The Road to Frontenac

Menard turned away and walked back to the outer door, the Lieutenant with him. There they stood, silent, as men are who have been brought suddenly face to face with death. At last the Lieutenant began to speak in a subdued voice.

“We only know that it was an Indian. He has been scalped.”

“Oh!” muttered Menard.

“I think he is still breathing,–he was just before you came,–but there is no hope for him. He was stabbed in a dozen places. It was some time before we knew–the Indian came in by the window, and must have found him asleep. There was no struggle.”

They stood again without speaking, and again the Lieutenant broke the silence.

“It is too bad. He was a good fellow.” He paused, as if searching for a kind word for Captain la Grange. “He was the best shot at the fort when he–when–”

“Yes,” said Menard. He too wished to speak no harsh word. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I think not. There is a strong guard about the fort, but I think the Indian had escaped before we learned of it. I will see you before we take further steps.”

“Very well. I shall be at my quarters. Good-night.”

“Good-night.”

Menard walked slowly back across the enclosure. At the door of his hut he paused, and for a long time he stood there, looking up at the quiet sky. His mind was scattered for the moment; he could not think clearly.

He opened his door and stepped over the log threshold, letting the door close after him of its own weight. The hut was dark, with but a square of dim light at the window. He fumbled for the candle and struck a light.

There was a low rustle from the corner. Menard whirled around and peered into the shadows. The candle was blowing; he caught it up and shielded it with his hand. A figure was crouching in the corner, half hidden behind a cloak that hung there. The Captain sprang forward holding the candle high, tore down the cloak, and discovered Teganouan, the Onondaga, bending over feeling for his hatchet which lay on the floor at his feet. Menard caught his shoulders, and dragging him out of reach of the hatchet, threw him full length on the floor. The candle dropped and rolled on the floor, but before it could go out, Menard snatched it up.

Slowly Teganouan rose to his feet.

“Teganouan comes in a strange manner to the lodge of the white warrior,” said Menard, scornfully. “He steals in like a Huron thief, and hides in dark corners.”

The Indian looked at him defiantly, but did not answer.

“My Onondaga brother does not wish to show himself in the light. Perhaps there is some trouble on his mind. Perhaps he is governed by an evil Oki who loves the darkness.” While Menard was speaking he was moving quietly toward the door. The Indian saw, but beyond turning slowly so as always to face his captor, made no movement. His face, except for the blazing eyes, was inscrutable. In a moment Menard stood between him and the door. “Perhaps it is best that I should call for the warriors of the fort. They will be glad to find here the slayer of their brother.” His hand was on the latch.

“The Big Buffalo will not call to his brothers.” The Indian’s voice was calm. Menard looked closely at him. “He has not thought yet. When he has thought, he will understand.”

“Teganouan speaks like a child.”

“If Teganouan is a child, can the Big Buffalo tell why he came to the white man’s lodge?”

“Because he has slain a great white warrior, he must hide his face like the outcast dog.” Menard pointed to the scalp that hung at his waist. “He has slain a great warrior while the hatchet lies buried in the ground. He has broken the law of the white man and the redman. And so he must hide his face.”

“Why did not Teganouan run to the woods? Why did he come to the lodge of the Big Buffalo?”

Menard looked steadily at him. He began to understand. The shrewd old warrior had chosen the one hiding-place where no searching party would look. Perhaps he had hoped for aid from the Captain, remembering his pledge to bring punishment on La Grange. If so, he should learn his mistake.

“Teganouan’s words are idle.” Menard moved the latch.

“The Big Buffalo will not open the door. Teganouan has not delivered his message. He is not an enemy to the Big Buffalo. He is his friend. He has come to this lodge, caring nothing for the safety of his life, that he might give his message. The Big Buffalo will not open the door. He will wait to hear the words of Teganouan; and then he may call to his brother warriors if he still thinks it would be wise.”

Menard waited.

“Speak quickly, Teganouan.”

“Teganouan’s words are like the wind. He has brought them many leagues,–from the lodges of the Onondagas,–that he may speak them now. He has brought them from the Long House of the Five Nations, where the fires burn brightly by day and by night, where the greatest chiefs of many thousand warriors are met to hear the Voice of the Great Mountain, the father of white men and redmen. The Great Mountain has a strong voice. It is louder than cannon; it wounds deeper than the musket of the white brave. It tells the Onondagas and Cayugas and Oneidas and Mohawks that they must not give aid to their brothers, the Senecas, who have fallen, whose corn and forts and lodges are burned to ashes and scattered on the winds. It tells the Onondagas that the Great Mountain is a kind father, that he loves them like his own children, and will punish the man who wrongs them, let him be white or red. It tells the Onondagas that the white captain, who has robbed a hundred Onondaga lodges of their bravest hunters, shall be struck by the strong arm of the Great Mountain, shall be blown to pieces by the Voice that thunders from the great water where the seal are found to the farthest village of the Five Nations. And the chiefs hear the Voice; they listen with ears that are always open to the counsel of Onontio. They take his promises into their hearts and believe them. They know that he will strike down the dog of a white captain. They refuse aid to their dying brothers, the Senecas, because they know that the strong arm of Onontio is over them, that it will give them peace.”

He paused, gazing with bright eyes at Menard. There was no reply, and he continued:–

“The Great Mountain has kept his word. The Onondagas shall know, in their council, that Onontio’s promise has been kept, that the white brave, who lied to their hunters and sent them in chains across the big water, has gone to a hunting-ground where his musket will not help him, where the buffalo shall trample him and tear his flesh with their horns. Then the Onondagas shall know that the Big Buffalo spoke the truth to the Long House. And this word shall be carried to the Onondagas by Teganouan. He will go to the council with the scalp in his hand telling them that the white children of Onontio are their brothers. Teganouan sees the Big Buffalo stand with his strong hand at the door. He knows that the Big Buffalo could call his warriors to seize Teganouan, and bind him, and bid him stand before the white men’s muskets. But Teganouan is not a child. He sees with the eye of the old warrior who has fought a battle for every sun in the year, who has known the white man as well as the redman. When the Big Buffalo stood in the Long House, Teganouan believed him; Teganouan knew that his words were true. And now the heart of Teganouan is warm with trust. He knows that the Big Buffalo is a wise warrior and that he has an honest heart.”

There was a pause, and Menard, his hand still on the latch, stood motionless. He knew what the Indian meant. He had done no more than Menard himself had promised the council, in the name of Governor Denonville, should be done. The lodges of the allies near the fort sheltered many an Iroquois spy; whatever might follow would be known in every Iroquois village before the week had passed. To hold Teganouan for trial would mean war.

There was the tramp of feet on the beaten ground without, and a clear voice said:–

“Wait a moment, I must report to Captain Menard.”

Menard raised the latch an inch, then looked sharply at Teganouan. The Indian stood quietly, leaning a little forward, waiting for the decision. The Captain was on the point of speaking, but no word came from his parted lips. The voices were now just outside the door. With a long breath Menard’s fingers relaxed, and the latch slipped back into place. Then he motioned toward the wall ladder that reached up into the darkness of the loft.

Teganouan turned, picked up the hatchet and thrust it into his belt, took one quick glance about the room to make sure that no telltale article remained, and slipped up the ladder. There was a loud knock on the door, and Menard opened it. The Lieutenant came in.

“We have no word yet, Captain,” he said. “Every building in the fort has been searched. I have so few men that I could not divide them until this was done, but I am just now sending out searching parties through the Indian village and the forest. None of the canoes are missing. Have I your approval?”

“Yes.”

“You–you have been here since you left the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“I think, then, that he must have had time to slip out before we knew of it. There are many Indians here who would help him; but a few of them can be trusted, I think, to join the search. Major d’Orvilliers left me with only a handful of men. It will be difficult to accomplish much until he returns. I will post a sentry at the sally-port; we shall have to leave the bastions without a guard. I think it will be safe, for the time.”

“Very well, Lieutenant.”

The Lieutenant saluted and hurried away. Menard closed the door, and turned to the table, where were scattered the sheets on which he had been writing his report. He collected them and read the report carefully. He removed one leaf, and rolling it up, lighted it at the candle, and held it until it was burned to a cinder. Then he read the other sheets again. The report now told of his capture, of a part of the council at the Long House, and of the escape; but no word was there concerning Captain la Grange. Another hand had disposed of that question. Menard sighed as he laid it down, but soon the lines on his face relaxed. It was not the first time in the history of New France that a report had told but half the truth; and, after all, the column had been saved.

He sharpened a quill with his sheath-knife, and began to copy the report, making further corrections here and there. Something more than an hour had passed before the work was finished. He rolled up the document and tied it with a thong of deerskin.

It was still early in the evening, but the fort was as silent as at midnight. Menard opened the door and walked out a little way. The lamps were all burning, but no soldiers were to be seen. The barrack windows were dark. He stepped back into the house, closed the door, and said in a low voice:–

“Teganouan.”

There was a stir in the loft. In a moment the Indian came down the ladder and stood waiting.

“Teganouan, you heard what the Lieutenant said?”

“Teganouan has ears.”

“Very well. I am going to blow out the candle.”

The room was dark. The door creaked softly, and a breath of air blew in upon the Captain as he stood by the table. He felt over the table for his tinder-box and struck a light. The door was slowly closing; Teganouan had gone.

Another sun was setting. A single drum was beating loudly as the little garrison drew up outside the sally-port and presented arms. The allies and the mission Indians were crowding down upon the beach, silent, inquisitive,–puffing at their short pipes. For half a league, from the flat, white beach out over the rose-tinted water stretched an irregular black line of canoes and bateaux, all bristling with muskets. The Governor had come. He could be seen kneeling, all sunburned and ragged but with erect head, in the first canoe. His canoemen checked their swing, for the beach was close at hand, and then backed water. The bow scraped, and a dozen hands were outstretched in aid, but Governor Denonville stepped briskly out into the ankle-deep water and carried his own pack ashore. A cheer went up from the little line at the sally-port. Du Luth’s voyageurs and coureur de bois caught it up, and then it swept far out over the water and was echoed back from the forest.

In the doorway of a hut near the Recollet Chapel stood Menard and Valérie. They watched canoe after canoe glide up and empty its load of soldiers, not speaking as they watched, but thinking each the same thought. At last, when the straggling line was pouring into the fort, and the bugles were screaming, and the drum rolling, Valérie slipped her hand through the Captain’s arm and looked up into his face.

“It was you who brought them here,” she said; and then, after a pause, she laughed a breathless little laugh. “It was you,” she repeated.