CHAPTER X.
A NIGHT COUNCIL.
The night crept by, as had the day, wearily.
The two men sat in the doorway or walked slowly back and forth acrossthe front of the hut, saying little. The Captain was calling to mindevery incident of their capture, and of the original trouble betweenLa Grange and the hunting party. He went over the conversation withMajor Provost at Quebec word by word, until he felt sure in hisauthority as the Governor's representative; although the writtenorders in the leather bag that hung from his neck were concerned onlywith his duties in preparing Fort Frontenac for the advancingcolumn,--duties that he had not fulfilled.
A plan was forming in his mind which would make strong demands on thegood faith of Major Provost and the Governor. He knew, as every oldsoldier knows, that governments and rulers are thankless, that evenwritten authority is none too binding, if to make it good shouldinconvenience those who so easily give it. He knew further that if heshould succeed now in staying the Onondagas and Cayugas by pledgeswhich, perchance, it might not please Governor Denonville to observe,the last frail ties that held the Iroquois to the French would bebroken, and England would reign from the Hudson to the river of theIllinois. And he sighed, as he had sighed many times before, for theold days under Frontenac, under the only Governor of New France whocould hold these slippery redskins to their obligations.
"Father," he said finally, "I begin to see a way."
"The Big Throat?"
"He must help, though to tell the truth I fear that he will be oflittle service. He may come in time to give us a stay; but, chiefthough he is, he will hardly dare overrule the Long Arrow on a matterso personal as this."
"What is the Long Arrow's family--the Beaver?"
"Yes."
"But, M'sieu, that is the least of the eight families. If it were theTortoise or the Bear against us, we should have greater cause forfear."
"True, Father, but to each family belongs its own quarrels, its ownrevenge. If the Big Throat should interfere too deeply, it would angerthe other small families, who might fear the same treatment at someother time. And with Beaver, Snipe, Deer, and Potato united againstus,--well, it is a simple enough problem."
They were walking by the door, and Menard, as he spoke, sat on thestone which he had rolled there in the afternoon. The priest stoodbefore him.
"I hope we may succeed, my son. I have seen this anger before, and ithas always ended in the one way."
"Of course," the Captain replied, "it does depend on the Big Throat.He must reach here in time."
"God grant that he may!"
"In that case, Father, I look for a delay. Unless his heart hashardened rapidly, he still thinks of me. Together we will go to him,and ask a hearing in the war council."
"Oratory will not release us, I fear, M'sieu."
"We shall not ask to be released, Father. Don't you understand? It ismore than that we shall demand,--it is peace with New France, thesafety of the column--"
The priest's eyes lighted. "Do you think, M'sieu--"
"We can do it. They have not heard all the truth. They do not want along war which will kill their braves and destroy their homes andtheir corn. It is this attack on the Senecas that has drawn themout."
"You will tell them that the Governor fights only the Senecas?"
"More than that. The La Grange affair has stirred them up. It hasweakened their faith in the Governor,--it has as good as undone allthe work of twenty years past. Our only hope is to reestablish thatfaith."
"I hope that we may," said the priest, slowly. "But they have reacheda state now where words alone will hardly suffice. I have tried it,M'sieu. Since we came, I have talked and reasoned with them."
"Well, Father, I am going to try it. The question is, will theGovernor make good what I shall have to promise? It may be that hewill. If not,--then my life will not be worth a box of tinder if Istray a league from Quebec without a guard." He looked down at thedaisy on his coat. "But the maid will be safe, Father. She will besafe."
"I do not believe that they would harm her, even as it is."
"No, I trust not--I trust not. But we are here, and she is here; andnot until I know that her journey is over will my eyes close easily atnight."
"But your plan, M'sieu,--you have not told me."
"Ah, I thought you understood. Did you know about the capture atFrontenac when it happened? No? It was like this. The Governor sentword, with the orders that came up to the fort in May, that at thefirst sign of trouble or disturbance with the Indians there,d'Orvilliers should seize a few score of them and send them downthe river in chains. It would be an example, he said. I wasawaiting orders,--I had just returned from the Huron Country andMichillimackinac,--and d'Orvilliers called me to his rooms andshowed me the order. 'Now,' he said, 'who in the devil is meddlingat Quebec?' I did not know; I do not know yet. But there was theorder. He turned it over to La Grange, with instructions to wait untilsome offence should give him an excuse."
"I know the rest, M'sieu."
"Yes, yes. You have heard a dozen times,--how La Grange was drinking,and how he lied to a peaceful hunting party, and drugged them, andbrained one poor devil with his own sword. And what could we do,Father? Right or wrong, the capture was made. It was too late torelease them, for the harm was done. If d'Orvilliers had refused tocarry out his orders and send them to Quebec, it would have cost himhis commission."
"And you, M'sieu?"
"I was the only officer on detached service at the Fort. D'Orvillierscould not look me in the face when he ordered me to take them."
"You will tell them this?"
"This? Yes, and more. I will pledge the honour of New France that LaGrange shall suffer. The man who has betrayed the Onondagas must bepunished before we can have their good faith. Don't you understand?"
Father Claude walked away a few steps, and then back, his handsclasped before him.
"Don't you understand, Father? If a wrong has been done an Iroquois,it is revenge that will appease him. Very well. Captain la Grange haswronged them; let them have their revenge."
"Is that the right view, M'sieu?"
"Not for us, Father,--for you and me. To us it is simple justice. Butjustice,--that is not the word with which to reach an Indian."
"But it may be that Captain la Grange is in favour at Quebec. Whatthen?"
"You do not seem to understand me yet, Father." Menard spoke slowlyand calmly. "This is not my quarrel. I can take what my life brings,and thank your God, the while, that I have life at all. But if by onefoolish act the Iroquois are to be lost to France, while I have theword on my tongue that will set all right, am I,--well, would you haveme such a soldier?"
The priest was looking through the leaves at the firelight. For oncehe seemed to have nothing to offer.
"It will not be easy, Father; but when was a soldier's work easy?First I must make these Indians believe me,--and you know how hardthat will be. Then I must convince Governor Denonville that this ishis only course; and that will be still harder. Or, if they will notrelease me, you will be my messenger, Father, and take the word. Iwill stay here until La Grange has got his dues."
"Let us suppose," said the priest,--"let us suppose that you did notdo this, that you did not take this course against Captain la Grangewhich will leave him a marked man to the Iroquois, even if theGovernor should do nothing."
"Then," said Menard, "the rear-guard at La Famine will be butchered,and the army of New France will be cut to pieces. That is all."
"You are sure of this?"
"It points that way, Father."
"Then let us take another case. Suppose that you succeed at thecouncil, that you are released. Then if the Governor should disclaimresponsibility, should--"
"Then, Father, I will go to La Grange and make him fight me. I mean topledge my word to these chiefs. You know what that means."
"Yes," replied the priest, "yes." He seemed puzzled and unsettled bysome thought that held his mind. He walked slowly about, looking a
tthe ground. Menard, too, was restless. He rose from the stone andtossed away the pebbles that had supported the cup, one at a time.
"They are singing again," he said, listening to the droning chant thatcame indistinctly through the dark. "One would think they would longago have been too drunk to stand. How some of these recruits the Kingsends over to us would envy them their stomachs."
The priest made no reply. He did not understand the impulse that ledthe Captain to speak irrelevantly at such a moment.
"I suppose the doctors are dancing now," Menard continued. "It may bethat they will come here. If they do, we shall have a night of it."
"We will hope not, M'sieu."
"If they should, Father,--well, it is hard to know just what to do."
"You were thinking--?"
"Oh, I was wondering. If they come here, and let their wild talk runaway with them, it might be well to fight them off until morning.Maybe we could do it."
"Yes, it might seem best."
"But if--if the Big Throat should not come, or should have changed,then it would have been better that I had submitted."
"You are thinking of me, my son. You must not. I will not leave you togo without a struggle. I can fight, if needs be, as well as you. Iwill do my part."
"It is not that, Father. But if we fight, and the Big Throat does notcome,--there is the maid. They would not spare her then."
The priest looked at the Captain, and in the dim, uncertain light hesaw something of the thought that lay behind those wearied eyes.
"True," he said; "true."
Menard walked up and down, a half-dozen steps forward, a half-dozenback, without a glance at the priest, who watched him closely.Suddenly he turned, and the words that were in his mind slippedunguarded from his tongue, low and stern:--
"If they come, Father,--if they harm her,--God! if they even wake her,I will kill them."
Father Claude looked at him, but said nothing. They walked together upand down; then, as if weary, they sat again by the door.
"There are some things which I could not talk over with you," said thepriest, finally. "It was best that I should not. And now I hardly knowwhat is the right thing for me to do, or to say."
"What troubles you?"
"When you are cooler, it will come to you. For to-night,--until ourlast moment of choice,--I must ask one favour, M'sieu. You will notdecide on this course until it comes to the end. You will think ofother ways; you will--"
"What else have I been doing, Father? There is no other way."
"But you will not decide yet?"
"No. We need not, to-night."
The priest seemed relieved.
"M'sieu," came in a low voice from the darkness within the hut, "may Inot sit with you?"
"You are awake, Mademoiselle? You have not been sleeping?"
"No, I could not. I--I have not heard you, M'sieu,--I have notlistened. But I wanted to very much. I have only my thoughts, and theyare not the best of company to-night."
"Come." Menard rose and got one of the priest's blankets, folding itand laying it on the ground against the wall. "I fear that we may beno better than the thoughts; but such as we are, we are at the serviceof Mademoiselle."
She sat by them, and leaned back, letting her hands fall into her lap.Menard was half in the shadow, and he could let his eyes linger on herface. It was a sad face now, worn by the haunting fears that the nighthad brought,--fears that had not held their substance in the sunlight;but the eyes were still bright. Even at this moment she had notforgotten to catch up the masses of hair that were struggling to befree; and there was a touch of neatness about her torn dress that thehardships of the journey and the dirt and discomforts of an Indianshelter had not been able to take away. They all three sat withouttalking, watching the sparks from the fire and the tips of flame thatnow and then reached above the huts.
"How strange their song is, M'sieu."
"Yes. They will keep it up all night. If we were nearer, you would seethat as soon as a brave is exhausted with the dancing and singing,another will rush in to take his place. Sometimes they fall fainting,and do not recover for hours."
"I saw a dance once, at home. The Ottawas--there were but a few ofthem--had a war-dance. It seemed to be just for amusement."
"They enjoy it. It is not uncommon for them to dance for a day whenthere is no hunt to occupy them."
Father Claude had been silent. Now he rose and walked slowly away,leaving them to talk together. They could see him moving about withbowed head.
"The Father is sad, M'sieu."
"Yes. But it is not for himself."
"Does he fear now? Does he not think that the Big Throat will come?"
"I think he will come."
The maid looked down at her clasped hands. Menard watched her,--thefirelight was dancing on her face and hair,--and again the dangerseemed to slip away, the chant and the fire to be a part of somemad dream that had carried him in a second from Quebec to thisdeep-shadowed spot, and had set this maid before him.
"You are wearing the daisy, Mademoiselle."
She looked up, half-startled at the change in his voice. Then her eyesdropped again.
"See," he continued, "so am I. Is it not strange that we should behere, you and I. And yet, when I first saw you, I thought--"
"You thought, M'sieu?"
Menard laughed gently. "I could not tell you, without telling you whatI think now, and that would--be--"
He spoke half playfully, and waited; but she did not reply.
"I do not know what it is that has come to me. It is not like me. Orit may be that the soldier, all these years, has not been me. Would itnot be strange if I were but now to find myself,--or if you were tofind me, Mademoiselle? If it is true, if this is what I have waited solong to find, it would be many years before I could repay you forbringing it to me,--it would be a long lifetime."
Again he waited, and still she was silent. Then he talked on, as madlynow as on the night of their capture, when he had fought, shouting,musket and knife in hand, at the water's edge. But this was anothermadness.
"It is such a simple thing. Until you came out here under the trees mymind was racked with the troubles about us. But now you are here, andI do not care,--no, not if this were to be my last night, if to-morrowthey should--" She made a nervous gesture, but he went on.
"You see it is you, Mademoiselle, who come into my life, and then allthe rest goes out."
"Don't," she said brokenly. "Don't."
Father Claude came slowly toward them.
"My child," he said, "if you are not too wearied, I wish to talk withyou."
She rose with an air of relief and joined him. Menard watched them,puzzled. He could hear the priest speaking in low, even tones; andthen the maid's voice, deep with emotion. Finally they came back, andshe went hurriedly into the hut without a glance at the soldier, whohad risen and stood by the door.
"Come, M'sieu, let us walk."
Menard looked at him in surprise, but walked with him.
"It is about the speech to the council--and Captain la Grange. It maybe that you are right, M'sieu."
"Right? I do not understand."
"It was but a moment ago that we talked of it."
"Yes, I have not forgotten. But what do you mean now?"
"You promised me to wait before deciding. It may be that I was wrong.If you are to make the speech, you will need to prepare it carefully.There is none too much time."
"Yes," said Menard. Then suddenly he stopped and took the priest'sarm. "I did not think, Father; I did not understand. What a fool Iam!"
"No, no, M'sieu."
"You have talked with her. He is her cousin, and yet it did not cometo me. It will pain her."
"Yes," said Father Claude, slowly, "it will pain her. But I have beenthinking. I fear that you are right. It has passed beyond the simplematter of our own lives; now it is New France that must be thought of.You have said that it was Captain la Grange's treachery that firstangered the Ononda
gas. We must lay this before them. If his punishmentwill satisfy them, will save the rear-guard, why then, my son, it isour duty."
They paced back and forth in silence. Menard's heavy breathing and hisquick glances toward the hut told the priest something of the strugglethat was going on in his mind. Suddenly he said:--
"I will go to her, Father. I will tell her. I cannot pledge myself tothis act if--if she--"
"No, M'sieu, you must not; I have told her. She understands. And shehas begged me to ask you not to speak with her. She has a brave heart,but she cannot see you now."
"She asked you,--" said the Captain, slowly. "She asked you--I cannotthink. I do not know what to say."
The priest quietly walked back to the stone by the door, and left thesoldier to fight out the battle alone. It was half an hour before hecame back and stood before Father Claude.
"Well, M'sieu?"
Menard spoke shortly, "Yes, Father, you are right."
That was all, but it told the priest that the matter had been finallysettled. He had seen the look in the Captain's eyes when the truth hadcome to him; and he knew now what he had not dreamed before, that thesoldier's heart had gone out to this maid, and now he must set hishand against one of her own blood. The Father knew that he would doit, would fight La Grange to the end. A word was trembling on histongue, but as he looked at the seamed face before him, he could notbring himself to add a deeper sorrow to that already stamped there.
"You must help me with the speech, Father. My wits are not at theirbest, I fear."
"Willingly, M'sieu. And the presents,--we must think of that."
"True. We have not the wampum collars. It must be something of greatvalue that will take their place. You know how much tradition means tothese people. Of course I have nothing. But you--you have your bale.And Mademoiselle--together you should find something."
"I fear that I have little. My blankets and my altar they would notvalue. One moment--" He stepped to the door, and spoke softly,"Mademoiselle."
"Yes, Father." She stood in the doorway, wearily. It was plain thatshe had been weeping, but she was not ashamed.
"We shall need your help, Mademoiselle. Anything in your bale thatwould please the chiefs must be used."
She was puzzled.
"It is the custom," continued the priest, "at every council. To theIndians a promise is not given, a statement is not true, a treaty isnot binding, unless there is a present for each clause. We have muchat stake, and we must give what we have."
"Certainly, Father."
She stepped back into the darkness, and they could hear her draggingthe bundle. Menard sprang to help.
"Mademoiselle, where are you?"
"Here, M'sieu."
He walked toward the sound with his hands spread before him. One handrested on her shoulder, where she stooped over the bale. She did notshrink from his touch. For a moment he stood, struggling with a madimpulse to take her slender figure in his arms, to hold her where athousand Indians could not harm her save by taking his own stronglife; to tell her what made this moment more to him than all the sternyears of the past. It may be that she understood, for she wasmotionless, almost breathless. But in a moment he was himself.
"I will take it," he said.
He stooped, took up the bundle, and carried it outside. She followedto the doorway.
"You will look, Mademoiselle."
She nodded, and knelt by the bundle, while the two men waited.
"There is little here, M'sieu. I brought only what was necessary. Hereis a comb. Would that please them?"
She reached back to them, holding out a high tortoise-shell comb. Theytook it and examined it.
"It is beautiful," said Menard.
"Yes; my mother gave it to me."
"Perhaps, Mademoiselle,--perhaps there is something else, somethingthat would do as well."
"How many should you have, M'sieu?"
"Five, I had planned. There will be five words in the speech."
"Words?" she repeated.
"To the Iroquois each argument is a 'word.'"
"I have almost nothing else, not even clothing of value. Wait--here isa small coat of seal."
"And you, Father?" asked Menard.
"I have a book with highly coloured pictures, M'sieu,--'The Ceremoniesof the Mass applied to the Passion of Our Lord.'"
"Splendid! Have you nothing else?"
"I fear not."
Menard turned to the maid, who was still on her knees by the openbundle, looking up at them.
"I am afraid that we must take your coat and the comb," he said. "I amsorry."
She answered in a low tone, but firmly: "You know, M'sieu, that itwould hurt me to do nothing. It hurts me to do so little."
"Thank you, Mademoiselle. Well, Father, we must use our wits. It maybe that four words will be enough, but I cannot use fewer. We have butthree presents."
"Yes," replied the priest, "yes." He walked slowly by them, and aboutin a circle, repeating the word. The maid leaned back and watched him,wondering. He paused before the Captain and seemed about to speak.Then abruptly he went into the hut, and they could hear him movingwithin. Menard and the maid looked at each other, the soldier smilingquietly. He understood.
Father Claude came out holding the portrait of Catharine, the Lily ofthe Onondagas, in his hands.
"It may be that this could be used for the fourth present," he said.
Menard took it without a word, and laid it on the ground by the furcoat. The maid looked at it curiously.
"Oh, it is a picture," she said.
"Yes, Mademoiselle," the Captain replied. "It is the portrait of anOnondaga maiden who is to them, and to the French, almost a saint.They will prize this above all else."
The maid raised it, and looked at the strangely clad figure. FatherClaude quietly walked away, but Menard went after and gripped hishand.
The Road to Frontenac Page 10
