The Road to Frontenac

One of the great lessons learned during Menard’s work under Governor Frontenac had been that the man who once permits himself to be lowered in the eyes of the Indians has forever lost his prestige. Now he sat before the chiefs of a great village, weak from the strain of the long days and nights of distress and wakefulness and hunger, his clothing still wet and bedraggled, with no weapon but a knife, no canoe, not to speak of presents,–with none of the equipment which to the Indian mind suggested authority,–and yet made his demands in the stern voice of a conqueror. He knew that these Indians cared not at all whether the word of the council to him had been broken or kept, unless he could so impress them with his authority that they would fear punishment for the offence.

“The Big Buffalo is a mighty warrior,” said the spokesman. “His hard hands are greater than the muskets and hatchets of the Cayugas. He fights with the strength of the winter wind; no man can stand where his hand falls. He speaks wisely to the Cayugas. They are sorry that their brothers, the Onondagas, have so soon forgotten the word of the great council, Let the Big Buffalo rest his arms. The warriors of the Cayugas shall be proud to offer him food.”

They all rose, and after a few grunted words of friendship, filed away to go over the matter in private council. Menard saw that they were puzzled; perhaps they did not believe that he had killed the Long Arrow. He turned to Teganouan, who had been sitting a few yards away.

“Teganouan, will you go among the braves of the village and tell them that the Big Buffalo is a strong fighter, that he killed the Long Arrow with his hands? It may be that they have not believed.”

This was the kind of strategy Teganouan understood. He walked slowly away, puffing at his pipe, to mingle among the people of the village and boast in bold metaphors the prowess of his White Chief.

“They will give us a canoe,” said Father Claude.

“Yes, they must. Now, let us sleep again.”

They dropped to the ground, and Menard looked warningly at the circle of young boys who came as close as they dared to see this strange white man, and to hear him talk in the unpronounceable language. Father Claude’s eyes were first to close. The Captain was about to join him in slumber when a low voice came from the door.

“M’sieu.”

He started up and saw the maid holding the door ajar and leaning against it, her pale face, framed in a tangle of soft hair, showing traces of the wearing troubles of the days just passed.

“Ah, Mademoiselle, you must not waken. You must sleep long, and rest, and grow bright and young again.”

She smiled, and looked at him timidly.

“I have been dreaming, M’sieu,” she said, and her eyes dropped, “such an unpleasant dream. It was after we had crossed the lake–We did cross it, M’sieu, did we not? That, too, was not a dream? No–see, my hair is wet.”

“No,” he said, “that was not a dream.”

“We were on the land, and I was so tired, and you talked to me–something good–I cannot remember what it was, but I know that you were good. And I thought that I–that I said words that hurt you, unkind words. And when I wished and tried to speak as I felt, only the other words would come. That was a dream, M’sieu, was it not? It has been troubling me. You have been so kind, and I could not sleep thinking that–that–”

“Yes,” he said, “that was a dream.”

She looked at him with relief, but as she looked she seemed to become more fully awake to what they were saying. Her eyes lowered again, and the red came over her face.

“I am glad,” she said, so low that he hardly heard.

“And now you will rest, Mademoiselle?”

She smiled softly, and drew back within the hut, closing the heavy door. And Menard turned away, unmindful of the wide-eyed boys who were staring from a safe distance at him and at the door where the strange woman had appeared. He sat with his back against the logs of the hut, and looked at the ants that hurried about over the trampled ground.

The sun was high when he was aroused by Teganouan, who had spent the greater part of the morning among the people of the village.

“Have you any word, Teganouan?”

“Yes. The warriors have learned of the strength of the Big Buffalo, and his name frightens them. They bow to the great chief who has killed the Long Arrow without a hatchet. They say that the Onondagas should be punished for their treachery.”

“Good.”

“Teganouan has been talking long with a runner of the Seneca nation.”

“Ah, he brings word of the fight?”

“Yes. The Senecas have suffered under the iron hand of the Great Mountain. A great army takes up the hatchet when he goes on the war-path, more than all the Senecas and Cayugas and Onondagas together when every brave who can hold in his hand a bow or a musket has come to fight with his brothers. There were white warriors so many that the runner could not have counted them with all the sticks in the Long House. There were men of the woods in the skins and beads of the redmen; there were Hurons and Ottawas and Nipissings, and even the cowardly Illinois and the Kaskaskias and the Miamis from the land where the Great River flows past the Rock Demons. The Senecas fought with the strength of the she-bear, but their warriors were killed, their corn was trampled and cut, their lodges were burned.”

“Did the Great Mountain pursue them?”

“He has gone back to his stone house across the great lake, leaving the land black and smoking. The Senecas have come to the western villages of the Cayugas.”

“There are none in this village?”

“No. But the chiefs have sent blankets to their brothers, and as much corn as a hundred braves could carry over the trail. They have taken from their own houses to give to the Senecas.”

A few moments later two young men came with baskets of sagamity and smoked meat. Menard received it, and rising, knocked gently at the door.

“Yes, M’sieu,–I am not sleeping.”

He hesitated, and she came to the door and opened it.

“Ah, you have food, M’sieu! I am glad. I have been so hungry.”

“Come, Father,” said the Captain, and they entered and sat on the long bench, eating the smoky, greasy meat as eagerly as if it had been cooked for the Governor’s table. Their spirits rose as the baskets emptied, and they found that they could laugh and joke about their ravenous hunger.

The chiefs returned shortly after, and came stooping into the hut in the free Indian fashion. The old chief spoke:–

“The Big Buffalo has honoured the lodges of the Cayugas; he has made the village proud to offer him their corn and meat. It would make their hearts glad if he would linger about their fires, with the holy Father and the squaw, that they might tell their brothers of the great warrior who dwelt in their village. But the White Chief bears the word of the Long House. He goes to the stone house to tell his white brothers, who fight with the thunder, that the Cayugas and the Onondagas are friends of the white men, that they have given a pledge which binds them as close as could the stoutest ropes of deerskin. And so with sad hearts they come to say farewell to the Big Buffalo, and to wish that no dog may howl while he sleeps, that no wind may blow against his canoe, that no rains may fall until he rests with his brothers at the great stone house beyond the lake.”

“The Big Buffalo thanks the mighty chiefs of the Cayugas,” replied Menard. “He is glad that they are his friends. And when his mouth is close to the ear of the Great Mountain, he will tell him that his Cayuga sons are loyal to their Father.”

The chief had lighted a long pipe. After two deliberate puffs, the first upward toward the roof of the hut, the second toward the ground, he handed it to Menard, who followed his example, and passed it to the chief next in importance. As it went slowly from hand to hand about the circle, the Captain turned to the maid, who sat at his side.

“Do they mean it, M’sieu?” she whispered.

For an instant a twinkle came into his eye; she saw it, and smiled.

“Careful,” he whispered.

Before she could check the smile, a bronze hand reached across to her with the pipe. She started back and looked down at it.

“You must smoke it,” Menard whispered. “It is a great honour. They have admitted you to their council.”

“Oh, M’sieu–I can’t–” she took the pipe and held it awkwardly; then, with an effort, raised it to her mouth. It made her cough, and she gave it quickly to the Captain.

The Indians rose gravely and filed out of the hut.

“Come, Mademoiselle, we are to go.”

The smoke had brought tears to her eyes, and she was hesitating, laughing in spite of herself.

“Oh, M’sieu, will–will it make me sick?”

He smiled, with a touch of the old light humour.

“I think not. We must go, or they will wonder.”

They found the chiefs waiting before the hut, Father Claude and Teganouan among them. As soon as they had appeared, the whole party set out through the village and over a trail through the woods to the eastward. The ill-kept dogs played about them, and plunged, barking, through the brush on either side. Behind, at a little distance, came the children and hangers-on of the village, jostling one another to keep at the head where they could see the white strangers.

When they reached the bank of the lake, they found two canoes drawn up on the narrow strip of gravel, and a half-dozen well-armed braves waiting close at hand. The chief paused and pointed toward the canoes.

“The Cayugas are proud that the White Chief will sail in their canoes to the land of the white men. The bravest warriors of a mighty village will go with them to see that no Onondaga arrow flies into their camp by night.”

He signalled to a brave, who brought forward a musket and laid it, with powder-horn and bullet-pouch, at the Captain’s feet.

“This musket is to tell the Big Buffalo that no wild beast shall disturb his feast, and that meat in plenty shall hang from the smoking-pole in his lodge.”

The canoes were carried into the water and they embarked,–Menard, the maid, and two braves in one, Father Claude and four braves in the other. They swung out into the lake, the wiry arms and shoulders of the canoemen knotting with each stroke of the paddles; and the crowd of Indians stood on the shore gazing after until they had passed from view beyond a wooded point.

A few hours should take them to the head of the lake. They had reached perhaps half the distance, when Menard saw that two of his canoemen had exchanged glances and were looking toward the shore. He glanced along the fringe of trees and bushes, a few hundred yards distant, until his eyes rested on three empty canoes. He called to Father Claude’s canoe, and both, at his order, headed for the shore. As they drew near, half a score of Indians came from the brush.

“Why,” said the maid, “there are some of the men who brought us to the lake.”

“Yes,” replied Menard, “it is the Long Arrow’s band.”

He leaped out of the canoe before it touched the beach, and walked sternly up to the group of warriors. He knew why they were there. It was what he had expected. When they had discovered the death of the Long Arrow there had been rage and consternation. Disputes had followed, the band had divided, and a part had crossed the lake to hunt the trail of the Big Buffalo. He folded his arms and gave them a long, contemptuous look.

“Why do the Onondagas seek the trail of the Big Buffalo? Do they think to overtake him? Do they think that all their hands together are strong enough to hold him? Did they think that they could lie to the White Chief, could play the traitor, and go unpunished?”

Only one or two of the Onondagas had their muskets in their hands. They all showed fright, and one was edging toward the wood. The Cayugas in the canoes, at a word from Father Claude, had raised their muskets. Menard saw the movement from the corner of his eye, and for the moment doubted the wisdom of the action. It was a question whether the Cayugas could actually be brought to fire on their Onondaga brothers. Still, this band had defied the law of the council, and might, in the eyes of the Indians, bring down another war upon the nation by their act. While he spoke, the Captain had been deciding on a course. He now walked boldly up to the man who was nearest the bushes, and snatched away his musket. There was a stir and a murmur, but without heeding, he took also the only other musket in the party, and stepped between the Indians and the forest.

“Stand where you are, or I will kill you. One man”–he pointed to a youth–“will go into the forest and bring your muskets to the canoes.”

They hesitated, but Menard held his piece ready to fire, and the Cayugas did the same. At last the youth went sullenly into the bushes and brought out an armful of muskets.

“Count them, Father,” Menard called in French.

The priest did so, and then ran his eye over the party on the beach.

“There are two missing, M’sieu.”

Menard turned to the youth, who, though he had not understood the words, caught their spirit and hurried back for the missing weapons. Then the Captain walked coolly past them, and took his place in the canoe. For a long time, as they paddled up the lake, they could see the Onondagas moving about the beach, and could hear their angry voices.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE ONLY WAY

When at last the canoe slipped from the confines of river and hills and forest out upon the great Lake Ontario, where the green water stretched flat, east and north and west to the horizon, the Cayuga warriors said farewell and turned again to their own lands. It was at noon of a bright day. The water lay close to the white beach, with hardly a ripple to mar the long black scallops of weed and drift which the last storm had left on the sand. The sky was fair and the air sweet.

In the one canoe which the Cayugas had left to them, the little party headed to the east, now skimming close to the silent beach, now cutting a straight path across some bay from point to point, out over the depths where lay the sturgeon and the pickerel and trout and whitefish. The gulls swooped at them; then, frightened, soared away in wide, rushing circles, dropping here and there for an overbold minnow. The afternoon went by with hardly the passing of a word. Each of them, the Captain, the maid, the priest, looked over the burnished water, now a fair green or blue sheet, now a space of striped yellow and green and purple, newly marked by every phase of sun and cloud; and to each it meant that the journey was done. Here was solitude, with none of the stir of the forest to bring companionship; but as they looked out to the cloud-puffs that dipped behind the water at the world’s end, they knew that far yonder were other men whose skins were white, for all of beard and tan, whose tongue was the tongue of Montreal, of Quebec, of Paris,–and neither tree nor rock nor mountain lay between. The water that bore them onward was the water that washed the beach at Frontenac. Days might pass and find them still on the road; but they would be glorious days, with the sun overhead and the breeze at their backs, and at evening the wonder of the western sky to make the water golden with promise. As they swung their paddles, the maid with them, their eyes were full of dreams,–all save Teganouan. His eyes were keen and cunning, and when they looked to the north it was not with thoughts of home. It may be that he was dreaming of the deed which might yet win back his lost name as an Onondaga warrior.

The sun hung over the lake when at last the canoe touched the beach. They ate their simple meal almost in silence, and then sat near the fire watching the afterglow that did not fade from the west until the night was dark and the moon high over the dim line that marked the eastern end of the lake. The sense of relief that had come to them with the first sight of the lake was fading now. They were thinking of Frontenac, and of what might await them there,–the priest soberly, the maid bravely, the Captain grimly. Later, when the maid had said good-night, and Father Claude had wandered down the beach to the water’s edge, Menard dragged a new log to the fire and threw it on, sending up the flame and sparks high above the willows of the bank. He stretched out and looked into the flames.

Teganouan, who had been lying on the sand, heard a rustle far off in the forest and raised his head. He heard it again, and rose, standing motionless; then he took his musket and came toward the fire. The Captain lay at full length, his chin on his hands. He was awake, for his eyes were open, but he did not look up. The Indian hesitated, and stood a few yards away looking at the silent figure, as if uncertain whether to speak. Finally he stepped back and disappeared among the willows.

Half an hour went by. Father Claude came up the beach, walking slowly.

“It is growing late, M’sieu, for travellers.”

Menard glanced up, but did not reply. The priest was looking about the camp.

“Where is Teganouan, M’sieu? Did you give him permission to go away?”

“No; he is here,–he was here.” Menard rose. “You are right, he has gone. Has he taken his musket?”

“I think so. I do not see it.”

“He left it leaning against the log. No; it is not there. Wait,–do you hear?”

They stood listening; and both caught the faint sound of a body moving between the bushes that grew on the higher ground, close to the line of willows. Menard took up his musket and held it ready, for they had not left the country of the Iroquois.

“Here he comes,” whispered Father Claude. “Yes, it is Teganouan.”

The Indian was running toward them. He dropped his musket, and began rapidly to throw great handfuls of sand upon the fire. The two white men sprang to aid him, without asking an explanation. In a moment the beach was lighted only by the moon. Then Menard said:–

“What is it, Teganouan?”

“Teganouan heard a step in the forest. He went nearer, and there were more. They are on the war-path, for they come cautiously and slowly.”

“Father, will you keep by the maid? We must not disturb her now. You had better heap up the sand about the canoe so that no stray ball can reach her.”

The priest hurried down the beach, and Menard and the Indian slipped into the willows, Menard toward the east, Teganouan toward the west, where they could watch the forest and the beach on all sides. The sound of an approaching party was now more distinct. There would be a long silence, then the crackle of a twig or the rustle of dead leaves; and Menard knew that the sound was made by moccasined feet. He was surprised that the invaders took so little caution; either they were confident of finding the camp asleep, or they were in such force as to have no fear. While he lay behind a scrub willow conjecturing, Father Claude came creeping up behind him.

“I will watch with you, M’sieu. It will make our line longer.”

“Is she safe?”

“Yes. I have heaped the sand high around the canoe, even on the side toward the water.”

“Good. You had better move off a little nearer the lake, and keep a sharp eye out. It may be that they are coming by water as well, though I doubt it. The lake is very light. I will take the centre. You have no musket?”

“No; but my eyes are good.”

“If you need me, I shall be close to the bushes, a dozen yards farther inland.”

They separated, and Menard took up his new position. Apparently the movement had stopped. For a long time no sound came, and then, as Menard was on the point of moving forward, a branch cracked sharply not twenty rods away. He called in French:–

“Who are you?”

For a moment there was silence, then a rush of feet in his direction. He could hear a number of men bounding through the bushes. He cocked his gun and levelled it, shouting this time in Iroquois:–

“Stand, or I will fire!”

“I know that voice! Drop your musket!” came in a merry French voice, and in another moment a sturdy figure, half in uniform and half in buckskin, bearded beyond recognition, had come crashing down the slope, throwing his arms around the Captain’s neck so wildly that the two went down and rolled on the sand. Before Menard could struggle to his feet, three soldiers had followed, and stood laughing, forgetting all discipline, and one was saying over and over to the other:–

“It is Captain Menard! Don’t you know him? It is Captain Menard!”

“You don’t know me, Menard, I can see that. I wish I could take the beard off, but I can’t. What have you done with my men?”

Now Menard knew; it was Du Peron.

“I left them at La Gallette,” he said.

“I haven’t seen them–oh, killed?”

Menard nodded.

“Come down the beach and tell me about it. What condition are you in? Have you anybody with you?” Before Menard could answer, he said to one of the soldiers:–

“Go back and tell the sergeant to bring up the canoes.”

They walked down the beach, and the other soldiers set about building a new fire.

“Perhaps I’d better begin on you,” Menard said. “What are you doing here? And what in the devil do you mean by coming up through the woods like a Mohawk on the war-path?”

The Lieutenant laughed.

“My story isn’t a long one. I’m cleaning up our base of supplies at La Famine. We’ve got a small guard there. The main part of the rear-guard is back at Frontenac.”

“Where is the column?”

“Gone to Niagara, Denonville and all, to build a fort. They’ll give it to De Troyes, I imagine. It’s a sort of triumphal procession through the enemy’s country, after rooting up the Seneca villages and fields and stockades until you can’t find an able-bodied redskin this side of the Cayugas. Oh, I didn’t answer your other question. What do you think of these?” He held out a foot, shod in a moccasin. “You’d never know the King’s troops now, Menard. We’re wearing anything we can pick up. I’ve got a dozen canoes a quarter of a league down the lake. I saw your fire, and thought it best to reconnoitre before bringing the canoes past.” He read the question in Menard’s glance. “We are not taking out much time for sleep, I can tell you. It’s all day and all night until we get La Famine cleared up. There is only a handful of men there, and we’re expecting every day that the Cayugas and Onondagas will sweep down on them.”

“They won’t bother you,” said Menard.

“Maybe not, but we must be careful. For my part, I look for trouble. The nations stand pretty closely by each other, you know.”

“They won’t bother you now.”

“How do you know?”

“What did I come down here for?”

“They didn’t tell me. Oh, you had a mission to the other nations? But that can’t be,–you were captured.”

Menard lay on his side, and watched the flames go roaring upward as the soldiers piled up the logs.

“I could tell you some things, Du Peron,” he said slowly. “I suppose you didn’t know,–for that matter you couldn’t know,–but when the column was marching on the Senecas, and our rear-guard of four hundred men–”

“Four hundred and forty.”

“The same thing. You can’t expect the Cayugas to count so sharply as that. At that time the Cayugas and Onondagas held a council to discuss the question of sending a thousand warriors to cut off the rear-guard and the Governor’s communications.”

The Lieutenant slowly whistled.

“How did they know so much about it, Menard?”

“How could they help it? Our good Governor had posted his plans on every tree. You can see what would have happened.”

“Why, with the Senecas on his front it would have been–” He paused, and whistled again.

“Well,–you see. But they didn’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I spoke at that council.”

“You spoke–but you were a prisoner, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

The Lieutenant sat staring into the fire. Slowly it came to him what it was that the Captain had accomplished.

“Why, Menard,” he said, “New France won’t be able to hold you, when this gets out. How you must have gone at them. You’ll be a major in a week. You’re the luckiest man this side of Versailles.”

“No, I’m not. And I won’t be a major. I’m not on the Governor’s pocket list. But I don’t care about that. That isn’t the reason I did it.”

“Why did you do it then?”

“I–That’s the question I’ve been asking myself for several days, Du Peron.”

The Lieutenant was too thoroughly aroused to note the change in the Captain’s tone.

“You don’t see it right now, Menard. Wait till you’ve reached the city, and got into some clothes and a good bed, and can shake hands with d’Orvilliers and Provost and the general staff,–maybe with the Governor himself. Then you’ll feel different. You’re down now. I know how it feels. You’re all tired out, and you’ve got the Onondaga dirt rubbed on so thick that you’re lost in it. You wait a few weeks.”