The Road to Frontenac

A dozen hands dragged the warrior from the fire and stamped out a blaze that had started in the fringe of one legging. Every man in the house was on his feet, shouting and screaming. Menard stood with his hands at his side, smiling, with the same look of scorn he had worn in the morning when they led him to the torture. Father Claude drew closer to the maid, and the two sat without moving. Then above the uproar rose the voice of the Big Throat; and slowly the noise died away. The chief stepped to the centre of the circle, but before he could speak Menard had reached his side, and motioned to him to be silent.

“My brothers,” he said, looking straight at the fallen warrior, who was scrambling to his feet,–“my brothers, the Big Buffalo is sorry that the Onondagas have among them a fool who thinks himself a warrior. The Big Buffalo is not here to fight fools. He is here to talk to chiefs. He is glad that the fool speaks only for himself and not for the brave men of the Long House.” He walked deliberately back and resumed his seat by the maid.

“Courage, Mademoiselle,” he said close to her ear. “It is all right.”

“What will they do, M’sieu?”

“Nothing. I have won. Wait–the Big Throat is speaking.”

One by one the warriors fell back to their seats. Some were muttering, some were smiling; but all were subdued. The Big Throat’s voice was calm and firm.

“The Big Buffalo has spoken well. The word of a fool is not the word of the Long House. The White Chief comes to give us the voice of Onontio, and we will listen.”

He turned toward Menard, and then resumed his seat.

The Captain rose, and looked about the circle. The chiefs were motionless. Even the Long Arrow, now that his outburst was past, closed his lips over the stem of his pipe and gazed at the smoke. Father Claude drew forward the bundle and opened it, the maid helping. Some of the boys behind them crowded closer to see the presents.

Menard spoke slowly and quietly. The rustling and whispering in the outer circle died away, so that every word was distinct.

“When the Five Nations have given their word to another nation, it has not been necessary to sign a paper; it has not been necessary to keep a record. The Long Arrow has said that the Iroquois do not forget. He is right. The words that have gone out from the councils have never been forgotten. I see here, in this council, the faces of warriors who have grown old in serving their people, of chiefs who are bent and wrinkled with the cares of many generations. I see in the eyes of my brothers that they have not forgotten the Onontio, who went away to his greater chief only five seasons ago. They have seen this Onontio in war and peace. They have listened to his silver tongue in the council. They have called themselves his children, and have known that he was a wise and kind father. They remember the promises they made him. But the Senecas did not remember. The Seneca has no ears; he has a hole in his head, and the words of his father have passed through. The Senecas promised Onontio that they would not take the white man’s beaver. But when the English came to their lodges and whispered in their ears, the hole was stopped. The English whispered of brandy and guns and powder and hatchets and knives. They told the Senecas that these things should be given to them if they would steal the beaver. The English are cowards–they sent the Senecas to do what they were afraid to do. And then the hole in the Seneca’s head was stopped–the Seneca who had forgotten the words of Onontio remembered the words of the English.

“My brothers of the Long House had not forgotten the promises they had given Onontio. When the Seneca chiefs called for aid in stealing the beaver, my brothers were wise and said no. The Onondagas and Cayugas and Oneidas and Mohawks were loyal–they kept their promise, and Onontio has not forgotten; he will not forget.

“This is what the Great Mountain would say to you, my brothers: You have been faithful to your word, and he is pleased. He knows that the Onondagas are his children. And he knows why the Senecas left their villages and fields to plunder his white children. It was for the skins of the beaver, which the white braves had taken from their own forests and would bring in their canoes down the Ottawa to trade at the white man’s villages. He knows, my brothers, that the Senecas had tired of their promises, and now would steal the beaver and sell it to the English. What comes to the boy when he climbs the tree to steal the honey which the bees have gathered and taken to their home? Is he not stung and bitten until he cries that he will not disturb the bees again? The Senecas have tried to take that which is to the white man as the honey is to the bee; and they too must be stung and bitten until they have learned that the Great Mountain will always protect those who deserve his aid. He has sent you a comb from the shell of the great sea-tortoise, more precious than a thousand wampum shells, to tell you that as the sea-monster pursues its enemies, so will he pursue those who cannot keep their promises–who lie to him.”

Father Claude handed him the comb, and he laid it before the Big Throat. It was evident that he had been closely followed, and he started on his second word with more vigour.

“Your chiefs have spoken to-day of the storm cloud that has swept down from the north; your runners have told you that it is not a cloud, but an army, that has come up the great river and across the lake of Frontenac to the country of the Senecas. Do my brothers know what a great army follows their White Father when he sets out to punish his children? More than twenty score of trained warriors are in this war party, and every warrior carries a musket; to-night they are marching on the Seneca villages. They will destroy those villages as a brave would destroy a nest of hornets in his lodge. Not one lodge will be left standing, not one stalk of corn.

“The Oneidas and Onondagas and Cayugas talk of their cornfields. But even the Cayugas need have no fear. For Onontio is a wise and just father; he punishes only those that offend him. The Senecas have broken their promises, and the Senecas must be punished, but the other nations are still the children of the Great Mountain, and his hand is over them. The Big Buffalo has come from the Great Mountain to tell you that he will not harm the Cayugas; their fields and lodges are safe.”

There was a stir at this, and then quiet, as the spectators settled back to hear the rest of Menard’s speech. Here was a captive who spoke as boldly as their own chiefs, who commanded their attention as a present bearer from the White Chief. And they knew, all of them, from the way in which he was choosing his words, coolly ignoring the more important subjects until he should be ready to deal with them, that he spoke with authority. He knew his auditors, and he let them see that he knew them.

“The Senecas have listened to the English. What do they expect from them? Do they think that the English wish to help them? Do they look for wealth and support from the English? My brothers of the Long House know better. They have seen the English hide from the anger of the Great Mountain. They have seen the iron hand of New France reach out across the northern country, and along the shores of the great lakes, and down the Father of Waters in the far west, while the English were clinging to their little strip of land on the edge of the sea. My brothers know who is strong and who is weak. Never have the fields of the Five Nations been so rich and so large. No wars have disturbed them. They have grown and prospered. Do the Senecas think it is the English who have made them great? No–the Senecas are not fools. They know that the Great Mountain has driven away their enemies and given them peace and plenty. My brothers of the Long House remembered this when the Senecas came to them and asked for aid in stealing the beaver. They stopped their ears; they knew that Onontio was their father, and that they must be faithful to him if they wished to have plenty in their lodges.

“Onontio is a patient father. Let the Senecas repent, and he will forgive them. Let them bury the hatchet, and he will forgive them. Let them be satisfied with peace and honest trade, and he will buy their furs, and give them fair payment. And then their cornfields shall grow so large that a fleet runner cannot pass around them in half a moon. They shall have no more famine. Their pouches shall be full of powder, their muskets new and bright. Their women shall have warm clothing and many beads. Nowhere shall there be such prosperous nations as here among the Iroquois. If the Senecas have broken their pledges and have not repented, they must be punished. But the Cayugas and Onondagas and Oneidas and Mohawks have not broken their pledges. The Great Mountain has sent the Big Buffalo to tell them that he has seen that they are loyal, and he is pleased. He knows that they are wise. If the Onondagas have a grievance, he will not forget it, and if they ask for vengeance he will hear them. The Great Mountain knows that the Onondagas are his children, that they will not make war upon their father. He sends this coat of seal fur that the hearts of the Cayugas and Onondagas and Oneidas and Mohawks may be kept warm, and to tell them that he loves them and will protect them.”

The maid’s eyes sparkled with excitement.

“I wish they would speak, or laugh, or do something,” she whispered to Father Claude, “Are they not interested? They hardly seem to hear him.”

The priest looked at her gravely.

“Yes,” he replied, “they are listening.”

The time had come to speak of La Grange. The Captain had been steadily leading up to this moment. He had tried to show the Indians that they had no complaint, no cause for war, unless it was the one incident at Fort Frontenac. He knew that the chiefs not only understood his argument, but that they were quietly waiting for him to approach this real cause of trouble, and were probably curious to see how he would meet it. The mind of the Iroquois, when in the council, separated from the heat and emotion of the dance, the hunt, the war-path, was remarkably keen. Menard felt sure that if he could present his case logically and firmly, it would appeal to most of the chief and older warriors. Then the maid came into his thoughts, and he knew, though he did not look down, that she was gazing up at him and waiting. He hesitated for a moment longer. The chiefs, too, were waiting. The Long House was hushed:–three hundred faces were looking at him through the twisting, curling smoke that blurred the scene into an unreal picture. Yes, the time had come to speak of La Grange; and he spoke the first words hurriedly, stepping half-unconsciously farther from the maid.

There was a part of the true story of the capture which he did not tell,–the Governor’s part. For the rest, it was all there, every word about La Grange and his treacherous act coming out almost brutally.

“Your speakers have told you of the hunting party that was taken into the stone house, and put into chains, and sent away to be slaves to the Chief-Across-the-Water. There is a chief at the stone house whom you have seen fighting bravely in many a battle. He is a bold warrior; none is so quick or so tireless as Captain la Grange. But he has a devil in his heart. The bad medicine of white man and redman, the fire-water, is always close to him, ready to whisper to him and guide him. It was not the father at Quebec that broke the faith with the Onondagas. It was not the Big Buffalo. If the Big Buffalo could so forget his brothers of the Onondaga lodges, he would not have come back to the Long House to tell them of the sorrow of the Great Mountain. My brothers have seen the Big Buffalo in war and peace–they know that he would not do this.

“The devil was in Captain la Grange’s heart. He captured my brothers. He told the Great Mountain that it was a war party, that he had taken them prisoners fairly. He lied to the Great Mountain. When the Great Mountain asked the Big Buffalo to bring the prisoners to his great village on the river, the Big Buffalo could not say, ‘No, I am no longer your son!’ When the Great Mountain commands, the Big Buffalo obeys. With sorrow in his heart he did as his father told him.”

Menard was struggling to put the maid out of his thoughts, to keep in view only the safety of the column and the welfare of New France. And as the words came rapidly to his lips and fell upon the ears of that silent audience, he began to feel that they believed him.

“My brothers,” he said, with more feeling than they knew, “it is five seasons since I left your village for the land of the white man. In that time you have had no thought that I was not indeed your brother, the son of your chief. You have known other Frenchmen. Father Claude, who sits by my side; Father Jean de Lamberville, who has given his many years to save you for the great white man’s Manitou; Major d’Orvilliers, who has never failed to give food and shelter to the starving hunter at his great stone house,–I could name a hundred others. You know that these are honest, that what they promise will be done. But in every village is a fool, in every family is one who is weak and cannot earn a name on the hunt. You have a warrior in this house who to-day raised his hand against a visitor in the great council. My brothers,–it is with sadness that I say it,–not all the white men are true warriors. You are wise chiefs and brave warriors; you know that because one man is a dog, it is not so with all his nation. The Great Mountain sends me to you, and I speak in his voice. I tell you that Captain la Grange is a dog, that he has broken the faith of the white man and the redman, that the father at Quebec and the Great-Chief-Across-the-Water, who are so quick to punish their red children, will also punish the white. The white men are good. They love the Onondagas. And if any white man breaks the faith, he shall be punished.”

His voice had risen, and he was speaking in a glow that seemed to drop a spark into each listening heart. He knew now that they believed. He turned abruptly for the present. Father Claude was so absorbed in following the speech, and in watching the maid, who sat with flushed cheeks and lowered eyes, that he was not ready, and Menard stooped and took the book. He could not avoid seeing the maid, when he looked down; and the priest felt a sudden pain in his own heart to see the look of utter weariness that came into the Captain’s eyes.

Menard turned the leaves of the book for a moment, as if to collect himself, and then held it open so that the Indians could see the bright pictures. There was a craning of necks in the outer circles.

“In these picture writings is told the story of the ‘Ceremonies of the Mass applied to the Passion of Our Lord,’” he said slowly. “And our Lord is your Great Spirit. It brings you a message; it tells you that the white man is a good man, who punishes his own son as sternly as his red child.”

The present pleased the Big Throat. He would not let his curiosity appear in the council, but he dropped the book so that it fell open, seemingly by accident, and his eyes strayed to it now and then during the last word of the speech. Menard did not hesitate again.

“I have told my Onondaga brothers that this white dog shall be punished,” he said. “When this word is given in your council in the voice of Onontio, it is a word that cannot be broken. Wind is not strong enough, thunder is not loud enough, waves are not fierce enough, snows are not cold enough, powder is not swift enough to break it.” The words came swiftly from his lips. Calm old chiefs leaned forward that they might catch every syllable. Eyes were brighter with interest. The Long Arrow, thinking of his son and fearing lest the man who killed him should slip from his grasp, grew troubled and more stern. At last Menard turned, and taking the portrait from the priest’s hands held it up, slowly turning it so that all could see it in the uncertain firelight. At first they were puzzled and surprised; then a murmur of recognition ran from lip to lip.

“You know this maid,” Menard was saying, “this maid who to all who love the Iroquois, to all who love the church, the Great Spirit, is a saint. Her spirit has been for many moons in the happy hunting ground. The snow has lain cold and heavy on her grave. The night bird has sung her beauty in the empty forest. Catherine Outasoren has come back from the land where the corn is always growing, where the snows can never fall; she has come back to bear you the word of the Great Mountain. She has come to tell you that the dog who broke the oath of the white man to the Onondagas must suffer. This is the pledge of the Great Mountain.”

He stopped abruptly, and stood looking with flashing eyes at the circle of chiefs. There was silence for a moment, then a murmur that rapidly rose and swelled into the loud chatter of many voices. Menard laid the portrait at the feet of the Big Throat, and took his seat at the side of the maid,–but he did not look at her nor she at him. Father Claude sat patiently waiting.

There was low talk among the chiefs. Then a warrior came and led the captives out of doors, through a long passage that opened between two rows of crowding Indians. The night was clear, and the air was sweet to their nostrils. They walked slowly down the path. A group of young braves kept within a few rods.

“It must be late,” said Menard, in a weak effort to break the silence.

“Yes,” replied Father Claude.

“I suppose we had better go back to our hut?”

“Yes,” said the priest again. But the maid was silent.

They sat on the grass plot before the door, none of them having any words that fitted the moment. Menard brought out a blanket and spread it on the ground, that the maid need not touch the dew-laden grass.

CHAPTER XIV.

WHERE THE DEAD SIT

“They need not starve us,” said Menard, trying to speak lightly. “I am hungry.”

The others made no reply.

“I will see what chance we have for a supper.”

He got up and walked along the path looking for the guards. In a short time he returned.

“They will bring us something. The sentiment is not so strong against us now, I think.”

“They change quickly,” said Father Claude.

“Yes. It is the Big Throat.”

“And yourself, M’sieu,” the maid said impulsively. “You have done it, too.”

“I cannot tell. We do not know what the council may decide. It may be morning before they will come to an agreement. The Long Arrow will fight to the last.”

“And the other, M’sieu,–the one who attacked you,–he too will fight?”

“He is nothing. When an Iroquois shows himself a coward his influence is gone forever. It may be even that they will give him a new name because of this.”

“There are times when a small accident or a careless word will change the mind of a nation,” said Father Claude. “When we left the council they were not unfriendly to us. But in an hour it may be that they will renew the torture. Until their hearts have been touched by the Faith there are but two motives behind the most of their actions, expediency and revenge. But I think we may hope. Brother de Lamberville has told of many cases of torture where the right appeal has brought a complete change.”

So they talked on, none having anything to say, and yet each dreading the silences that came so easily and hung over them so heavily. They could see the council-house some distance up the path. Its outlines were lost in the shadows of the trees, but through the crevices in the bark and logs came thin lines of light, and a glow shone through the long roof opening upon the smoke that hung in the still air above it. Sometimes they could hear indistinctly the voice of a speaker; but the words could not be distinguished. At other times there was a low buzz of voices. The children and women who had not been able to get into the building could be seen moving about outside shutting off a strip of light here and there.

Two braves came with some corn and smoked meat. Menard set it down on a corner of the blanket.

“You will eat, Mademoiselle?”

She shook her head. “I am not hungry. Thank you, M’sieu.”

“If I may ask it,–if I may insist,–it is really necessary, Mademoiselle.”

She reached out, with a weary little gesture, and took some of the corn.

“And you too, Father.”

They ate in silence, and later went together to the spring for a cool drink.

“We ought to make an effort to sleep,” Menard said; and added, “if we can. Father, you had better lie down. In a few hours, if there is no word, I will wake you.”

“You will not forget, M’sieu? You will not let me sleep too long.”

“No.” The Captain smiled. “No, Father; you shall take your turn at guard duty.”

The priest said good-night, and went to a knoll not far from the door. The maid had settled back against the logs of the hut, and was gazing at the trees. Menard sat in silence for a few moments.

“Mademoiselle,” he said at length, “I know that it will be hard for you to rest until we have heard; but–” he hesitated, but she did not help him, and he had to go on,–“I wish you would try.”

“It would be of no use, M’sieu.”

“I know,–I know. But we have much to keep in mind. It has been very hard. Any one of us is likely to break. And you have not been so used to this life as the Father and I.”

“I know it,” she said, still looking at the elm branches that bent almost to the ground before them, “but when I lie down, and close my eyes, and let my mind go, it seems as if I could not stand it. It is not bad now; I can be very cool now. You see, M’sieu?” She turned toward him with the trace of a smile. “But when I let go–perhaps you do not know how it is; the thoughts that come, and the dreams,–when I am awake and yet not awake,–and the feeling that it is not worth while, this struggle, even to what it may bring if we succeed. It makes the night a torture, and the dread of another day is even worse. It is better to stay awake; it is better even to break. Anything is better.”

Menard looked down between his knees at the ground. He did not understand what it was that lay behind her words. He started to speak, then stopped. After a little he found himself saying words that came to his lips with no effort; in fact, he did not seem able to check them.

“It is not right that I should be here near you. I gave up that right to-night. I gave it up yesterday. I have been proud, during these years of fighting, that I was a soldier. I had thought, too, that I was a man. It was hardly a week ago that I rebuked that poor boy for what I have since done myself. I promised Major Provost that I would take you safely to Frontenac. That I have failed is only a little thing. I have said to you–no, you must not stop me. We have gone already beyond that point. We understand now. I have tried to be to you more than–than I had a right to be while you were in my care. Danton did not know; Father Claude does not know. You know, because I have told you. I have shown you in a hundred ways.”

“No,” she said, in a choking voice. “It is my fault. I allowed you.”

He shook his head.

“That is nothing. It is not what you have done. It is not even what you think. It is what I shall think and know all my life,–that I have done the wrong thing. There are some of us, Mademoiselle, who have no home, no ties of family, no love, except for the work in which we are slowly building up a good name and a firm place. That is what I was. Do you know what it is that makes up the life of such a man? It is the little things, the acts of every day and every week; and they must be honest and loyal, or he will fail. I might have stayed in Paris, I might even have found a place in Quebec where I could wear a bright uniform, and be close in the Governor’s favour. I chose the other course. I have given a dozen years to the harder work, only to fall within the week from all that I had hoped,–had thought myself to be. And now, as I speak to you, I know that I have lost; that if you should smile at me, should put your hand in mine, everything that I have been working for would be nothing to me. You would be the only thing in the world.”

She sat motionless. He did not go on, and yet each moment seemed to bring them closer in understanding. After a little while she said huskily:–

“You cared–you cared like that?”

She was not looking toward him, and she could not see him slowly bow his head; but there was an answer in his silence.