatchets. One hadan arquebuse, which he fired at the trees as often as the uncertainhands of all of them could load it. He caught sight of the white mensitting in the shadow, and came toward them, his fellows at hisheels.
"Move nearer the door," whispered Menard. "They must not get in."
The two edged along the ground without rising, until they sat withtheir backs in the open doorway. The Indians hung about, a few yardsaway, jeering and shouting. The one with the arquebuse evidentlywished to shoot, but the others were holding his arms, and reasoningin thick voices. No construction of the Iroquois traditions could makeit right to kill a prisoner who was held for the torture.
The white men watched them quietly. Menard heard a rustle, and thesound of a quick breath behind him, and he said, without taking hiseyes from the Indians:--
"Step back, Mademoiselle, behind the wall. You must not stand here."
The warrior broke away from the hands that held him, staggering a rodacross the grass before he could recover his balance. The others wentafter him, but he quickly rested the piece and fired. The ball wentover their heads through the doorway, striking with a low noiseagainst the rear wall. Menard rose, jerking away from the priest'srestraining hand.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "you are not hurt?"
"No, M'sieu."
"Thank God!" He stood glaring at the huddled band of warriors, whowere trying to reload the arquebuse; then he bounded forward, brokeinto the group with a force that sent two to the ground, snatched theweapon, and, with a quick motion, drew out the flint. He threw the gunon the ground, and walked back to his seat.
Two of the guards came running forward. They had not been drinking,and one of them ordered the loafers away. This did not strike themamiss. They started off, trying to reload as they walked, evidentlynot missing the flint.
The maid came again to the doorway, and asked timidly:--
"Is there danger for you, M'sieu? Will they come back?"
"No. It is merely a lot of drunken youths. They have probablyforgotten by now. Can you sleep, Mademoiselle?--have you tried?"
"No, I--I fear that I could not."
"It would be well to make the effort," he said gently, looking overhis shoulder at her as she leaned against the doorpost. "We do notknow what may happen. At any rate, even if you escape, you will needall your strength on the morrow. A fallen captain may not command,Mademoiselle, but--"
"If it is your command, M'sieu, I will try. Good night."
There was a long stillness, broken only by the distant noises of thedance.
"You, too, will sleep, M'sieu?" said Father Claude. "I will watch."
"No, no, Father."
"I beg it of you. At the least you will let me divide the night withyou?"
"We shall see, we shall see. There is much to be said before either ofus closes his eyes. Hello, here is a runner."
An Indian was loping up the path. He turned in toward the hut.
"Quiet," said the priest. "It is Tegakwita."
The warrior had run a long way. He was breathing deeply, and the sweatstood out on his face and caught the shine of the firelight.
"My brother has been far," said Menard, rising.
"The White Chief is not surprised? He heard the word of Tegakwita,that he would return before another sun. He has indeed been far. Hehas followed the track of the forest wolf that stole the child of theOnondagas. He has found the bold, the brave white warrior, who stoleaway in the night, robbing Tegakwita of what is dearer to him than thebeating of his heart."
The maid stood again in the doorway, resting a hand on the post, andleaning forward with startled eyes.
"He has found--he has found him--" she faltered.
The Indian did not look at her. He drew something from the breast ofhis shirt, and threw it on the ground at Menard's feet. Then, withbroken-hearted dignity, he strode away and disappeared in the night.
Father Claude stooped, and picked up the object. Dimly in thefirelight they could see it,--two warm human scalps, the one of brownhair knotted to the other of black. Menard took them in his hand.
"Poor boy!" he said, over and over. "Poor boy!"
He looked toward the door, but the maid had gone inside.
The Road to Frontenac Page 9
